Prolouge
It was a tranquil evening in Kensington Park. The sun's last rays played across the trees, splendid in their autumn reds and golds. They sparkled on the surfaces of the little ponds and caressed a little pram, sitting alone in the middle of the path.
The winds whispery voice echoed the woman's words. I will return. I will return. Return. The soft lullaby of its words comforted the two tiny infants, asleep under their thin blankets.
A tiny mote of light fluttered about the park, brushing the tree tops then dipping down to skim the grass. When it reached the pram, it circled once, twice, thrice, then settled on the bar. The light mote pulsed with its golden brilliance, which spread as a slight glow to encompass the pram. A sort of sparkle traveled all through the gold, like a signal along a telegraph wire.
Then, bit by bit, so slowly at first it would not have been noticed, the pram lifted. Once above the trees it began to move, headed north, two points beyond the brightest star. One of the infants woke and began to cry. The sound faded to an echo, repeated by the wind like the silent woman's voice, leaving Kensington Park dark and silent once more. Somewhere in the sky, in the north, a star twinkled brightly.