“It was known, in the area, that she walked the perimeter of the forest, the fringes of the trees, in later afternoon, in early evening, her falcon swooping into the branches and back to land on her leather gauntlet. She took out the bird at dusk so, if you were of a mind, you could arrange to be walking in the area.
If asked, the girl – a woman, now – would remove the falconer’s glove and hold your hand, just for a moment, pressing the flesh between thumb and forefinger where all your hand’s strength lay, and tell you what she felt. The sensation, some said, was dizzying, draining, as if she was drawing all the strength out of you; others said it was invigorating, enlivening, like a shower of rain. Her bird circled the sky above, feathers spread, calling out, as if in warning.”
Excerpt from Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet: A Novel of the Plague (New York: Vintage Books, 2021) p. 43
alive in the sea of information 