River has a bag of popcorn carefully balanced in her lap; she eats the puffed kernels, one by one. Her fingers leave small smears of butter and salt and wasabi on her beaded purple sundress. Simon takes an absent handful every so often.

His eyes are politely fixed on the speaker, except for quick glances at River and at their parents.

River's, on the other hand, flicker around the stage and the sky and the audience: restless, searching, uncertain.

"Stormclouds," she whispers, to Simon or to no one. "It's getting dark."