At last. AT LAST. It's over. A solid enough ending to an uneven series consisting of five books (three too many, really). If I ever see the words "cerulean", "indigo", "delight" or "fiery" again, I will tear my eyes out and feed them to Wes Anderson, and then have a ceremonial burning of Enid Blyton and L.M Montgomery novels to cleanse the twee from my soul.