No one had seen her, yet. Her hatchlings were safe and in no need of going up in flames.
Every day the Ancient Alder would sway in the wind.
Every day the sun would rise, and the moon would come and go.
It was peaceful.

…

The whirring of metal blades startled Dorothy awake. She leapt up and threw open the window with such force that it could have shattered into nothing. The first three trees had been cleared, and there was no way to get them back. Hundreds of thousands of trees lay in the bulldozer’s wake—defenceless and innocent—pines, alders, oaks, firs, birches, maples. There was the sickening sound of them being crushed under the bulldozer’s weight and nothing, nothing, could stop it.
Angella stared out the cottage’s window. Why had she been so stupid? Replying to the developer’s proposal without a second thought?
Dorothy’s favourite place—where she had grown up, learned to walk, climbed trees—was all demolished. Angella grunted softly, tears ran down her tanned cheeks.
Why had she done that? Why had she approved of the developer’s suggestion? For the money?
Thinking about it now, they didn’t need it. They had never needed it. Riches didn’t matter, they were comfortable, even with so little, the phoenix gave enough, now it would be gone. So, so, stupid. 

“MUM! What’s happening?” Dorothy stood torn in the doorway of her mother’s room, tears flooding down her cheeks in multiple waves. “The phoenix is going to -”
Angella turned, slowly, her eyes cast down with an abyss of blue – black under them. Her cheeks were tear stained. Dorothy had never seen her mum cry; though she had seemed like she wanted to.
“Mum, she’s going to die!” yelled Dorothy.
Angella grimaced, “I know. Dorothy, I cannot reflect guiltlessly on what I’ve done, I’ve been stupid. So, so, stupid.”
Dorothy winced. Just for a second she looked angry, then the tears fell again and she ran out of the room, not sparing another glance at her mother.
The door was already wide open as Angella flew out the back of the house, yelling her daughter’s name. 

Dorothy stood in front of the stump of the Ancient Alder, the ruins of the phoenix’s nest lay scorched on the ground, they had gone up in flames, the phoenix and her hatchlings, the protectors of the forest. And now, it lay in ruins, feathers and sticks burnt and scorched to ashes. The bulldozer’s job had been finished, the damage done, there was nothing anyone could do. 

… 

The roars of cars on the highway were screams compared to the gentle whistle of the wind back home.
No that wasn’t home, Dorothy reminded herself. Not anymore.
They had fled the pain, the paralysing wrong of it all. Dorothy would never let Angella forget, what she had done—the forest she had destroyed.