a carton of milk left on the windowsill, attracting flies. darling notices that the couch has wandered away from the wall, tiny ships in disarray on the wallpaper. the couch doesn’t sit right where it should be. she’d been kneeling in the kitchen, scratching at a piece of linoleum. if she found a stray strand of hair, she sealed it in an envelope. duchess had spoken of vaulted ceilings, about putting on her mermaid tail, the house submerged in swaying seas. the house broken in the middle. what i want to do, i have to do: smiling, waving, blowing a kiss. i have a threat to wield, a ritualized baring of the teeth.

fly paper spiraling from the ceiling fan, catching in her hair. she shrieks and pulls away, because she cannot speak. i found my key, darling says, drifting behind her, tied to a balloon string. i worry she will get lost: she needs language to play these parlour games. come on girls, let’s gather round.

this house is a little lonesome, almost like a real home. darling’s toiling in the heat, bleaching every counter. observing herself, she wants it to be real: the very day she buried the key she did not recognize the cat. she thought it hardly worth mentioning. the milk turned sour; the rooms between rooms were difficult to find.

i wilt. a confusion of light settling in the wood; shadows dropping without any reason. something dark and ill-formed struggling to peel open my drooping eye - i was once there, a whirlwind of dust running through the table legs, kicking up the cloth. i pass through, falling from deep to deep. i show myself purposefully, my chin resting on my chest. i have done everything to keep her away. to keep her waiting.

in the summer, it is always the same scent erupting from the walls: drowned flowers, scolding the sun. darling has a secret hiding place. a place that belongs to her completely, a cloister of gleaming surfaces arranging the light.

how would you like to see the desert? duchess says. a heat that begins in the patient air and radiates through the body. darling has always been a strong, healthy girl. there is nothing like a mess of sand and stone strewn over thirsty flesh. it only makes the hours worse, looking out to sea.

i think, everything, darling says. the light from the windows rushes across the floor, hastens her heels. i won’t get lost, darling says. the hour so late that no girls are to be found drifting, bedraggled, swallowing moths from the air. the rain on the roof in the night - darling pulls aside the curtain and is surprised to see sunlight velveting the lawn.

when will these hands take their advantage? consider a séance. there must be something dull, relics that do no miracle. she would let go her tongue. she would lock herself in a room until the spirit rapped a dismissal. there, you see. somewhere in this room, a howl held together by spit and treacle.

her diary, her makeup, her conversation. she imagined her death. she imagined herself, her death. her impatience. she had the pleasure, she had sighed. she locked away her possessions. her diary, untidy and undisciplined. her pain and anguish had strange power. she started out of the house, she confessed her innocence. there must be a diary. duchess sprang up and began searching. behind books on the bookshelf, in the drawers of the writing desk, inside cushions, under floor rugs, behind the dark painting over the fireplace, among the plates on the sideboard, in the wardrobe, in the dirty linen, in the kitchen cupboard. i’m afraid of looking. the diary which is here. it looks nasty, duchess says.

this is certainly a woman dressed for bad weather. duchess can never bring herself to sit still for very long. she picks up one tchotchke, then another, uncertain. that is her pose. she’s changed the lighting, and her hair, burnished black. her eyes seem to break free, like spiders that usually live under stones. when something goes wrong, it is always her responsibility and usually her fault. yet, nothing can disturb her tranquil closed mouth. an intimate familiarity surrounds her: through dress and appearance she is more ordinary, more indistinct than horrid suspicion will allow.

darling moves slowly backward, bumping into the davenport. sorry… she says.

there’s an awful lot still missing, says duchess. the house can be changed and developed, expanded and renewed. and then from the top to the bottom! and then duchess will raise her feet from the floor, throw her head to the side, as if the action were spontaneous, as if she were wary of her own vulnerability. many women would refuse to hold a minute. the shimmering of little lights is enough for them. duchess can see all that, can imagine the door forced wide open to behold a bright blue.

blood shoots to darling’s head. she will not make any more mistakes. she will not deny the dew that’s settled on the windowsill. she will hold the key in her hand just over her knee, as if she’d recently locked the door. she will be exactly like a sweetheart, scurrying from the room.

i think the weather will change, says darling. locating the correct lock has presented difficulties; too many unfinished hallways, walls uncommonly white. she might become more human, more blind than ever. the wind has stood sentry for the last few hours; the sea uniformly smooth and soft, but the light falls differently upon the surface, burning the krill. later in the day darling’ll develop a headache and then she’ll have to open the window.

things have to be done, says duchess. a storm raises and flickers in the window behind her like a film projected on a screen. darling dawdles, gathering her coat and gloves, twisting her hat over the crown of her head. she look more like a woman in a long white dress than is likely.

i took the wrong path, says darling. i wasn’t in any trouble… i didn’t hear anything.. the forest gauzy, silent, a diaphanous veil thrust over the wind.

be quiet! duchess says, moving the curtains aside, fastening them with a braided rope and securing the window latch. slight rain gleams in the tree limbs like phosphor, a wet stain sloping down the trunk. the weather urgent, unbearably awkward. it happened in the woods, duchess says. i wonder how she could know anything about the woods, about wrestling free the ax that had been embedded in a tree stump. only fish are real to her.

i’ll stay with you as long as you want, darling says.

thunder brings up the light, a shadow huddled against the door. at this hour of the night it is easy to say no, to say stop following me. brass hooves sparking the carpet, an itinerary through the house to the sea, all distance converted into distress.

the sand vibrates as waves withdraw; the cry of the bitter sunk through rock. the noise is so loud i can’t hear anything else. the beach flushed with microscopic reef animals and drift seeds washed ashore from distant forests. duchess is drawn to observe the endless arrival and departure of the waves; she says it is the light that interests her. the light is never absent; everything is white. even in the terror of night the moon shimmers, a glossy stone on the smooth surface of the sea.

if i am going to drown, i insist on drowning in the sea, duchess says. the ringing of a buoy rocked by waves, a body collapsed in watered velvet. i would know her if i opened my eyes; i would know that woman, the opening and closing of her mouth.

waves reel against the stark, the forest damaged and worn. oh darling! duchess rushes forward and embraces her, her skirt filling with air like a parachute, her face twisted in a horrible expression. i don’t like to make phone calls, duchess says.

darling presses her chin to her chest, her eyes dropping, her tongue aimless. the widows want a third girl, darling says. trouble scatters every timid cloud; she said she never saw them coming towards her with an ax. a strange thing for her to say. a strange thing for her sponsors to decide.

i never trust old wives, says duchess. i used to be afraid, but not anymore. i am still here; i cannot stop hearing the sea rushing into the whale, the shrieks of star shaped fibers.

a few crumpled papers and stripped screws swept under the furniture.
a glass of water on a saucer with two blue pills.
a steep booming sliding through the house.

it was her, says darling. hammering on the door.

the sound gets louder and louder.

i don’t like the forest. i have to get back to the house before night. i have to give myself time. if i had enough time i would retrieve the ax and put it back in its place. in the evening, sometimes, i can see duchess standing in the window. when i see duchess waiting by the window i get worried. i don’t like to see her struck and disturbed by the sea. her purposeless watching, continually guided by visions of distant objects. her voice clutching, crying is anyone out there?

when i came to the house i had nothing but a suitcase. i had a suitcase packed with a plain cotton dress, an ordinary blouse and pleated skirt, a scarf, a handkerchief, a vial of lavender scent, four pairs of underwear, a wide brimmed straw hat and a pair of kidskin gloves, as well as socks and such embellishments as i’d collected. i have never been back to the city. i presented myself and i had very little. the house and its furnishings swarmed all around. duchess won’t tell me why she sent for me but she is tender and i am commonly used to her affection. for me she has an endearing name of little. she adds to me and i am affected; i feel beautiful, and correct. it is the small she is inclined to be fond of; the house, surmounting her ambition, she has mostly closed. i am a gentler kind of beast.

i like to listen to the wind. there could be a message; i might be brought a sign. i am prepared for whatever; i am at my best. i let the house guide me: there is discretion within its walls, and intent. from the doorway i am thrown into her arms.

there! duchess says, pointing out the window. there. i saw her. i know i saw her. i’m sure she was there. standing among the trees, so firm in herself, draining light from withering stars.

she kept looking into the fire.
she kept staring into the fire.
i saw her in my dream.

fire all around, transposed over her face. a girl engulfed in bashful shadow, a flicker shaking across her silhouette, spreading through a wilderness of globe and atlas, model ships and toy soldiers. too eager, too anxious to vanish; the force of fire ascending the stairs.

i do not want to hear anything about my habits, duchess says. she spent all afternoon draping every mirror and painting. her small economy unnecessary; going without is something she can fake. i do not want you to think i am dirty. everything came back to her, the key on the coffee table and the ax buried deeply and sweetly near the shed. dust, duchess says loudly, dust.

say you haven’t seen me, darling says, pushing open the door to let the cat out. she moves cautiously, as if to shield herself. her nightgown frilled at the wrists and covered with pink rosebuds. she moves, not just forward, but up. on her own, she moves, not missing anything. she can fill the house with her presence just by strolling through the halls.

duchess hit the window with her fist. there! duchess says, drawing air and shouting and gulping and shouting. the glass was very fragile, and in a blinding moment it shattered; a scrape and clatter and a torment to her. duchess said there were other windows. darling got the dustpan and knelt near the edge of the scattered glass. her lips moved against the dusty shafts of light. a person can get tired of the sea.

duchess sucked out a shard of glass, concerned with her own carelessness. stillness might save her, and crowded furniture. a tide of light had pricked her and drawn a little bit of blood. the glass had been cold and cruel to touch! i know this is real, duchess says, swelling like a bloated spider.

darling fills a space, a position. she still can’t recall the word; she is still seeing fire. it is getting late, duchess, darlings says, taking her from the room. i am going to leave the door unlocked. i can’t lock it because duchess lost the key.

my collection of warning signs: the wind barking all night, a black cat, long as a clothing line, sprawled across the entryway. nothing i can easily avoid. duchess is calling from the stairs, beyond the reach of an outstretched cord. i’ll have to take a message, draw away to reveal the empty room. i listen carefully; i am elsewhere, familiar space rendered awful by the absence of a woman sitting, licking an envelope. an ache in every object for a function and a purpose. i walk into the scene. when i got the phone call i knew i missed the mark. the shot left me in the hallway, restlessly shifting my weight. this ghost has extravagant foes.

i know that the roof will come crashing in, that the sea could sweep into the drawing room, efficiently extend the deadline. i press nearer the fire, as if the cold has unsettled me. it couldn’t be my body, burned beyond recognition. i will show her. i will show how. i will show up and say see. she will sit here. it is warm next to the fire; watching the flames puts me into a trance. i’d like to cut off my arm. something forces me to move, to take a marvelous step. i unfold the letter i’d folded six times; when i’ve looked at it long enough it should be burned.

less than an hour has elapsed. fire falling from everyplace, tattered wallpaper blending and clashing with the room, the rooms beyond this room. i don’t want to look anymore. something made me take it, the weight wrong in my hand, unbalancing me. i only asked for a lock of hair. i almost left it behind; i went away and came back for it, a tiny bundle like a puppy’s tail. it takes so long to walk up the stairs. the sea, the forest dominate the house. there is a resemblance to an edge, emptying the stars of light. i want to say there is not an edge, that the sea starts below the cliffs and continues, but somewhere everything stops. the house is not an orchestra; the cunning of beasts does not concern it. i hope i won’t be recognized; i hope that i can find a way of moving through this wall.

using the window as an amplifier, she calls. i like to look at the ocean, don’t you? duchess says. the waves mirth below, a better and different place, a great deep of ghosts scarlet, sea blue. is that her? darling says, is that her? yes, says duchess, yes.

i want to talk about the devil, duchess says.

she advances, she advances. beyond the cliff near the sea, the house. the faint, inert shadow of machinery looming across the wall. the light too intemperate to see closely, to observe her. you are beautiful, duchess says. darling continues to stare at a point in the distance. the sea is visible out there, a tiny speck of a vessel rising on calm waves. duchess vaguely follows darling’s gaze. it is my dream, duchess says. darling stumbles, nearly falls, as she starts forward. her fall is absurd. sand pours from her skirt in great draughts; she is half buried, half out. a nightmare, darling says, unable to say why. she likes to be frightened, to recover from her surprise.