{ TO SPEAK THINGS STRANGE }

did you hear that? duchess says. i should turn the lights off. she pulls herself up on her toes, hoping to catch sight of a passing ship. she has memorized the path across the water. hours pass without a sighting. i left something in the city, she says, the key already warm in her hand.

the cat collapses near the door.

darling ought to be here but she is down by the water, pulling an egg out of the tide. when the lights in the house go out darling turns to look, rocking on her heels. the dark house is awfully familiar. darling sorts through her specimens, thrusts the smallest egg beneath the sand. the trees close as she moves forward, a knot of pine and aspen.

a parcel of eggs tucked under her arm, a bird persuaded to stop in the limbs arrayed above her. darling is almost near the end; the doors of the house locked against her. she won’t turn around. this is how it might have ended: her breath blooming across the glass, the pane shattered. a way to keep warm, a way to get back inside. darling is persuaded to continue. she races along unknown floors, water receding behind her. somewhere past the trees, the sea stretches, unwrapping a gauze over the sand. follow the wind, duchess says, taking darling’s basket, taking darling’s hand. another drop of water slips down the wall, curdles in the cat’s fur. duchess laughs, grasps the banister: she will not leave the house alone.