Winterbourne Hall, Cornwall
Listen! Can you hear it?
There, right there. Listen.
Listen harder.
I hear them before I see them. Voices and shapes, a man laughing, footsteps: conversations that pull in and away as steadily as the sea. They congratulate the woman of the house. She talks about Winterbourne as if it is hers.
It is not hers. It is mine.
It will always be mine.
From my window, I look down as the people emerge, scattering like ants. They dress neatly and drink from tall glasses. Don’t they know not to come here?
This house will always be mine.
My painting calls me, quietly, quietly, Come back, come back; we are ready.
I turn to it and lift my skirts over my ankles, for the grass in the garden has grown since I went last. The night summons me, a full white moon. The wind kisses the firs. Can you hear? You might, if you listen. It is soft, naught but a whisper.
I step inside the painting, to meet the cool dark shell of the night.