‘Come here.’
       Jasrene Bevendex. Tall. Imperious. Determined. And so on and so on. Blah-blah.
       She knows what she wants. She gets her own way.
       Mostly.
       ‘Why will you not do what I ask?’
       Why ask? She knows me well enough – I am a different incarnation of her, a splinter from the bough. I rarely do what I’m told – question the request, the statement, the belief, find the flaws. Do something unexpected. Uncalled for. Or ignore it. I am neither rebellious nor stubborn: I have little faith in the rest of the world.
       We stare at one another. Jasrene Bevendex stands at her writing desk; I am at the very edge of the rug, where it meets the parquet, my toes a millimetre from the silken rectangle which glimmers like molten silver and upon which my aunt is motionless. I must not step onto the rug uninvited. She has risen from another plane to become the highest point on her landscape. She is a missile, sleek, deadly, a sheer spike of ice that awaits its launch code.
       I love her.
       ‘Here.’
       She holds out her hand. I move along the perimeter of the rug. Each footstep precisely placed, a millimetre from the rug, without looking, by knowing exactly where I stand in relationship to the room. Knowing where I move in relationship to Jasrene. And knowing that she too knows. A syringe makes a horizontal axis across her palm. She wears lace gloves the colour of her skin. Ivory.
       ‘Take it.’
       ‘Why?’
       There is liquid in the cylinder above the sheathed needle.
       ‘It’s your duty.’
       Oh that.
       The surface ellipse of the drug glints like a deadly eye.
       My duty. Ah.
       ‘Destiny, if it makes you feel more noble. We must purge that which restricts us.’
       Jasrene Bevendex. A Borgia. A Macbeth.
       A drop of moisture trickles down my back. I arch forward to catch it with my shirt.
       She smiles. Of course.
       That smile.
       Perfect.
       Generous.
       Daring dissent.
       My head swims with the effort of being so long in her presence. My awareness numbed. My intelligence disengaged. Because she doesn’t need my reason: she needs me to obey. Jasrene Bevendex. Machiavelli casts a long shadow.
       I wonder if I’m unconscious, but I hear a door slam deep in the house. My dreams are free from sensation. Always. Always silent, fragrance free, weightless. Lucid with colourless light which skins secrets bare.
       ‘This moment will pass. It will unlock the trajectory of your destiny. Fulfilment will follow uncertainty. If there is fear – ’ She makes two sharp noises at the back of her throat: laughter. ‘But there is no fear. Not for you. What is it that makes your skin quiver? Anticipation? Ambition? Can you see that what was unreachable is no longer beyond the horizon? It surges towards you.’
       I reach out.
       ‘That’s better.’
       She flips the syringe at me. The liquid jiggles behind softening condensation.
       ‘Your uncle.’
       Diskan Bevenden. Her brother. Awkward. Strangely likable.
       ‘One bad decision too many. God knows, I’ve tried, but he will not commit to the structure. A flaw. A critical weakness.’
       ‘Send him away.’
       ‘Sentiment is no solution. It never is – it’s a test of resolve. Que sera sera, Leh.’
       I slip the syringe into my pocket.
       ‘He’s at Issenden. Jant will drive you. Be there before dinner. Have a drink with him. Be nice to him. You know he has a soft spot for you. Like attracts like. He’ll know why you’re there, but if he declines – or resists – do whatever you have to. Don’t make a mess.’
       I almost refuse. I could drop the syringe. Stamp its danger into the rug. I wait for the echo in my head to subside: A flaw. Something jars.  A flaw – dear Uncle Diskan or me? The question swells and ricochets and magnifies to a shriek.
       ‘Afterwards go to Hemmen. Relax for a few days, a month if you need to. Rehm will be there. Stay out of sight.
       I love her.
       But for how much longer?
       As I move to leave. Away from the rug with its hypnotic glitter: ‘Here.’ A transparent box.
       ‘Enjoy.’
       The pills slide. Clicketty-click against the acrylic walls. Translucent against polished sides.
       I turn with the box held close. The scent of pessapress seeps into my nostrils. A magnesium flash across the back of my eyes. How to reach the door on the far side of the chasm? How to be away from her?  How to break free?      How to keep to my own path?
       Her eyes are on me. Drilling. Chipping the edges of my spine. Making me weak. Obey. No need for reason. Obey. Following me around the shimmering rug. One millimetre at a time. Numb to my own my own thoughts. An automaton. One step at a time. One millimetre and then another. Don’t stand on the rug.
       Do something unexpected.
       Uncalled for.
       A splinter from the bough.
       Propelled by duty.
       Duty.
       Duty.