Estanza.
       ‘This is the detritus of my life.’ She makes a dismissive gesture to the room. ‘Flotsam after the tide went out.’
       It isn’t my idea of detritus. The furniture, the wallpaper, the carpet, the pictures and the artefacts placed in perfect relationship to one another could be in the Galerie d’Objéts Décoratifs at the Musée Karsten. An exquisite world.
       ‘Let me show you.’ She stands with an ease beyond her years, as though her bones had filled with helium and lifted her feet. She could easily float to the ceiling.
       She opens the drawer on a mirrored sideboard. ‘See.’ She hands me a long, flat box. Scumbled green leather. Gold edge. ‘It’s the first thing I had with my name on it.’
       On a spider-silk lining lies a platinum christening bracelet. A single word is set in diamonds: Estanza.
       ‘Take it.’
       I hesitate and she is by my side.
       ‘Take it. Remember me.’ It slips into my pocket.
       ‘One day you will pass it on. History flows from one to the next.’
       Her hands are smooth in mine.
       ‘Thank you.’
       Smooth hands. Papery.
       ‘I will not see you again. I cannot wait for your success. It will come, Leh, but I will not see it.’
       A sharp sound as I inhale.
       ‘Why? You belong.’
       ‘Jasrene will know you’ve been here; I’ll be punished. It’s her way. I can see her father in her as I saw him in his father. Unyeielding. I will not wait for her.’
       She returns to the sideboard. Another box. Ebony lined with red.
       ‘This is the second thing with my name on it.’ She shows me the knife. The harsh catch of light sings its deadly song along the razor edge. Bright with desire. Dazzling. Thirsty. Impatient to sing its cruel song. Her name shines on the handle.
       Estanza.
       ‘The third time will be on my headstone.’
       ‘No!’
       ‘You must go, Leh. We are each part of a dreadful puzzle. Be with Rehm while you can.’
       Be with Rehm. Her blessing. Thank you. They had liked one another from the start. She, sitting on the brocaded chair; he, raising her hand to his lips.
       ‘This is an exquisite moment,’ he said.
       ‘Oh my.’
       They giggled.
       Now I must go. Leave the Musée Karsten. Leave its beauty. Leave Estanza.
       No, abandon Estanza to face a future where a savage judgement waits.
       Outside, from the street, I see the last light on the façade switch off. Estanza in there, in the dark. Entombed. Waiting for the final blow. Waiting with the ebony box ­lined with red.