She shifted under the linen blankets, having switched into another unexpected guest. A room, an oak canopy bed guarded by men in uniform, translucent, trying to let her, almost. And her, trying to not see them, letting the butt of their rifles bump the hardwood, door and gun, locked and. Shouldered, again, seen from the corner of her, faces and torsos walking through velvet wallpaper and the wardrobes, gray uniforms or a blue – form a semi-circle around her, whispering they’ve come for the repetitious man, the man who can make death repeat itself.
Somebody is spinning the machines in the Sewing Room, again. She can hear it, herself imagining it again, feet depressing the metal grid pedal, the needle sluicing its fast pattern of hair entangled, patterns begun, because they like to make clothes. Made in the middle of the – needle hitting nothing fabric. But making her, the hairs on her – rethinking, where she’s – turning over tonight, trying to dream but dreams are built with the same.
Trust, trust the lines inlayed in stained-glass – dream-catchers incomplete – passages into Richard II or Troilus and Cressida or Demeter in a front fountain like – a floor planned into French windows or spider-windows or doors unlocked into evening in the front garden from.
Sarah tells the workers who showed that afternoon, there will be windows added to this and a staircase in the middle of and windows into ignoring the man’s face. A light caught up there, in the Greenhouse windows because – hand-drawn diagrams she’s begun, the house housing in. She knows it better than an endless building a day-by-day construct into. For her and her late and hasn’t yet them, who hasn’t yet finished.
The Séance Room door, the cooks can hear the lady of the – intoning and asking them for Olli, who glints in engraved letters on the wooden way he brought them – barrels – she tells him about their presence without a formal invitation or without always – though, she’s happy to host them if she must keep the – switching sleep through more and more. She will sustain this house, or its trying.
Obeying, her traps the footfalls with a staircase down two steps into up. A hand-crafted closet door opening a hallway, climb two flights into hardwood flooring an exit – through a third floor roof and into the night horizon, where she wants them in.
Rooms for them to confuse or begun to waltz in the Grand Ballroom, pressing down the keys on the organ, light enough in her grand Main Bedroom so that it makes no sound more than the key – turning over – eyes open the windows, almost hoping they’d begun to sit in the alcove, though its by the bed, though their talk is mostly quiet there and from there, they often wander out through.
Thumping, once then again the butting off exposed wood by her bed or her – beams and the Unfinished Room, studs. She hasn’t yet built its without. She thinks she – that maybe they should have a second or fifth Unfinished Room, seventy-three, where perhaps they are just the trap she needs to figure out the room that’ll take them to a week’s worth. Or at least into nightly.
Soundly, her Main Bedroom alone, or at least. The wake of his powder keg cologne, his unshorn, translucent militia, his wandering through the way she – if only he was – the gaunt one who seems to come only in autumn. If only he was beside – the men formed around her, uniformed. Even if he playfully aimed his latest musket at her in her nightclothes, and she’d yip like she sometimes did, even if he was one of them in the semi-circle around her bed. Now, in a guest room. Now, the new bolt hits in the weapon, repeating. Now, a room shifted into shifting under.