It was stormy outside and the ancient and vast apartment of M and Mrs Epoussetez creaked and groaned like a vintage machine operated by gears.A somber gloom of treacle-thick darkness flowed from room to room, as if the place itself were falling into an unconsciousness that erased the very furniture from the deeply carpeted floors.
Mrs Epoussetez, alone in a drawing room, lay back on a divan and moaned softly to herself. "I can see dust," she said. There was a shuffling sound from a corner. A small girl, dressed in rags, emerged from the shadows. She stood as if floating and drifted to a small table where rested an ancient book. She held out a pale arm not much thicker than bone - it became apparent that there was a duster in her hand. Sightlessly, like an automaton, she began to dust the book.
Mrs Epoussetez watched in an abstracted fascination that was at once boredom and incomprehension. Finally she said: "Bring me that book, girl."
The girl, without looking at Mrs Epoussetez, without so much as shifting her gaze or her expression, but in a kind of stupor, put the duster on the table. The duster rocked, then fell with a clatter to the floor. The girl froze, as if unsure what to do. She stared at the duster.
"Bring me the book!" commanded Mrs Epoussetez.
The girl lurched like a puppet who's strings had been jolted. Still staring at the duster, and with newly disturbed dust slowly turning in a dark galaxy around her, she reached for the book, picked it up, and held it.
"Bring it here!" The girl turned, and with nightmarish grace, drifted, book in one bony arm, to where Mrs Epoussetez sat.
"Give it to me," said Mrs Epoussetez gently, reaching out.
The girl, staring somewhere off behind the scene, handed over the book. Once she let go of the bindings she seemed to sigh, seemed to fade. It was as if she was about to fold into herself, become once more air and dust and shadow,
"Thank you, child," said Mrs Epoussetez.
Mrs Epoussetez turned her attention to the book. She studied the cover. The title, in peeling pale gold lettering read: "Chronicle Diaphane Esme".
"Ah," sighed Mrs Epoussetez. She read several pages. Finally she read out loud:
"The poor daughter of "D", Esme, was imprisoned in her room until her Aunt Trazia, a dreadful Italian witch of ill repute, came for her and she was made to be her serving girl for, it was said, one hundred and eighty years."
Mrs Epoussetez put the book down on her knees.
"Clearly a book of nonsense," she concluded.
There was no one in the room to reply.
Picture: As she walks by ladybleedingpoison @ DeviantArt
