The light was a pleasing distraction from thought. One could bathe in it, staring up into its tinted warmth, its imitation of sunlight. Far better this than the weak watery light which attempted to pierce the mists most afternoons; and far better still, to have this light in the gloom of evenings such as this one, to pretend that the sun had not dipped below the horizon, and instead imagine that this was one unchanging, eternally sunlit afternoon.


    The pungency of the plant was not all that offensive, once one got used to it. Boxed in this closet, it was so inescapable that it became like the proverbial water to the fish; unnoticable, inconceivable. It made of itself a landscape for her. Freed of her body, she need not obey her original mortal dimensions. She could lie on a plush leaf and gaze upwards, the water''s flow below her lulling her not to sleep, but allowing her a moment where she could ignore all else. No voices, no footsteps.


    No cry echoing down the wooden-floored corridors.


    With a sigh, she raised herself from the leaf. That cry was her duty. She must find it out. Rising to her full height, she stepped back into the walls.


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    What was he doing here?


    The man with the tall hair had made his way into her secret paths. His shirt was torn, exposing him indecently, and his eyes rolled with some heightened expression.


    Fear? Anger?


    Emilie sank back through the wall and away, cleaving like Daphne fleeing Apollo to the sanctuary of the plant with its own heavenly light.


    Some emotion had been rolling through him. Now she could hear him through the walls, his breathing exaggerated. He was mere inches from her. It had to be anger, surely, from the speed and urgency of his harsh breaths. What if he was the first? He, the conduit for her husband''s rage toward her? It seemed only appropriate that the shade of her husband find a connection in this man. They were so alike. If Emilie could connect with the delicate woman, why not her husband with the man with the tall hair?


    And then she heard it: a sliver of sickle-moonlight on the ear, the whetstone on the axe''s blade.


    The panel moved, and she thrashed out without thought.


    An explosion of light filled the tiny room, then all was dark, including the brown-black scent of something burnt.


    In the darkness, Emilie froze. What had she done? She had made the first move this time. That was never how it played out before. What if she had hurt someone? Hurt the plant?


    She sank away from the place, her strange Eden which through her actions could never be revisited.


    The cycle had begun, but something was different this time.