– 14 –

I have taken the stairs to the very top of the house. Here, amongst the attic clutter of dust and broken furniture I am delving into my grandparents' iron-bound chests, digging down through the layers of their history, the sedimentation of their lives.

One layer is a christening shawl of fine wool. I set it to one side. Here is a pair of linen sheets, still faintly scented with lavender; silent accomplices to intimacies of which their owners preferred not to speak. And here is the daguerreotype of the nightingale, my great-grandmother, still in its wooden frame. Yes, it is as I remember, she is standing with her hands resting on the back of a chair. Behind her, the photographer's backdrop of mountains and waterfalls is almost invisible. Indeed, her image is even fainter and more fugitive than I remember. Little remains besides the faded violet of her eyes, the froth of her lace jabot which falls from the high collar of her bodice in folds that resemble the perfect bells of foxgloves ...

I cough. What is this contraction in my throat, the sudden thickness? My hand flies to my mouth, while my lungs, a useless bellows, pump frantic air.

All that emerges from my mouth is a soft sigh.

And yet, I am still holding my grandmother's portrait. As I put it down, I see that it has begun to fade.

Look: she is disappearing before my eyes. Soon there will be nothing left but a silvery rectangle of glass, a wooden frame, and a velvet backing, the colour of plums.