To her home was less a house of cold stone and mortar, rather the warm wooden hollow of a hull. Drab, moth-nibbled curtains became white sails that billowed out over the small, dark cabins of her rooms. The narrow hall way, a galley and the kitchen an officer’s mess. The cherry tree that swayed and shivered beyond her window became a mast and always, pervading through the floorboards, the familiar damp smell of the sea.
Shipwrecked amongst her treasures she constructed rafts with her books, drew endless, borderless maps and waited for the perfect tide, all the while gazing longingly out of portholes. Portholes that shifted and changed by the day, onto worlds that were beyond her imagining. Better, she thought, to risk sinking after all.