“She’ll be home soon,” Miriam Montefort called to no particular soul, save perhaps her own. On delicate tread she made her way from room to room in her spacious home, attending to the dust on this lamp, or the straightening of an oriental rug there. Each room held treasures and mementos, though whose she wasn’t always sure.

The sumptuously stained wood floor creaked beneath her feet. The fans circled lazily overhead. Dust motes danced in afternoon sunlight to a waltz no living ear could hear. Things sat stoically in their places, dutiful possessions all.

Dancing to her own quiet tune, somewhere between contentment and denial, Miriam floated down the stairs. Her delicate hand traced the ornate banister. Her nightgown glanced the steps behind.

The muffled din from the front room drove her to the kitchen. Cold tiles met her bare feet. Warm smells greeted her nose. A deferential cook averted his eyes and left hurriedly.

Perhaps to him or again to herself, she called lightly, “She’ll be home soon.”