( december 23rd )

[firegap]

Everything began in the east wing and because everything begins there, it is where she ends.

By the doors which she cannot step through, her portrait has been placed, on the thick carpets with their intricate, oriental patterns. It looks foreign there, as if the face she almost cannot recognise requires greater distance, more time. Halting in front if it, in front of her features before their disruption, she stares at herself, her name gilded for prosperity. Like a mistake someone once made.

Out of the doors to the east wing, Caroline Becker steps forth, dressed in a nightgown and an oil lamp. She glances from the painting to the woman it portrays, her features withdrawn and pale. Ghostly. They look much the same, the two of them. In this very moment.

"You found yourself," she says. "Do not follow me as I go to find what I have lost."

As she speaks, she holds out the oil lamp, her fingers trembling, shining from sweat, every little droplet catching the flickering light from behind the lampshade. Wordlessly, she drops the lamp by the foot of the portrait, porcelain splintering and flame catching onto the rugs, onto the canvas. Fire is such a fast eater.

Someone screams. Their voices are no longer discernible from the roar of the flames, nor from each other.