Underneath the canopied bed she deposits her embroidered slippers, the ones with the frayed rose petals and the cotton nose of rabbits and mice. She is content to finally put the brush away. She will slip into the Viennese coverlet, quietly, but all the servants, the butlers and the maids, will experience a quietude that is short lived. Because their duty is to attend to every need, even the slightest sigh travels through the canal of the oreille. She is turning, always turning as she endeavors to sleep, haunting them when she makes sound the intimate communion between silk and lace. Then the sheet wraps around her waist, crawls down her thigh and extends past her feet forming the shape of a crinoline skirt. She is ready to venture out again, her lower half restless compared to anything else, with the legs always in motion, freeing one to guess at the content of her dreams. Is she bicycling? Or are they the hurried steps of Daphne? When the feverish rustlings end, she regains composure. Before the ordeal, her hair was a black, inky tentacle, but when the head turns, the lump of mass shatters into tendrils. Dew drops cling to the ceiling. A vast curtain of darkness blows in from the windows. A divine darkness, a darkness full of stillness and loveliness that would only serve to make one afraid.