Two small heads bowed together, dark hair loose and tumbling as they lean over the project at hand- loose petals in the fountain, blushing pinks and noisy red. Their fingers are grimy with ruined plants, dirty juice from the flowers. In circles they scatter shredded roses, waiting for someone to tell them to stop. Nobody notices but the gardener, who waits till they abandon their witchcraft, then he takes a small net and sets to work.
The house is not inhabited so much as haunted. The furniture stands gingerly, ready to take flight. No dollhouse, no teddy bear, no nicknacks. The space between set piece and home.
At the seaside, they draw lines in the sand with driftwood, play chicken with the waves. Before sunset the air prickles and shimmers. They buy sorbet which melts into a thick syrup, running between their fingers. Scrubbing hands in the surf like Lady Macbeth. Watching other people on holiday, they see other children are given the space to make chaos. There’s a doll at the guest house, but it’s placed too high to reach.