had adapted itself to this wound, accepting the habits of weather, evening stars, the sound of birds.(There was a sofa, a piano covered in a grey sheet, the head of a stuffed bear and high walls of books. The shelves nearest the torn wall bowed with the rain, which had doubled the weight of the books. Lightning came into the room too, again and again, falling across the covered piano and carpet. )

At the far end were French doors that were boarded up. If they had been open she could have walked from the library to the loggia, then down thirty-six penitent steps past the chapel towards what had been an ancient meadow, scarred now by phosphorus bombs and explosions. The German army had mined many of the houses they retreated from, so most rooms not needed, like this one, had been sealed for safety, the doors hammered into their frames. She knew these dangers when she slid into the room, walking into its afternoon darkness. She stood conscious suddenly of  her weight on the wooden floor, thinking it was probably enough to trigger whatever mechanism was there.(Her feet in dust. The only light poured through the jagged mortar circle that looked onto the sky. With a crack of separation, as if it were being dismantled from one single unit,） she pulled out The Last of the Mohicans and even in this half-light was cheered by the aquamarine sky and lake on the cover illustration, the Indian in the foreground. And then, as if there were someone in the room who was not to be disturbed, she walked backwards, stepping on her own footprints, for safety, but also as part of a private game, so it would seem from the steps that she had entered the room and then the corporeal body had disappeared. She closed the door and replaced the seal of warning.