If I’d been someone else looking at me, I’d have said the woman has interesting bones and I’d like to paint her. Or I would have liked to paint her before she started to droop. Discontent. It did disgusting things to one’s face, made everything sag and put sour lines around the mouth and between the brows. Her breasts were firm and full, that was all right, but she had a small pot when she sat; she put her hands round it, lifted and pressed it in, then sighed and reached for the brush. It won’t be long before I have to pay someone to climb into bed with me. She pulled the bristles through the soft white strands. Old nag put out to pasture, no one wants her anymore.

She made a face at herself and laughed, but her eyes were sad and the laughter faded quickly. Might as well be dead.

She rubbed the back of her hand beneath her chin and felt the loosening muscle there. Death? Illusion. Give me one man’s lifeforce and I’m young again. Twenty-four/five, back where I was when Slya finished with me. No dying for me. Not even a real aging, only an endless going on and on. No rest for me. No lying down in the earth and letting slip the burden of life. How odd to realize what a blessing death was. Not a curse. Well… once the dying was finished with, anyway. Dying was the problem, not death. I wonder if they’d let me? She got to her feet, looked over her shoulder at Maksim. One massive arm had dropped off the bed; it hung down so the backs of his fingers trailed on the grass mat that covered the floor.

She went out, walked through rooms filled with morning light, swept and garnished by one of the sprites that took care of the island, the one they called Housewraith. The kitchen was a large bright room at the back. She pulled open one of the drawers and took out a paring knife. She set the blade on her wrist. It was so sharp its weight was enough to push the edge a short way through her flesh; when she lifted the knife, she saw a fine red line drawn across the porcelain pallor of her skin. She put the knife down. It wasn’t time yet. She wasn’t tired enough of living to endure the pain of dying. Boredom… no, that wasn’t enough, not yet.