Well, she should have been able to do this kind of work in her sleep. But something seemed to be preventing her. Every time she sat down at her work table, pencil in hand, she felt an unbearable tiredness wash over her. The pencil felt as heavy as a block of wood and her hands as clumsy as large mallets. It was frustrating, particularly since she had missed a lot of time over the last week or two and had quite a fast-approaching deadline.

She took a break, and made herself cheese on toast. She looked at her laptop, dead on the table. She could just fire off a quick email to Penny, try and explain things a bit better. But no, emailing didn’t feel right. She didn’t exactly know what would be right, but that wasn’t it. Besides, it was probably better to wait until she knew what she wanted to say.

She went back to her work desk and sat down with great determination. She would do this. She had to make it happen. If she could just pick up her pencil and begin, if she could just lose herself in her work as always, then perhaps she could begin to reclaim her life here. Maybe, bit by bit, she could stop feeling like a complete failure and be more like her old self. Sure of things. Not full of silly regrets.

Not dreaming uselessly of the past.

Elle began slowly, like someone drawing for the very first time. Just a few rough lines on paper, it doesn’t matter if they aren’t straight, she told herself as she always did when she hit a block. You can fix it up later.

Bit by bit, something began to take shape underneath her hands. She didn’t stop to examine it too closely, but let her hands do the work as though they were something apart from her. As though they were sleepwalkers.

A room began to take shape. A conference room? No, something else. The ceiling was high and vaulted, individual blocks of wood forming a delicate ribcage. It was supremely detailed. She drew in a long wooden floor, dark and smooth. At one end of the room there was a raised platform. The walls were ornately patterned, and even though she was working in charcoal, she could tell that in reality it would be gold leaf that caught the light of the hanging chandelier in the middle of the room.

The chandelier itself was a masterpiece, each tiny bulb, each hanging jewel exquisitely formed. It was the beating heart of the room.

If Elle recognised what she was drawing, she gave no sign, outward or inward. She was very practised at keeping her thoughts from herself, and if sometimes that talent worked against her, in this case it was leading her towards something special, something magnificent.