It was a big, sturdy edifice—much bigger and sturdier than it had seemed from down below. The white columns of the porch had seemed spindly when I saw them from the canopy, but they’d taken on a temple-like grandeur by the time I arrived beneath them. Beyond the STRICTLY PRIVATE sign there was a rope, slung museum-style between two metal posts.

I’d never have done it if I’d been sober. Even tipsy I faltered for a moment or two, but the sun kept pushing like a hot hand against my back.

The hall was as black as I’d desired it to be. I opened the door wide and took a few cautious steps.

Shapes and tones materialised slowly: the curling hulk of a staircase; closed doors to my left and right; a tiled floor like a chessboard, alternating squares of black and white. I was glad I’d taken my shoes off because it meant I could walk across the cold floor without making much noise. The chiffon made the merest swishing sound against my legs as I stepped from black tile to black tile, avoiding the white ones in case my feet left grubby marks. I felt like a ghost, empty and silent in my long, pale dress, at ease with the darkness.

Daylight began picking things out here and there and making them gleam: the moulded leaves and apples on a gold picture frame; the brass studs on an armchair; the ribs of a plastic water bottle. I picked up the bottle and sat down on the chair, tipsy enough to feel that I wasn’t trespassing; that I was expected; that these things had been put out, ready for me. The armchair creaked as I settled, and the upholstery prickled through my dress and all along the backs of my thighs. I unscrewed the bottle, tipping my head right back and filling my mouth till the water brimmed over and trickled down my neck.

The picture with the gold frame was directly in front of me, and I leaned forward to look at it, but the light from outside was wrong—too yellow, too lush—and all I could make out was a flat surface covered by a network of shiny lines, like a tray of brittle toffee that’s been tapped with a hammer. I tilted my head woozily and wondered what sort of picture it was. Not that I was vastly curious. If the chair had been comfier I might not have bothered getting up, but the backs of my legs were starting to itch.

It must, I decided, be some kind of collage, with hundreds of tiny bits of paper fitted together and stuck down on a board. When I ran my fingers over the surface I realised that the shiny lines I’d noticed from the chair were made of dried glue. Whether it was an abstract arrangement, or whether the fragments came together as a coherent image, it was too dark to tell, but there was a spotlight on the wall above the frame and I could just about reach the switch.