I yawn. I get up from the table and walk over to the open window, resting my arms on the sill. You call me back.

“Carrington has done some woodcuts for us. I didn’t realize how talented she is until Lytton showed us some of her work. We’ve already had a go at printing them. Would you like to see?”

You hand me a sheet of paper with four printed images on it. Their crisp, bold lines impress me.

“How do you plan to use the woodcuts?” I ask, seating myself back at the table.

“We can put them on the dust jacket, as a frontispiece, inside the text. The possibilities are endless.”

“You mean you can print the woodcuts alongside the words?”

“Yes. It’s not that difficult to do. Once I’ve worked out the space I need for the image, I simply set the type around it.”

I ask if I can take the printed page home with me. That night, when everyone is in bed, I get out the story you sent me. This time, as I read, I visualize the garden you describe so evocatively. Now, as my eyes travel the lines of your prose, my mind races with ideas. I find paper and charcoal. I work flowers, stems, leaves round your words. I sketch the two women talking in the garden, their hats tilted at an angle as they exchange confidences. I draw quickly, excitedly. Soon I have covered your story with my pictures. On some pages I design a simple border, on others I concoct more elaborate illustrations, images from the garden, decorative patterns. In the morning, I parcel up the story and send it back to you. I add a note saying that I enjoyed working on it. As I go about my chores I sense my spirits reviving. I see the printed book of your story with my woodcuts prominent on each page.

So. I am to have another child. Despite all the tribulations of my love for Duncan it will have produced this. I prop the mirror against the bed and stand before it. As yet, there is little to detect. A slight swelling in my breasts, the faint puckering of the skin around the nipples, a decided roundness in my belly. For the moment the baby is a mirage, no more real than a wish. I raise my eyes to my face and see a tiny figure reflected in my pupils. I think of you, bent over your writing table, drafting your new novel. You have accomplished so much more than me. Suddenly, I sense an inner, subterranean shift. I let my hand rest on my belly. The figure in my eyes gleams.