“Frustrated by her work, stifled by her imagination’s refusal to respond to her proddings, desperate to expand her skull so it could accommodate a brain enlarged enough to comprehend what she needed to know, what she needed to see and to hear, she had decided to go— as she often had before—to the top of the tower and present her pleas to the open air. When she made the turn leading to the landing above, she stopped. She knew she’d see the loom, unthreaded, bare, the worm-eaten wood worn and gone... gray, the treadle smoothed by the touch of uncounted feet. She knew she’d see the small unstrung harp, the kind you held against yourself with one hand and plucked the strings with the other. The pegs for the strings were still there, twisted each in a different direction like snaggled teeth. She had often wondered if some alignment could be achieved if ever the harp could be strung again. The instrument rested on a crudely fashioned stool, its wood never having known the touch of paint or sealing of any kind.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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