No one, perhaps, but my oil- painted ancestors, row upon row of them, who were at this moment glaring sourly down at me from their heavy frames in icy disapproval of what I had done. Since nobody ever came to the unheated east wing of Buckshaw anyway, no one would notice my improvised skating rink- not, at least, until springtime, when it melted. It had been easy enough to flood the portrait gallery: An India- rubber garden hose snaked in through an open window from the terrace and left running all night had done the trick- that, and the bitter cold which, for the past fortnight, had held the countryside in its freezing grip. When at last I came skidding to a stop, chips of ice flew up in a breaking wave of tiny colored diamonds. I drew in great lungfuls of the biting air, blowing it out again in little silver trumpets of condensation. Round and round the room I went- round and round and up and down. Overhead, the twelve dozen candles I had pinched from the butler’s pantry and stuffed into the ancient chandeliers flickered madly in the wind of my swift passage. Beneath the icy surface, the intricately patterned parquet of the hardwood floor was still clearly visible- even though its colors were somewhat dulled by diffraction. Up and down the long gallery I flew, the silver blades of my skates making the sad scraping sound of a butcher’s knife being sharpened energetically on stone. Tendrils of raw fog floated up from the ice like agonized spirits departing their bodies.

I am half sick of shadows book