An only slightly belated six sentences for Sunday, February 23:
Here, the rain comes in when it storms. The wind plays what remains of the palace like a flute. The weeds creep across the broken marble courtyards and climb up over the statues there, small birds roost in the rafters and little unseen creatures – rats? raccoons? – make nests in the walls, shredding old draperies and books for their beds.
Some might look on this as a tragedy. They might mourn the mildewed portraits in the great hall and the dead leaves that drift in through the broken windows of the ballroom. But to the little maid in her white apron and cap, it is an inconvenience first.