I have been getting up early in the mornings. It is a peaceful time. Today, it is raining, and the cool air and small drums of the droplets on the house have taken Juliet in, burrowing her under the blankets. She is defending her lair with the surprising strength of those not awake. For their own reasons, none of the others have arisen yet either, and I have the house to myself.

I have taken to eating breakfast on the landing of the great stair. We do not use those stairs, much. Marco keeps the stairs sparse, and there are no pictures on the walls. They are wide, and I feel out of place with my hand on the bannister, with too much room to my left as I climb. I am holding a small plate of cheese and fruit.

On the landing there is nothing but a small window and a tall chair. With the plate on the sill I can rub my arm, and it feels a little better. The chair is thin but strong, and has a low back. I do not know where it came from. It was not always there. I sit, putting my feet on the rung to perch. I can lean over and look out the window. I nibble on some cheese.

There is rain on the window, but only a little. The window is set deep in the wall, and frames the little formal garden that we never use. I cannot see the distance. Instead I watch leaves get heavy with water and drip it away, shaking with each release. The rain is not so hard to chase the squirrels home, but they are slowed by the wet, and move about the lawn with care. The light is soft, and I eat some grapes.

Marco comes down the stairs, softly. I have meant to thank him for this chair, but I have never done, and I stay quiet now.

He asks me, "is Juliet feeling more well?"

I tell him that I think so; she has been eating more, and has begun to disassemble things in her room again. He nods at that. He bends down to peer through the glass. I lean lower, too. Through the window, the garden falls away, and I see the sky, sliding over the distant hills of turning trees.