Mother says, “Dear, please, may I have more tea.” I notice her mouth is not moving. We are in the sitting room. Outside it is raining. I see the mud and muck and puddles even though I am nowhere near a window. I turn and am standing in the kitchen. Mother says, “What are we going to do about the horses eating all the silk purses?” Emma says, “How delightful. So pretty,” as she pets the horse I am holding. It is quite small. It fits in my arms and nibbles and pulls at my shoulder, searching for sweet grasses in the fabric of my dress.