Fiona sits in her husband's parents' living room, trying to
understand what the voice of the unseen Angel is telling her. She's
vaguely aware of her husband, stood in the doorway, a tiny pair of
shoes in his hand. She knows he's looking at her, knows that he's
trying to follow their conversation. It even registers with her when
his attention is snatched away by something in the hallway, something
she might have to think about later.
But not now. Right now she needs to understand what the Angel is
telling her, because it seems important, urgent even, if she judges
it by the speaker's tone.
“That house is not the Warp,” that oily voice tells her, “No
matter how much it looks and feels like it.”
“So you say,” she replies, “But I don't know what that means,
or how it helps us!”
The Angel doesn't reply at once, pausing to contemplate his response.
She almost finds it funny, that silence, it's as if she can hear him
thinking.
“Okay,” he says at last, “Try this: the Weave is a big house,
where almost anything is possible? Yes?”
“Y-yes,” she falters, waiting for whatever comes next.
“Then that house,” the Angel continues, “Is like a shed at the
bottom of the garden.”
“O-kay,” she replies, still unsure.
“Your shed!” There's a note of triumph in his voice. “A place
where you have total control. Now concentrate, breath, feel the shed
around you, feel it as an extension of you.”
