A whistle from inside, and her head spins to greet it. The noise is a shrill cheer, a chirrup like no bird or beast or fish.

Fish don’t whistle, do they? she chides herself.

A few lilting steps bring her into a kitchen, surrounded on three sides by cheerful wallpaper and eggshell-white cabinets. An eclectic array of cups, bowls, plates, saucers, mugs, goblets, and all other manner of stoneware smile warmly from behind frosty glass, their colours melding and mixing by the distortions.

 Her attention, though, is still caught by the whistle, the noise now joined by a vision of puffed steam rising in curls to the lights in the ceiling.

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