Sometimes she remembered the garden while she was playing. It used to be her favourite place, the biggest place she had ever known; far away from the world it was her little land of green, only hers. There were swings and a pond, she would play for hours letting her childish imagination run wild while her mother sat in the hall and played piano, never too far away. It used to be hers, just as the garden used to be the girls, before she was trapped. Maybe she would ask the old man to move the piano into the garden when summer came. She was sure they had a spare upright somewhere, she would like that.
Sometimes in the summer the old man opened the hall windows wide, and she played while the birds sang in trees she could not turn to see. Years ago the old man had put wheels on her piano so she could turn to look out at the world; there was no joy in looking out for her now, the casters sat seized and unused. She did not want to remind herself of what she used to have. What she could never have again. She sat looking inwards, absorbed in the piano, she payed no attention to anything else.
She didn’t remember much of the house. She knew that it was big and she knew that her mother had made it beautiful. All she now saw of the manor, her manor, was the hall where her piano sat; it waited for her to return day by day, it was faithful to her and she to it. The hall had a hard floor which had always aggravated her. It was noisy and when anyone other than the old man walked through they disturbed her playing with every step. The piano had once sat once sat on a rug but that made it difficult to clean around the piano itself. One day she came to her piano and the rug was gone, that was the end of that. The rest of the manor was really of no consequence, all that mattered was her piano.