The night Mary Margaret died, she dreamed the house dream once again. As always, the carved door opened to her like an old friend, and yet she knew that she had never seen these rooms before this night. Each one caught her by surprise. A small dark room full of luminescent fish tanks. A tailor’s room stacked high with bolts of opulent fabrics, guarded by large faceless mannequins. A conservatory room as long as a football field. She lingered there beside a table of silvery carnations, breathing in the clean funeral scent.