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Penguin edition of Wuthering Heights for a suitable section concerning lies and betrayals: those particular lies, those particular betrayals that affect children. She settles for the part whereHindley has locked the young Heathcliff in the garret (Ann can see the garret). Catherine tiptoes up the stairs away from the guests who are listening to the Gimmerton Band, and slips out onto the roof through one skylight and into the attic by another.
    Ann imagines the roof. It is December. From the roof you would be able to see almost all the way to Gimmerton. Catherine, cat-like on top of Wuthering Heights, would not feel the wind that buffeted her. She would look for a moment towards the sky, see scudding clouds and a partial moon. The wind would force the fabric of her skirt up against her legs so that she would have to fight cloth and wind and slippery shale to get to him-the betrayed one-where he crouches in the dark. She would have to open the glass and drop lightly down to his side. There would be no colour there. The two children would be fumbling, murmuring, grey shadows. From the lower sections of the house they would hear what the pious old servant, Joseph, called the Devil’s psalmody; the songs of the Gimmerton Band. Ann can see the whole Gimmerton Band, “mustering fifteen strong: a trumpet, a trombone, clarionets, bassoons, French horns and a bass viol, besides singers.” The light of the lamps and candles flickering on all that brass.
    Ann can see the whole house now, as if someone had removed a wall, or as if it were an architectural plan. She adds all the detail she can: the fire in the kitchen hearth, the crumbs on the table, the double flight of stairs, and the empty chambers on either side of them. The two children whispering in the attic, heads bent towards one another, their hands touching and separating, touching and separating. Beyond them the winter moors, the rapid clouds, the moon, the wind, the wind. “The Holly and the Ivy,” the French horn slightly off-key.
    All of this in a Madrid hotel room while in a vast building, in another part of the city, groups of tourists take no notice of the hot plate, dead centre on the table in the real, the authentic, the actual Tintoretto.

A RIANNA E THER awoke into darkness dressed in her long white nightgown, or perhaps a garment even lighter, so easily did it move around her body. She was lying flat on her back in a place that was soft, yet strong with a strength of its own. She had no recent memories in her mind, only a feeling of being “lighter than air” and a sense of pure well-being.
    Happy, happy, happy wailed the wind around her. Heartfelt hallelujahs , it added and then, Hallowed, hallowed, hollow .
    Arianna was perfectly still. Only her eyes moved. There were no familiar walls to tell her where she was. But she found, to her surprise, that she didn’t care much one way or the other. She discovered, as she gazed, only the same piercing stars she had seen the night before and a perfume that the wind blew towards her.
    Hosanna, hosanna , howled the wind, breathing more and more perfume into Arianna’s vicinity. Heather , it added, rather softly, nudging Arianna towards recognition of her whereabouts.
    “Of course,” whispered Arianna, memory creeping back to her, the white wheels of memory creaking, working again with great effort as if throwing off years of rust.
    What is memory, Arianna?
    “Of course, I fell into the heather.” And there , she thought, turning her eyes slightly to the right, is my balloon. How white and lovely it looks against the black, my balloon, and how it waits there for me to climb back into it and return it to him now that he loves me .
    Helium, helium , snarled the wind as if unhappy with the direction that Arianna’s mind was taking her. Hogwash! it added.
    Help! thought Arianna, for it hadn’t occurred to her to use her voice. And then, I wonder what part of the moors I’ve fallen into?
    Hag, hag , helped the