She crouches inside her dark box, clad in a bathing suit, lame, leather - anything atypical and overtly theatrical. Passive. Is it this passivity that renders her a space fit for intrusion, a void to be filled?

Outside, C. twirls his sword, tweeks his moustache, holds the rapier aloft. (Sharp intake of breathe from the audience.)

He lunges, thrusting deep into her humble fortifications. The books resist, a paper army pressing their spines hard against the wall.

She quivers, holds still.

A terrible groan and the books explode like a vast flock of parrots, screeching and flapping and screaming as the sword advances, straight through her lamed armour and her Sleepmaster bed and out the other side.

Her square is intersected.