My throat was constricted and I found it difficult to breathe as I flung the bedding onto the floor and dragged clothes from drawers and upturned the mattress. I tore the room apart from ceiling to floor, wall to wall, corner to corner. However, no matter my efforts, I was futile in my frenzied search. A terrible thought came into my head, a depressing thought which ignited rage. Theo had done this. She must have done it. She knew I could see Artemis and still speak to her, and was consequently jealous. I ran into the kitchen and seized the jars of jam and began hurling them at the tiles, each jar making a satisfying smash as it exploded in blood red brilliance, the shards of glass glistening with mockery singing ‘she knows, she knows, she knows.’ How could she not know? I was a fool.
I sank down into the mess and sobbed, quite suddenly worn out. Plato appeared with wet hair and viewed the scene, aghast; I suppose the racket I was making had startled him out of the bath. He grabbed me under the arms and sat me in a chair, took a tea towel and used it to staunch the cuts on my legs and hands. I hadn’t realised I was bleeding; all I could see was the red pooling on the floor, mingling in miniature lakes and crimson galaxies interspersed with white stars. He didn’t speak a word to me, until the gravel of the drive crunched outside.