Anusia Battersby

They were not meant for her.

Maybe, she had whispered.

Maybe...

The ghost had smiled, somehow damp-eyed even in its formlessness, and taken her hand for the first time.

For the next two years, the ghost pulled her through corridors and coaxed her through wings.

It hauled her up staircases and dragged her across car parks, and when her bare-walled bedroom of the night in whatever unfamiliar city became a ballroom, it spun her around and around and around.

It pointed out of taxi windows and told tales of when things were different.

It marveled at what was the same.

It applauded when she deserved it and grimaced when she did not.

It mimicked her mother with a snooty, upturned nose.

It bounced on the forbidden furniture.

It screamed beside her in the clearing behind the house.

It asked quietly if her feet were cold and looked sad when she said they were.

She had kept the socks that were not for her and sleeps in them now.

Early morning, Violet weaves her way through unfamiliar faces.

She is one of only two returning cast members, Duncan giving her a small half-wave as she is blown through the doors by a gust of wind.

"'Remember me?'

he asks cautiously, like she is five years old and he a half-remembered uncle.

"'I remember you,' she says softly, and immediately feels a staring hand between her shoulderblades."

It is the read-through today, but Violet's silent role renders her presence useless.