Some extracts from a script I wrote as part of The Engine Room project at The Garage, Norwich. 

He is cold, he tells me. I have no warmth to give, I reply, for the thirtieth time. If the Fool had no way home, he should never have followed the Chariot. There is a faint chill, however, she must admit. Despite her fine furs – and they are luxurious, far better than the rag of a sheet he must wrap himself in – there is a frost on her lips, a frost that sticks in her mouth and freezes her tongue into a stony silence. Occasionally, she will deign to make a harsh, stinging, biting remark. But the Boy will not react – he’ll simply give a bitter smile and continue to play with the shards of ice in his corner of the great frozen hall. She has never seen the servants here. Each morning, or noon, or evening – the sun here always seems high in the sky – she awakes to find a plate of Turkish Delight, and a glass of chilled water. She pops a snow-coated rose candy into her mouth, and is sure to comment – My, this is so delicious! – As the Boy sits alone in perpetual starvation. It has never occurred...