The echoes of an island remain in space and memory. The voices resound alive. A moment and a place; the living are shadows crossing the faded landscape of the cove. History alights on the present. History projects its lament. Three female troubadours. A device that captures the voice. A female painter that brings colour back. ‘They are fortunate islands, / They are lands without whereabouts, / Where the king dwells, waiting. But, if we start to awake, / The voice hushes and there is only the sea.’