Your poetic words describing Helens beautiful home reminded me of this nightmare of Helens while on holiday with the Nobody.
'When I wasn’t dying I was in my house, but it was no longer mine. I’d walk through the door and find someone else living there. Confused, I’d plead with them that there had to be some mistake, that this was my home, that they had got it wrong, not me. And then I’d wake up, in a state.
'I could no more imagine me getting on a plane to go somewhere warm and sunny by the coast, than I could imagine donning a helmet with a torch and squeezing myself through cracks in a dark water-filled cave.
The last paragraph fills me with sadness for her and Boris.
ETA: from Helens blog.