The sisters would not ignore this omen, they would welcome it. They had in fact been anticipating it, quietly hoping for that little oasis of breezes that would raise hackles instead of stirring dust. They’d been yearning for fog and billowing drapes and the muted lull that piles upon the world entire.

Desdemona stirred in her bed and knew intuitively that this was to be a day of secret things; of creeping about the great house on cat’s paws and listening with bated breath and turning locks and pressing open long-shut doors.

Rain had been falling lazily for hours by the time Desdemona finally opened her eyes and stretched out the atrophy of youthful summers. She sat up and listened to the pattering upon the roof of their turret room. She was facing the mirrored backing of her dresser that stood against the far wall, but the morning’s gloom prevented her from seeing her reflection. Nevertheless, Desdemona somehow sensed that she appeared unwholesome.

She turned down the sheets, moved to the curtains and peeked into the outer world. The lake that hemmed their property was brown and churning. The waves slapped down foamy against the great stones along the shore.

“Celeste, wake up,” she said sotto voce, giving her sister’s sleeping form a shake as she crossed the room.

Down the hall, the door to the parents’ room sat open. Desdemona could see that their great bed had been crisply made and that Father’s bag of things was no longer reposing on the circular table.

“Mother?” she called into the corridor, meekly, for she did not truly wish to be heard. When the only response she received was the rain’s ongoing pattering Desdemona leaned back into the room. “It looks like they’re gone again.”

“Who’s gone?” asked Celeste. Her mousy hair was splayed across the pillows like a great tangled net that had ensnared her slight face. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and yawned.

“Mother and Father. They’ve left. But don’t be too sad. There’s some good news, too. Listen. Do you hear the rain?”

The noise then became an agent for Celeste, who charged with the unbridled enthusiasm of Christmas morning. She bounded from the bed and hurriedly began to dress.

Desdemona did the same, but more discreetly. She slipped behind the Japanese shoji that Mother had given her for their thirteenth year together. It is well known that the most beautiful things need not come at a great cost, but lesser realised is that true beauty is something an object is not immediately born with, but is instead a quality that accretes after that object has travelled across great spans of miles, or of time, or both.