Besides this beautiful privacy screen of charred wood and moon-pale rice paper, Mother had presented her with other gifts as well: bottles, a palm-sized diary with a thin charcoal pencil, a rabbit’s foot on a silver chain, a scroll that was revealed to be a sepia-toned chart detailing the lunar phases.

Worrying into a plain dress, Desdemona forced a brush through her hair and stepped out from behind the divider.

“You should do the same,” she said, extending the brush to Celeste. “You look like Mr. Rochester’s first wife.”

Celeste huffed but complied. She scraped the brush across the mass of tangles, wincing with each pass. “Where should we start?”

“Start what?”

“Start looking. What else?”

Desdemona stared out again at the great yard, at the maelstrom of the lake. Something queer and greasy suddenly began to stir in the pit of her stomach. It was a very unpleasant sensation; not one of sickness, but of something foreboding, as though an invisible wall was trying to insinuate itself between her and something in her future. The sensation lasted merely a moment before fading.

“We need to eat first,” said Desdemona.

“Why?” Celeste’s voice curled with a disappointed whine.

A burst of lightning brightened the room with painful suddenness. The thunder that followed it was sonorous and seemed to shake the very foundation of the house.

“Because we are responsible women,” Desdemona replied.

*

Despite Celeste’s request for a breakfast of mere butter and honey, Desdemona insisted that they eat the food Mother had left for them: hardboiled eggs and wedges of cheese and bowls of berries with cream. Their meal had been set upon the table in the great dining hall.

They ate at the long slab table, each sister positioned at one end.

“This is the head of the table, you know,” Celeste proudly explained. “That makes me the leader, since Father isn’t here.”

“Father’s not the leader. And don’t put your elbows on the table.”

“Who is then? Mother?”

Desdemona shrugged. “Maybe there isn’t a leader.”

For a spell they fed wordlessly, until Celeste finally confessed that she did not like the quiet.

“It reminds me of Mother’s suppers.”

“It’s not one of those.” Desdemona said firmly. She cleared her throat and changed both the tone and the subject of discussion. “So, what shall we look for today?”

Celeste thought hard on the question. “I want to explore Mother’s things.”

“No. That’s not a good idea.”

“Why not? Are you scared to?”

“Yes.”

The frankness of Desdemona’s answer caught Celeste off guard.

“But it’s not like we’d get caught. Mother will probably be away for a while. Besides, even if she did catch us, we could just say it was your idea. She’d forgive you. You’re her favourite.”

“I’m not her favourite.”