“She named you after someone she loved and lost. And Mother’s told me that she and Father had expected you, that they’d tried really hard to get you here. I was an accident.”

“Don’t twist Mother’s words,” commanded Desdemona. “She said you were a surprise. She never called you an accident. And why?”

Celeste’s reply was low and mutilated.

“Why?” Desdemona repeated.

“Because there are no accidents.” Celeste delivered this statement with a roll of her eyes, this rule of the house which Mother had drummed into them over the years. When she saw her sister rise and begin collecting the dishes, Celeste asked, “So can we?”

“Can we what?”

“Go through Mother’s things!”

“No.”

“But I had a feeling that we’re supposed to,” added Celeste.

“For real you had a feeling?”

Celeste nodded emphatically. Desdemona sighed.

“I won’t wreck anything, I promise. And if we get caught I’ll tell Mother you didn’t know about it. Okay?”

“We can look, but that’s all.”

Celeste jumped from her chair.

At Desdemona’s insistence, their pace slowed as they crossed the foyer and began their ascent of the staircase, which was spiralled like a vast fossil. Although they moved gingerly upon each step, the fine old wood groaned with their every movement. The daylight that illuminated the foyer through the high turret windows was dull and murky, touching the room with the atmosphere of late evening rather than morning.

They moved across the stair-head like stage play thieves; tiptoeing, their backs stooped.

Mother and Father’s room seemed uncharacteristically small and musty. The tall windows were veiled in ivory sheers. The great house was old and draughty, Desdemona knew. But this knowledge hardly lessened the unnerving sight of the sheers billowing out from the panes like sheeted ghosts. Celeste seemed to take no notice of this effect. She was already at Mother’s dresser.

The top drawer wobbled and squeaked as Celeste struggled to wrest it open. Fearing that it might slide out and injure her younger sister (or worse still, damage Mother’s property), Desdemona assisted.

Items of silk and lace frothed up like sea-foam from the opened drawer, the sight of which immediately caused Desdemona to regret permitting this peculiar safari. But Celeste appeared unfazed. She plunged her smallish hands into the bundle and began to fish.

“What are you looking for?” Desdemona whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” cried Celeste before letting out a giggle.

“Just hurry please.” Her anxieties had a basis. She had enjoyed similar explorations when she was an only child. In Father’s drawers she’d discovered a brittle manila envelope filled with etchings…etchings that had jabbed hooks into her mind and had yet to release her; depictions of people conjoined in ways that made them resemble mongrels, things found only in the strangest fables. Desdemona prayed that her sister would be spared such an ordeal.