“That is how time was born. Each year the Black King and the White Queen enjoy the heated summer of passion, the sorrowful autumn that precedes the White Queen’s confinement in the Moon. And then, the joyful rebirth of spring.”

Celeste was sleeping soundly. Desdemona felt herself wanting to doze as well. A great drift of sleep was piling up at the corners of her mind, filling her thoughts with visions of a lunar grave. It was on these thoughts that Desdemona willed her focus. Doing so helped her ignore the incessant tapping on the windows.

*

It was silent when Desdemona woke; silent and bright, too bright in fact. The light spilled unrestrained into the master bedroom. Desdemona snuffled, grimaced against the sunbeams, and indulged in a deep stretch. She must have fallen asleep while cradling Celeste.

Only after she called for her sister did the panic begin to sink its claws into Desdemona’s innards.

Celeste was gone.

The shutters on one of the large windows had been unlatched and opened. Desdemona could see the scratches and gory streaks left by Mother’s swords. The view through the pane weakened her, nearly broke her.

Autumn had fallen over the island, and it was clear that this seasonal change had not been recent, for the leaves had long since lost their fiery colours and were now browned and desiccated, a dirty carpet stretching across the yellow lawn. The sky was cloudless and bright, but there was no warmth from the sun, even as Desdemona stood directly in its rays.

Questions flooded over her. She was driven to her knees under the weight of her own confusion and helplessness.

She scrabbled on all fours for the door and flung it open. Her mind only faintly registered the piled dust and the cobwebs that now marred Mother’s once-pristine foyer. She raced down the spiral stairs, across the main floor, and finally out through the scullery door.

Damp winds lashed her the moment she stepped into the open world. The lake was choppy and was the colour of cheap tin. When she discovered that the motorboat was indeed no longer tethered to the dock, that it was gone (long gone no doubt), Desdemona began to pull her hair and plead with Fate, praying that the hand she’d been dealt was nowhere near as cruel as it now seemed.