August shouted directions with such urgency that Charles felt himself panicking. He did his best to steer them in the proper direction, but every inch they travelled seemed to bring them only further out. A seemingly endless sprawl of grey water stretched out before them. Charles began to worry about their safety. He eyed the jerry-can at his feet and prayed they’d have enough fuel to get back to the mainland.

“Shut the motor off!” August suddenly cried. He was practically standing.

Charles killed the engine and then sat listening to his heart thumping in his ears. He suddenly felt light-headed and lighthearted. A lump grew in his throat.

The island was there.

It seemed to have arisen from the depths like a lost continent. But it was real, utterly real. Nevertheless, Charles felt as though their vessel had somehow crossed a precious threshold where dreams had heft and matter was weightless. In this giddy, topsy-turvy bliss the pair of them glided toward the island’s shore.

The great house was stunning. It was the stuff of August’s boyhood love of haunted houses; almost archetypal in its perfection: majesty crumbling, sorrowful and beautiful at once; a monument to permanence that was somehow, paradoxically, slipping into oblivion. They had been blessed with a glimpse of the mansion in that rare moment between permanence and nothingness.

The tide pulled the boat to shore. Charles sculled them toward to the wooden dock and then moored them.

“Look at this,” August whispered, indicating the upturned bowl and the dirty, soggy length of white linen upon the dock.

They explored the house; an experience that snatched both men’s breath and voice.

At the end of a stout footpath they found the open stone vault. Intuition ordered Charles to collect the scattered matryoshkas. August secured the spirit bottle in the smallest doll and then the matryoshkas were reassembled and set inside the bowl.

It was while the two men were silently exiting the tomb that they saw her. She was smiling at them, her smoky form stood out in bas relief from the woodlands that surrounded them.

“Hello, dear Celeste,” August said in a tearful voice.

*

All seemed hopeless once Desdemona had lost the tether of Celeste’s voice. Her sister silenced, Desdemona had resigned herself to merely floating upon the boundless water, surrounded by the fogs that masked the world from her. It felt like an eternity and she felt forsaken.

But then she heard the motorboat. Shock made her numb. Had Mother and Father somehow returned? Had the whole ugly ordeal been a nightmare? Desdemona scoured the mists. She heard voices: men’s voices first, but then…

Then…

Celeste. She was no longer crying, she was elated, chatty. She had been restored somehow.

Desdemona took up the swords and rowed until her arms burned. She did her utmost to follow the voices.