There are ghosts here. Shimmering silhouettes of the past. There is one in my mind’s eye whose outline is sharp – my father leading the way, turning his head to smile at me, telling me to come on, this is the best bit. Every Saturday it was like the first time he saw the display – his eyes big as a toddler’s, his smile wide like someone in love.

Maybe it was love – maybe it was his way of seeing her again, in the illustration of the White Witch. Miranda – my birth mother, born in the White Witch’s image. She was beautiful, they say. That was part of my story that took a long time to surface – the truth. The truth is messier than fiction. I was born amongst the blanks, and my mother was driven out for loving a marked man.

I stand in front of the White Witch now and wish I had known my birth mother, who died so soon after I was born. Moonlight comes through the skylight and she is paler than ever. I wonder that I never noticed the similarity until Obel made me draw the White Witch that day in his studio. It was like drawing a self-portrait without a mirror. And Obel told me that my mother was even more like her.

I’ve only known one mother – my mum, stern and quiet with a love for me that I truly thought I could never run too far from. She is the mum I miss, the one whose embrace and forgiveness I am longing for – to me she means safety, she means home. And Dad loved them both. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have loved two people in the way Dad loved my mothers. Did the memories overlap? Did he miss the kisses of the one even while savouring the caress of the other?

I press my hand to the glass and another ghost appears. Oscar, his hand next to mine when we barely knew one another. I wish I could go back to that moment. I wish I could go back just a few days, even. Would I have done things differently if I had known that our farewell might be for ever?

My hand clenches into a fist and I want to slam it through the glass. These stories – these tales we have been told – they’re the problem. We fight, blank and marked, over which sister, which lovers, which saint – if we could just be rid of them all, our fights would be over. I wish I could visit those sisters like I have in my dreams. I would hold their hands and tell them what a mess they’ve made, beg them to unite once more.

Because that’s what I’m here for, so they say. I am the sisters; I am them both, Moriah and the White Witch – a bridge, a lifeline, a rope across perilous waters. I went to Featherstone thinking I might be a light to them – that I could guide them back to the truth – Saintstone’s truth. But now I know them; I’ve met the blanks and they are not walking in darkness. They are not blinded to the truth. They have plenty of truth of their own – they are awash with it. It’s just that it’s not our truth. And the idea of the two coming together is like mixing water and electricity. A storm is brewing, and when the spark of lightning hits the ground, there will be fire.