“Our father fed on our misery. Your marriage was an escape after he left us with nothing but a curse.” Belia’s voice was gentle but her eyes were sad.

“A curse?” Moriah’s lovely face creased into a frown.

“You never did believe in it, did you?” Belia tutted and poured the tea.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Beli. I remember Father’s dying wish – but it was a blessing from him. That’s why my skin is illustrated with my story – you can hardly call me cursed.”

“Something is wrong with your memory, Mora. If our father had a wish it was a wish for nothing but sadness. His life was a failure and so he wanted the same cruel fate for us. That is why you are marked – surely you can’t still believe that your inked skin is good? You may as well be naked for all the privacy your body provides you. It’s obscene to live so blatantly; where is your pride?”

“This again.” Moriah sighed. “Haven’t enough years passed? Are you still so envious of my good fortune? Don’t think I’ve forgotten the ways you attempted to hijack my happiness and position. Perhaps I can agree that you are cursed, but don’t tar me with the same brush. I am a queen.”

A crackle of fire, a scent of dust baking in the growing heat, a melodious slurp of tea, but the sisters were otherwise silent. Sun peeped in through the foggy window and left Belia sat in the shadow while Moriah was bathed in dawn light. Two sides, two shades, two sisters, once womb-close and now torn apart by their stories.

Belia went to the window and pulled down the half-hitched curtain, filling the small space with the light from outside. She turned and saw that there were no shadows now, no cold spots or hiding places. Sitting down once again she poured more tea and gazed thoughtfully at her sister.

“Moriah, tell me your story,” Belia said softly. “Tell me how you remember life in this cottage back when we were young.” Moriah was quiet for some time, staring into the fire.

“I remember Mother,” Moriah began. “I remember her voice and how she would sing sweetly when it was time for us to sleep. I used to lie with one eye open and watch her and Father dance. They would try to scold me when I gave myself away by giggling when they bumped into the table, but they were laughing too, and they kissed me goodnight through smiles. But then she was gone. Father would still tuck us in at night, but there was no more singing. He told stories instead, do you remember? And as I grew older I would sing the songs our mother sang, and it made him smile. You were such a quiet child; I wondered whether you ever adjusted after Mother died. But when you began writing down Father’s stories it gave me hope – it felt as though we were a team. He would tell, I would sing, and you would write.