Then when he died you disappeared too; you spent days walking in the darkest corners of the wood. Father had wished for us to take our stories with us, but you seemed determined to avoid having any story to tell at all. And so, when the prince came by I was more than glad to go with him, for I knew you despised me – perhaps I reminded you of all we had lost. I thought that in leaving you I was giving you what you longed for: the chance to rewrite your life without me.”

Moriah reached out and touched her sister’s unmarked skin; she held her hand and looked into her dark eyes.

“I never meant for us to become enemies, Belia. I hoped you would join me, but you were obstinate: bent on destroying all the good things that came my way.”

Belia squeezed her sister’s hand and smiled sadly.

“I think I understand more now. I’m sorry I left you; I see now that it must have appeared that I hated you and wished to deny you happiness. I never wanted us to be enemies either, sister; but listen to my story, for I wonder if our father did.”

Moriah sat back in her chair, ignoring its creaking joints.

“I remember our mother’s songs too, Mora; and I remember when they stopped. However, this seems to be where the similarities in our stories end. I recall how Father would force you to sing, even when you said you were tired or told him that singing our mother’s songs made you sad.”

“He just wanted so desperately to be reminded of her – he … he didn’t force me.” Moriah’s denial comes quickly, her voice high and sure.

“Moriah, you are a queen, but you do not rule over me. Please listen to my tale as I listened to yours.”

Moriah’s mouth opened, as if ready to admonish a servant, but she paused and nodded, gesturing for Belia to continue.

“I was no use to him. I didn’t remind him of the past and I gave him no hope that I would be an asset in the future. He would often tell me that he rejoiced at your birth, Moriah, but that when it became apparent that there was another baby he burned with hatred. I had stolen space in his household, an uninvited visitor. He would whisper to me that I was a curse, a message from evil spirits, a terrible intruder on the life he had planned. He would hold my head and make me look at you and your beauty; he would make me listen to you and he would tell me that you, so like your mother, were his only child. Moriah, I wonder if you ever remember me speaking? Did you ever notice that I was silent? Our father forbade me to speak in the house: my only task beyond the chores he had me do was to write down his stories, word for word. He would take away my food if I got even one word wrong. I hated him and yet wished for his love. When he was dying I kept feeling a tickle in my chest as though I might laugh at any moment, for the only way I could live was if he died.”