Belia sipped her tea and placed another log on the fire.

“But he wouldn’t even give me that. He cursed us on his deathbed and it is only because I broke the curse that I am here today.”

Wiping tears from her cheeks, Moriah said, “I don’t remember … I don’t remember any of that. How can our stories be so different?”

“People would often say the same about you and me, Moriah: how can they be so different? But we were – we are – and yet we are still sisters.”

“What do I believe then, if my story isn’t true?” Moriah weeps.

“Why do you say that? Why do you say your story is no longer true?” Belia asked.

“Because it can’t be true, not if he did all that to you.”

Belia only sighed.

“Sister, I think this is where we have been battling all our lives: each of us with a story, each of us certain that our story is the only one that matters – the only real truth. I wish I had known how you saw our childhood – I had assumed that you hated me like our father did.”

“I never saw it, Belia – I am so sorry. I was in my own world, I never thought to check what your world was like.”

“I wonder if this is what Father wanted – to keep us separate from one another by meddling with our stories. Moriah, I don’t think we need to fight about whose story is the truest; I don’t think the existence of my story blots out the need for yours. I think that both stories together give us a new truth – a better, messier truth.”

“I have been so lonely without you.” Moriah held out her hands to her sister.

“I have found my missing piece.” Belia entwined her fingers with Moriah’s.

The story ends with a picture – a line drawing of two women: one inked, one blank, hands clasped, foreheads touching: faces close enough for a kiss.

Chapter Seventeen

There is a silence after Mel finishes talking. My heart is beating fast. This story, my dreams, the mark that Mel showed me, inked on ancient skin – and the mark appearing on my own stomach. This can’t be a coincidence.

I drop to my knees before her and, quickly, before I can think better of it, I lift my shirt.

Her breath catches. She covers her mouth with her hand. With shaking fingers, she reaches her free hand towards me and touches the mark. At first, she is gentle and tentative and then her touch is firm: wiping at the lines to check, to make sure this is not some trick.

Minutes pass and at last, Mel lifts her face and looks into my eyes. I don’t know whether I want to laugh or cry. The unbearable energy shooting around my body mixes fear with excitement. This is something; and time will tell whether it is something good or bad.