She is an accomplished painter: that is a fact, not a boast, but it was always the papercuts that were her real talent, even from a child. Must she relinquish them now? The stubborn part of her refuses; she expects that when her hands have given up entirely and she is physically unable to make a single snip, that portion of herself will still be there, clamouring to get out.

She puts the inferior scissors down, defeated by the burning in her fingers.

The woman she knew as Agnes is fading day by day. Determined to remember there is something of her left, she crosses the landing to her bedchamber, retrieves the shade of Constance from beside her dressing-table mirror and brings it back to the studio.

Yes, she captured it well: the curious way her sister’s head sat upon her shoulders. You can see, even without bronzing, where the ears and eyes should be.

It would be wrong to consign such a good piece to the back of the duplicate book – although she could swear she had done so previously. Agnes opens it again, at the front this time, where her collection of earlier Constances live. Page by page they grow, become taller, the lines of their faces more defined.

Looking back, she realises how often Constance offered herself as a model. Was it a kindness, or was she just trying to keep Agnes’s focus trained upon her? Constance never could endure competition for Agnes’s attention; even her papercuts were viewed as rivals.

Perhaps she is judging too harshly. Constance could be agreeable at times, only … there was an uncomfortable intensity to it. She was too nice, a person playing at being nice.

Then came the betrayal. It was hard to believe any good of her after that.

Agnes is still at a loss to say exactly why Constance did it. Was it spite, jealousy – or just to prove that she could? Somehow she would feel better if love were involved in the matter, but evidently it was not. The whole affair was about power, manipulation, ownership.

There is no use going over it again. Constance is dead now, and a dead person cannot control her any longer.

She slots the paper Constance amidst her twins and lets the book fall open to its wonted page.

Montague’s shade faces to the right. Symbolically, this means he is looking forward to the future – and that was apt for the man – but now she wishes she had cut it facing the other way. Because the future, when it came, held only sorrow for them.

Montague is the one full-length in her collection with added colours. When he made first lieutenant, he showed her his uniform, and she recreated it from memory: a bold, blue coat with white breeches. Only the face remains shadowy and inscrutable. Agnes runs the tip of her finger over it.

‘Where are you? Do you think of me?’ she asks.