She’s knitting.
I smile at her. “You’d make a lot of friends in a nursing home, given your hobbies.”
“Oh, shut up,” she says, rolling her eyes without looking up.
I step inside and close the door behind me, taking in the vases of flowers lining the room.
All white tulips.
Arlo filled her hospital room with them, and now he’s doing the same here, sending fresh ones every few hours.
“How are you feeling?” The smile disappears from my face as I remember how close I came to losing her.
“I’m better,” she says immediately. “You know that.”
I study her anyway, reassured by her colour, her steady hands, and the lack of pain around her eyes.
I nod, relieved.
“Did you take your medication?”
“Yes, mamma,” she deadpans.
Right on cue, mamma appears in the doorway.
“Did someone call me?” she asks lightly.
Lucinda Bellanti looks lighter tonight—beautiful and regal, the tension she’s carried for years finally easing. I hadn’t realised how heavy it was until it was gone.
She is beautiful. Her blonde hair falls to the middle of her back, her eyes the same clear shade as Ophelia’s and mine. Freckles dust her skin. I used to fake them with makeup when I was younger, always complaining that I hadn’t inherited them.
She’s dressed in a fitted burgundy dress that falls just above the knee, four inch heels adding to her height. She is striking.
She looks remarkably young, because she is. She had us early, me at eighteen, my sister a year later.
I sit on the edge of Ophelia’s bed and take her hand.
The ring catches my eye.
It’s impossible to miss.
We’re home for winter break.
It’s Christmas Day. After my conversation with my father in his office this morning, we were meant to have a quiet family dinner.
Then Arlo stepped into the mansion, his father beside him.
Arlo proposed to my sister.
Officially.
“Well,” I say, turning her hand to admire the ring, “that’s obscene.”
She snorts. “I thought you’d say that.”
“It suits you,” I admit. “And it very loudly says taken. Do not approach.”
Mamma smiles, reaching out to brush Ophelia’s hair back gently. “How do you feel about it, sweetheart?”
