‘Ah, yes, so you have.’
Verity goes quiet with the sting of a bitter memory. The sisters had fought that day.
‘We should discuss the contents of the letter.’ Constance pokes a sizzling log.
‘Well, there’s nothing to be done but wait.’
‘You know I don’t like to wait around for something to happen. I think we should have a plan in place.’
‘How many do we have left?’
‘Three each.’
‘That’s fine, then. Four drops a year, and by the time we use the last phial, why, there’s sure to be more!’ Verity is unusually positive. ‘And there’s the new delivery that is promised in the letter.’ She grasps her sister’s hand. ‘Now, let’s toast a few slices of that lovely bread and not worry about it tonight. The day has been mournful enough.’
‘All right, Verity.’ Constance is not convinced but humours her sister. ‘You know, I’ve a strong urge for the old toasting tongs. I’ll go fetch the bread and butter, you make the … Oh … Oh, no.’
Constance grasps the edge of the mantelpiece. Once she’s secure, she stands perfectly still, though the room still spins. She tries to gain her balance but the dizzy spell overcomes her.
‘Verity, it’s coming.’
‘All right, sister, I’ve got you.’
Verity leads Constance to the chair and then streaks into the kitchen. She fills the kettle, flips the switch, and twirls around to the opposite counter, where a large bowl of lemons form a yellow mound. Just as the water begins to heat up, she juices half a lemon into a glass, and heads back to Constance with the lemon water.
The tart liquid settles her sister’s stomach, but a frown of worry clouds Constance’s face.
‘I don’t like leaving you like this. It’s not fair that you’ll be on your own after today’s disappointment, and that blasted letter as well.’
‘Never mind.’ Verity masks her disappointment. ‘I’ll be fine. Let’s make sure you eat something. We’ll have that toast now.’
With the nausea subsiding, Constance finds she’s once more steady on her feet. The sisters continue to make preparations for their small feast, fetching and carrying to prepare a table by the fire. A tray of butter and jam is brought, the kettle is on again, and the china is laid. Their shoes lie on the floor beside their chairs, a quilted throw casually drapes the table. The hour is late.
‘I can’t believe it’s been six months already.’ Constance says. ‘No, it hasn’t. It was only five months ago. I remember … it was July. We were in the garden and …’
Bang! A terrible crash of iron meeting stone rings out.
‘Verity?’
Verity has dropped the toasting tongs onto the marble tiles surrounding the fireplace. Her head reels back, her arms reach out searching for the chair’s support.
‘No. Not you as well?’ Constance untangles her legs, and kneels beside her sister. She lays the back of her hand on Verity’s forehead.
‘Just a bit warm. Do you need lemon water?’
‘Yes, please. Just a little. I can’t believe this is happening. Both of us. The timing is off.’ Verity closes her eyes.
‘There now. Wait until it passes, then we’ll decide what to do.’
The sisters discovered quite by chance that warm lemon water relieves the symptoms that are a prelude to their condition. The dizziness and nausea are acute, though thankfully brief. They can only guess that the fresh lemon juice neutralizes the acidity in their bodies.
Constance sits on the edge of her chair, turning the old toaster tongs as thick-cut bread darkens to golden-brown in the basket.
‘I love the smell of toast on a fire.’
Verity feels steadier now. Now that they’ve both recovered from the warning symptoms of what is to come, they sit quietly, the shadows of their profiles drawn sharply against the wall. The day’s events are no less daunting and they weigh heavily upon the sisters.
A chunky bit of strawberry oozes from the side of Verity’s mouth, which she lops off with her tongue, noting a hint of vanilla. She greedily dips the silver spoon in for more of the thick jam.
Fortified by the strong tea, Constance broaches the subject that resides as a fixture between them.
‘Perhaps it is time, sister,’ she says.
‘Time for what?’
Three pairs of floor-to-ceiling French doors stretch across the far wall, each opening onto a large crescent-shaped Juliet balcony. Drawn to the view in the glow of the garden’s security light, Constance fastens her gaze upon the seemingly endless rope swing that hangs from a massive, bare London plane. She mentally places the boy in its seat and hears his bubbly laughter and his commanding screams of ‘higher, higher’. The picture vanishes; the velvet night whispers his absence.
‘Time for what?’Verity repeats as she butters another slice.
Constance turns to her, charging the space between them with her meaning.
‘Oh.’
Verity dabs her mouth with her napkin and brushes crumbs from her lap before she sidles up to Constance who has wrapped her arms around herself, and welcoming Verity beside her, she slips her arm around her sister’s waist. Their temples touch while outside snowflakes begin to swirl in a breeze that sways the ferns and contrasting foliage. The tongues of the great marble sea serpents on the patio collect the precipitation in icy patches.
‘Perhaps the letter is a sign that our circumstances are moving towards a natural end. I’m just suggesting that we consider moving it up a bit in the calendar … to exercise the control we have.’
‘But Constance, you’ve always insisted, even when times were at their darkest, that as long as there was a sliver of hope, as long as there was no proof of his death, that we would not …’
‘It’s a damnable decision.’
‘Please, can we talk about it again when we wake?’
‘Of course. We should prepare the house now, we’ve only a short time left.’
Snow clings to the ground of the three-tiered garden; its appearance conjures the picture of a deep woodland. Constance closes the shutters while Verity stacks the
