Ophelia ought to bristle at her sister's response, even though she had been the one to admit it first and her sister was only confirming the truth to her admission. Yet here in the museum, before the portrait of their once whole family, she finds she doesn't have it in her to argue, or even turn up her nose in an exaggerated gesture of irritation. It's the sort of peace that never lasts; she knows that, just as suddenly as it's settled over her, it will vanish once again.

"Daffy," she says, letting out a low breath as she shakes her head, glancing up at the middle child of their family, she with the truly golden hair. She does feel an ache, not having Daphne among their numbers in Darrow. But then, with her absence, her relationship with Flavia has vastly improved. She wonders how long their fragile truce could last, if the last of the sisters were to show up. "You know, if she were here, neither of us would ever see her. She has so many books to catch up on."

"I remember her being tall," Ophelia admits. "But maybe I was just small. And I can't remember her laughter, either."