"Fine, if it's that important," Ophelia says with a roll of her eyes. Ever since the loss of their mother, distance has widened between them like a river flooded with rain; hearing her father, their neighbors, the vicar - everyone in the village, really - comment constantly upon how much Flavia all but appears to be Harriet incarnate drove her to hold her nose up and ignore her younger sister. She hid her own pain in the scorn she lavished upon Flavia, through locking her in closets and telling her cruel lies about her birth.

Darrow trapping them both together has significantly altered Ophelia's regards towards her sister; living in separate buildings brings out the worry in Ophelia. Finding her sister in several frightening circumstances has cooled the resentment within her.

And now there's something in the way she says she can't explain a painting that makes Ophelia gulp and her heart clench inside her chest.

So she moves forward, and stops before an image that could only have come from home.

"Oh," she says.

She doesn't even realize she's crying.