It would be easy, so easy, to remind her sister that Flavia doesn’t even have memories of Harriet to confuse with imagination; that all she’s ever had were the stories and falsehoods Ophelia and Daphne chose to share. Easy to remind her that those stories never ended—or began—with reassurances of love or affection, just the information that the cold, stark peaks of the Himalayas were preferable to staying in the life of a loathsome little girl nobody could care for.

It would be easy to remind Ophelia of these things, but all Flavia wants is for Feely to take her hands out of her pockets, so they could face this if not side-by-side, at least hand-in-hand.

“What…” she begins, then stops, surprised at the fractured way the word sounds, said aloud. “What do you remember?"