Irene sits still for a moment, looks down at these little notes that their mother used to leave around the house for them to find and fight over, each addressed to the pair of them, never left for one and not the other. Dearest girls, reads one folded down toward the bottom of the pile, I know it won’t seem like it now, or even later, but things will begin to make sense in good time. She looks at this last, turns it over as if expecting more. No idea of the context that would have explained this, her mother’s writing listing sideways as if keen to be up and gone.
