TaraThe question comes out, fragile, that of the girl I once was, seeking her queen-mother's blessing.She sets down her cup, stands, and comes to sit beside me. She takes my hand between hers, her fingers slender but strong, dotted with ancient rings."Piccola mia, since you were born, you have always aimed higher, further, more dangerous. You ran faster than your brothers, argued stronger than your father, defied the world with a composure that sometimes terrified me. Sarah…"She stops, and I feel her hand contract slightly on mine. Sarah. My twin. The other half of my soul, and yet my perfect opposite."How is Sarah?" I ask softly, feeling the familiar void, that phantom pain of being separated from a part of oneself.My mother sighs, a sound of velvet and regret."She is in France. In the Luberon, with her husbands. She paints. She cultivates her lavender. She writes me letters long as my arm about the color
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