The Weird Sisters. Eleanor Brown

a hand enough to right the glass and then went back to her book.

      Rose stomped into the kitchen and returned with a towel. Kneeling, she dabbed at the water on the floor and then, less successfully, the rivulets of liquid already soaking into the edges of the rug.

      ‘It’s just water, Rose. Relax.’ Bean tugged at one of her nails with her front teeth. Having the acrylics removed had exposed the weakness of the nails beneath, and they constantly folded in on themselves, tearing down to the nail bed so the edges of her fingers were always bloody and sore.

      ‘Water causes damage, Bean.’ Rose finished mopping up and pushed herself to her feet. She restrained herself from throwing the wet towel onto Bean’s perfectly made-up face in order to prove her point.

      Bean looked up at Rose and then waved her hand dismissively. ‘Move along,’ she said. She hooked one leg over the top of the sofa and went back to her book.

      ‘You are impossible. Do you have any idea what life would be like without me here?’

      ‘It’d be a hell of a lot quieter, that’s for damn sure,’ Bean said. She bit another nail, tearing the white off, and spat it into the air.

      ‘I do everything around here. Everything.’

      Bean sighed and rested her book on her chest. ‘Which is precisely the way you like it. Now, do you want to talk about what’s really bothering you, or would you prefer to shut the hell up and let me read?’

      ‘What’s really bothering me is the way you just come back here and take everything for granted, like we’re here to serve you. You get to go out all night and no one says a word. And I’m sick of running around like Cinderella, cleaning up your messes.’

      ‘No one’s stopping you from going out, Rose. Go wherever you want. You’re free and twenty-one.’

      ‘Right. So I’ll just go off to England and live with Jonathan. How’s that?’

      ‘Fine with me,’ Bean shrugged. She lifted up her hair so it spread out over the arm of the sofa, like Ophelia drowned in the brook.

      Rose sat down, the wet towel still clutched in her hand. ‘Don’t be silly. I have to be here to take care of Mom.’

      ‘They have people for that, you know. I like to call them doctors.’

      ‘That’s not what I meant.’

      ‘Okay. Then how’s this?’ Bean sat up, putting her book down beside her. Rose winced at the broken spine, the leaves of the book spread out like a bird’s wings. ‘How’s about you stay here until Mom is through her treatment, and then you go to England and wherever else Jonathan wants to go?’

      ‘I have a job. I can’t just leave it.’

      ‘Does Jonathan get a salary?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Do they put him up in housing?’

      ‘In Oxford they are, but in the next position, who knows?’

      ‘Then you don’t need to work.’

      ‘This may shock you, Bean, but not everyone works exclusively for the money.’

      ‘Of course they do. That’s why they call it work. If we got paid just to sit around and look cute, they’d call it something else entirely.’

      ‘I don’t want to be the kind of person who doesn’t work. I don’t want to be a housewife. I don’t want to be like . . .’ Rose censored herself, but the sentence was hanging in the air and Bean pounced.

      ‘You don’t want to be like Mom? This may shock you, Rose, but I’m fairly certain Mom could have worked if she wanted to. It’s not like Dad was keeping her in some kind of pre-suffrage dungeon. Besides, I’m not suggesting that you never work again. I’m just saying that you don’t have to worry about a job right this very second. Lots of people would love to be in that position. Me, for one.’

      ‘I don’t exactly see you running right out to get a job.’

      ‘I’m gearing up for it.’

      Rose huffed and looked out the window. The afternoon was gathering into gray clouds. There was a storm coming. She pressed her hands together and then pulled at each finger, stretching the muscles, while her mind played over the future. Planning to leave after our mother was better would make it look like she didn’t care, like she saw our mother’s brush with death as an inconvenient delay to her own plans. What kind of daughter – what kind of person – thought like that? And what if she planned to leave and then our mother didn’t get better? What if it turned out that she was sitting around, plane ticket in hand, waiting for our mother to die?

      ‘What if she doesn’t make it?’

      ‘You just said it was bad luck to say it.’

      ‘I know. But now I can’t stop thinking about it.’

      ‘Don’t get so dramatic, Rosie. I was just saying. It’s not going to happen.’ Bean turned back to her book.

      Rose fidgeted with her fingers nervously for another minute, until Bean put down her book and looked at her, long and hard. It wasn’t like Rose to look ill at ease, and it made her a little nervous.

      ‘What will I do? What will I do if she dies?’ Rose asked, and she spoke so quietly the words seemed to disappear in midair.