The Night Sister

Sylvie took a step toward her, the mouth smiling now, laughing even, the red lips stretched back. It looked obscene, like a lady’s private parts.

Rose screamed. She screamed and screamed, but could not move as Sylvie moved closer, her hair dancing like snakes around Rose’s face. Sylvie put a hand over Rose’s mouth and nose, covering them so tightly, so completely, that Rose could not get any air.

She woke up gasping for breath, again overwhelmed by that now familiar feeling of being paralyzed. She struggled to move, to bring her body back to life. When she was finally able to lift her head and sit up, she found that she was alone in the room and it was morning. The clock said nearly eight. She’d slept in. She took a few gulps of air, tried to still her panic.

A dream. Only a dream.

Downstairs, she heard voices: her father, mother, and Sylvie sitting down to breakfast.

Sylvie’s bed, across the room, was neatly made.

Rose got up and began to make her own: pulling back the covers, smoothing the sheet, and folding the top edge over neatly. As she straightened her pillow, she discovered two short, thick strands of black fur stuck to the cheerful yellow pillowcase. Rose frowned at them curiously for a moment; they hadn’t had a cat or dog since old Ranger had died. She brushed them off, then picked up the pillow. That’s when she found them: Oma’s emerald earrings, left there like a secret gift just waiting to be found.

Rose’s mind raced, all thoughts of the strange black hairs driven away.

Sylvie must have done it. Sylvie must have realized how unfair it was that she got both the necklace and the earrings. Maybe Mama had spoken to her, told her to do what was best: “Give your poor sister one of them. It’s only fair.”

Or maybe she’d done it on her own, to show she was bigger than all of this pettiness, to be the hero in some new shiny, Sylvie way.

Rose imagined it now. She’d go downstairs in the earrings, and her mother and father would be so proud of Sylvie for being so kind, thoughtful, and generous. They’d be so focused on Sylvie that they wouldn’t notice how the cut green stones brought out the flecks of green in Rose’s hazel eyes, how they made her beautiful. And surely, Rose thought as she carefully carried the teardrop-shaped earrings over to her dressing table with the mirror, surely they would make her beautiful. She clipped them onto her earlobes, tucked back her tangled hair, and admired the way they caught the light. Exquisite. That’s what they were. The loveliest thing she’d ever owned.

She took her time brushing out her hair and put it in a careful braid. She chose a maroon dress, one of her best, with lace at the sleeves. It was a dress Sylvie had helped her pick out, saying it was perfect for her milky complexion and dark hair.

When they saw her come down the stairs, they’d forget all about that other girl—the one who’d ruined the cake and said she’d hated her sister (“The cruelest possible words one could utter at a birthday party,” Mama had said last night). Maybe they’d even forget that they’d grounded Rose, given her all of Sylvie’s chores in addition to her own for the next month. They’d see that this new Rose was clearly some other girl, a nicer girl, a beautiful girl who would never do anything so naughty. As if the old Rose had been under a spell she’d woken from. And all it took was the magic earrings to do it.

Rose finished making her bed, checked herself one more time in the mirror (now who’s the movie star?), and headed down the hall to the stairs, beckoned by the scent of bacon and coffee, the familiar clank and clatter of breakfast being served, her family’s voices.

She entered the kitchen as elegantly as she knew how, back straight, head held high, feet light on the linoleum floor. When Sylvie looked up at her, she dropped her fork.

“My earrings! I couldn’t find them after the party, but I was sure they’d turn up. You’ve had them the whole time, haven’t you?”

Rose took a step back. There was some mistake. There had to be.