wonder we get tangled up. "Does Smoky know?" she asked coolly.
"Yes," Sophie said. "I told him first."
That hurt, that Smoky hadn't told her: the first sensation that could be called pain since Sophie had entered. She thought of him, burdened with that knowledge, and she innocent of it; the thoughts stabbed her. "And what does he intend to do?" she asked next, as in a catechism.
"He wasn't . . . He didn't . . ."
"Well, you'd better decide, hadn't you? The two of you."
Sophie's lip trembled. The store of bravery she had started out with was running out. "Oh, Alice, don't be this way," she pleaded. "I didn't think you'd be this way." She took Alice's hand, but Alice looked away, the knuckles of her other hand pressing her lips. "I mean, I know it was hateful of us," she said, watching Alice's face, trying to gauge it. "Hateful. But, Alice . . ."
"Oh, I don't hate you, Soph." As though not wishing to, but unable not to, Alice's fingers curled themselves closely among Sophie's, though still she looked away. "It's just, well." Sophie watched a struggle taking place within Alice; she didn't dare speak, only held her hand tighter, waiting to see what issue it would have. "See, I thought . . ." She fell silent again, and cleared her throat of an obstruction that had just arisen there. "Well, you know," she said. "You remember: Smoky was chosen for me, that's what I used to think; I used to think that's what our story was."
"Yes," Sophie said, lowering her eyes.
"Only lately, I can't seem to remember that very well. I can't remember them. How it used to be. I can remember, but not . . . the feeling, do you know what I mean? How it used to be, with Auberon; those times."
"Oh, Alice," Sophie said. "How could you forget?"
"Cloud said: when you grow up, you trade what you had as a child for what you have as a grown-up. Or if you don't, you lose it anyway, and get nothing in return." Her eyes had grown tears, though her voice was steady; the tears seemed less part of her than part of the story she told. "And I thought: then I traded them for Smoky. And they arranged that trade. And that was okay. Because even though I couldn't remember them any more, I had Smoky." Now her voice wavered. "I guess I was wrong."
"No!" Sophie said, shocked as if by a blasphemy.
"I guess it's just-ordinary," Alice said, and sighed a tremulous sigh. "I guess you were right, when we were married, that we wouldn't ever have what you and I had once; wait and see, you said. . . ."
"No, Alice, no!" Sophie gripped her sister's arm, as if to hold her back from going further. "That story was true, it was true, I always knew it. Don't, don't ever say it wasn't. It was the most beautiful story I ever heard, and it all came true, just as they said it would. Oh, I was so jealous, Alice, it was wonderful for you and I was so jealous. . . ."
Alice turned to face her. Sophie was shocked by her face: not sad, though tears stood in her eyes; not angry; not anything. "Well," Alice said, "I guess you don't have to be jealous any more, anyway." She pulled Sophie's nightgown up over the ball of her shoulder from which it had slipped. "Now. We have to think what to do. . . ."
"It's a lie," Sophie said.
"What?" Alice looked at her, puzzled. "What's a lie, Soph?"
"It's a lie, it's a lie!" Sophie almost shouted, tearing it out from within her. "It isn't Smoky's at all! I lied to you!" Unable any longer to bear her sister's foreign face, Sophie buried her head in Alice's lap, sobbing. "I'm so sorry. . . . I was so jealous, I wanted to be part of your story, that's all; oh, don't you see he never would, he couldn't, he loves you so much; and I wouldn't have, but I—I missed you. I missed you. I wanted to have a story too, I wanted . . . Oh, Alice."
Alice, taken by surprise, only stroked her sister's head, automatically comforting her. Then: "Wait a minute, Sophie. Sophie, listen." With both her hands she raised Sophie's face from her lap. "Do you mean you never . . ."
Sophie blushed; even through her tears that could be seen. "Well, we did.