In the cool-blue morning, after I wake up and stare at the cracks in the ceiling for an hour, I look in the mirror at the shadows under my eyes which could almost be smudges of ash from a fire but are not, and Vilde comes upstairs and reminds me about breakfast. "This is winter break, Mia," says Vilde, "and you can't cry during winter break."

Vilde is my older sister and her voice is low like an old woman's, with tree bark in the back of her throat, and cigarette ash beneath her tongue. She wears her pants belted tight beneath her ribs, because her hips are too wide for her waist. She cooks me oatmeal on the stovetop, with pears and cinnamon, and says, "Mia, you will come out of this little funk, yeah, you sure will." Vilde is all gentle, low voice and I am all thorns and unkindness, although none of the unkindness is directed towards her. During the winter as children, we would pretend to be witches, with sticks for wands and cloaks made of curtains. We'd jump over the small bright fires we lit in our parents' backyard, eyes glowing orange and gold, shrieking at the moon in languages we had made up ourselves, in the moment, and without much forethought; then jumping again without much afterthought, although we sometimes singed our shoes. Now, I am visiting Vilde for winter break, because I have been having nightmares, and because I miss her. The nightmares all end in some sort of death. Vilde mostly talks about life.

"The tulips will come in soon, Mia," says Vilde, now in a jacket and boots, as afternoon approaches and she gently snaps my hair into a thin braid to be pushed underneath a hat. We have to shovel the snow before it turns to ice. Vilde lives in Maine now, in a house she rents on her own, with a cat in the living room. "I think you would like the tulips, which is why you should stay for longer." She smiles at me slyly, nose wrinkling, like we are about to break some big rules. There was one night, years back when she let me drive around with her friends and smoke cigarettes out the window; I was 14 then, Vilde nearly a woman, and our parents could smell the smoke on our sweaters when we shuffled back inside, so late that morning was already creeping up behind us. Now, Vilde is quieter and seems happy to be living alone, with her cat and with her work, writing the copy for advertisements.

Surely, I think, there is a woman she loves, if only a little, a woman she hasn't mentioned yet who might show up unexpectedly during my visit with ingredients for lentil soup or a paper bag of collage supplies. Vilde will smile widely and honestly at the woman and introduce her to me as a friend or neighbor, as she did with her first girlfriend years ago. I wonder if Vilde ever told that girl, or anyone after her, about our attempts at witchcraft, or the spells we tried to cast when our mother was dying, the winter Vilde started college. This must have been shared, I am sure, because intimacy is built of sad stories, but it still cuts me to think of Vilde whispering the little tragedies of our childhood in the ears of unknown lovers. I once told a boy that I was descended from a princess—a lie neither of us believed. Still, at the time it had felt like the most personal thing I had succeeded in verbally relaying to somebody in my bed. I am afraid of telling the truth and the truth is all Vilde can tell. She writes the most upfront copy I have ever read.

As we begin clearing the snow off her driveway, Vilde asks me about school and if I've met anyone new. "Anyone interesting, Mia?" she says, and I bristle at her attempt to dig into the wound she seems to know is there, to poke around for a diagnosis, or some kind of truth. "I've been having bad dreams," I say, "but nothing too exciting seems to be happening to me in the real world." I don't mention the boy, the one from my Anthropology class with whom I have exchanged spit and text messages, whose words can either be sweet or as bitter as unsweetened chocolate, depending on the day. He likes to cut me open with his words when I don't expect him to; in moments when I am prone or giddy. He doesn't know that I lie to him. "Surgical," is the word I will later use when I explain the boy to Vilde, and she will tell me something true, which is that he is wrong for hurting me. For now, I shrug my shoulders, and mumble, feeling very childish, and blue in the lips.

When we go back inside, Vilde gives me dry socks and cooks the dill potatoes our mother used to make when the weather was cold. We sit on the sofa in her living room, with the cat, and she stacks kindling in the fireplace, lighting it with a silver cigarette lighter once she has crafted the little house you must make with your kindling for a successful fire. The flames flicker up slowly, and then grow large all at once, warming Vilde's face, and mine, and bouncing friendly light, orange and gold, off the walls of the living room and onto our cheeks and eyelashes.

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