Months

Mirana sighed into her teacup. It had been months since she had seen her sister. They had never gotten on well, but their last parting had been particularly…volatile. She sighed again and reached for a plain glass vial with an engraved lavender flower on the front. Pulling the stopper, she poured two drops into her tea, figuring a little help with her calm would be necessary for her continued thought process. She took a tiny sip and smiled as some of the tension loosened in her neck—she was still a bit new at the business of potion-making on her own and worried.

She worried a lot, actually, about many things. She worried about what she was going to do when her parents were gone, since they were aging and she knew they didn't have much longer. She did not really want to be a Queen, to have all of Underland watching her and expecting her to know what to do. A spark of frustration flared but died just as abruptly. This shouldn't have been her duty, it should have been Iracebeth's, but after that last fight with their parents…there was no chance of the elder sister inheriting the throne. Mirana would have to make do.

On top of those worries, she worried for her dear pet, the kitten Strastus, whom had taken ill of late and refused to improve despite the dozens of potions she fed him. She worried for her beloved potions instructor, the fiery old woman who had taught her to stand up straight and take pride in herself at her worst points. The old woman had sent her off months ago and Mirana worried about her on her own, with her weak joints and stubborn refusal to ask for aid.

But right at that moment, she was worried about her sister. Iracebeth had grown colder as she grew older and though Mirana loved her sister, truly she did, she could not get through to her. Iracebeth was angry and bitter and cruel and her little sister didn't have any idea how to help her. So she worried and fretted and tried to keep herself distracted.

But it had been months and nothing…She sighed a third time. Usually, even when they fought, Iracebeth would at least send her a letter every month or so. Mirana went to sigh again, but shook herself. Sighing would not help anything.

Maybe she would try to write Iracebeth, herself. Firming her resolve, Mirana stood and crossed her wide, sunlit rooms to the desk, drawing some parchment and an ink pen from the occasionally transparent top shelf and settling in her seat.

Dearest sister…