Alfred didn't know how to say to Alexia the things he wanted to say, so he wrote her letters. He carefully wrote down his words of love and longing in the neat and lovely handwriting which had always been his one real scholarly pride.

(He could remember father scolding Alexia for her scrawl and holding Alfred's paper up as an example, for once not caring that the problems written on his son's sheet were half-answered and wrongly at that, whereas his daughter's were flawlessly and precisely correct.)

He poured his heart and soul into those letters; sometimes he wrote things that he didn't understand about missing her and counting the days till her return. How could that be, when he saw her every day in the mirror?

(In the mirror? Alfred didn't know where that idea had come from. Alexia never used mirrors, she had no need to confirm her flawless beauty. That's what he was there for.)

Alfred knew it was wrong to write letters like this to one's sister, but he and Alexia were more than twins. They always had been, so he didn't dwell on those thoughts. There was no man in the world who could love and appreciate Alexia like he could. He had shared the womb with her, and now they shared a mind.

(That's a bit strong, he thought. Indeed they had always had a link of sorts, but to say that they shared a mind was sheer arrogance on his part. He could never hope to understand the things his sister could contemplate in a mere daydream. She was a genius, and what did it matter if she had been subdued lately? She was a delicate flower.)

He alone could protect her. He alone knew what she needed and could worship respectfully at her feet the way she deserved to be worshipped. All this went into his letters. He put the letters in her top bureau drawer. She didn't read them, though. There was a stack of unopened letters, unread, unknown. She never mentioned them either. Alfred didn't dare to. One day, maybe, when she was back from the snow and the ice she would find them...

(There was no snow and ice on Rockport Island! Even if there was, Alexia would not go out in it, he wouldn't allow it. He knew better than to risk her getting a chill. She'd been so compliant these days, much more than when they had been children, and he'd tried to protect her. She'd brushed him aside like one of the ants she was so fond of. It was better now that she listened to him.)

Once, Alfred had put bad things in a letter. Things one definitely shouldn't say to one's twin sister, about her perfect body, her beautiful hair, about the things they had done in childhood under the blankets at night. She'd slapped his face, not giving an explanation. He hadn't needed one. Thing was...

(The thing was, the letter had been unopened when Alfred went to check. Just another sealed envelope of dozens, in a cascading pile. So how had she known? He hadn't spoken those thoughts aloud, and yet she knew.)

Alfred folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope, before placing it lovingly with the others in her drawer. He retired to his own room and curled up in his bed. It was cold. He wished Alexia would come and curl up with him the way she used to, but she never came anymore.