Martha Louise has a bevy of sisters. From the attic she hears the wind-chime twitter of their voices like the distant chirp-chit-chirp of distant birds. They think she puts on airs. Can never understand why she so often wants to be alone, simmering in the leaf-dappled light of her own room, cloistered with the angled-shadows of the eaves. They tease about the way she holds her teacup, presses violets between the pages of her books, wears oil of rosemary upon the pulse-points of her wrists. She is the youngest. Like all youngest sisters, she wishes she could fly, or at least, dissolve into a still moment of bluish light, that quietness that descends upon a summer room when the windows are open and nothing but the white noise of cicadas filters through the screens.