The first thing Maeve noticed when she came home from work one lovely June evening was a delightful perfume. She sniffed appreciatively. The scent overcame the usual dank odours which greeted her in the house.
The gently opened door soon revealed the source of the perfume. Kate. She was seated on the shaky wooden chair, which Maeve had painted white in an attempt to bring some light into the room. For a moment, her heart filled with joy that her sister had come to visit, then she looked more closely.
Kate was dishevelled. For all her fancy clothes made an exotic creature of her in the drab room, her hair hung tangled and unbrushed. Her eyes were swollen, and she was clutching a small reticule.
Maeve eased the bag from her grasp and laid it aside, then she bent to hold her hands. ‘What i
