Mommy and Daddy hurry downstairs as the sobbing becomes a full-scale fit. Daddy gathers Bow into his arms, crying so hard she's nearly retching, and takes her upstairs. Mommy stays downstairs with Rosin, inspecting the Glass Lady.

Rosin can't recall a time when Mommy has ever done more than glance in the direction of her little nook. Daddy helped with the crates when Rosin asked them to be higher, but he also never showed interest in the glass Lady, beautiful as she is. Now, Mommy kneels beside the statue and studies the face, brushing her fingers along the etched arm just like Bow did. She doesn't speak for a long time.

"When I was a little girl," she finally says, "we had a very strange visitor. She stood outside in the rain and there was a cloud of steam all around her. She had no clothes, but there was nothing to cover. She was orange all the way through, like she carried her own fire. I started crying because all the sadness in the world was in her face. She asked Mother if she could please stay somewhere dark and quiet, that she did not need any food or water, that she brought no trouble with her, and that all she wanted was to be alone and forgotten. She spoke like she didn't have to breathe, without pausing once. When Mother accepted, the visitor sat down right away, just like this, and all the color went out of her. Water turned to steam for yards in all directions for a long time, but soon enough the rain was hitting her like everything else outside. I touched her head and she wasn't any warmer than this. My Mother got help to carry her inside and we brought her downstairs and covered her up, just as she wanted. No trouble came after her and she never needed a thing, so we did our best to forget about her."

Rosin can barely breathe. "You knew she was alive."

Mommy chews her lip, still studying the arm. "It was so strange, I half-thought I dreamed it when I grew up. I was so little, who knew? And nobody ever spoke of her again. I thought it might have just been a childish fancy?"

Rosin thinks about how she convinced herself that the face had always been visible as it slowly turned over the years. She forgives Mommy just a little bit for not telling her this story.

"You know, she doesn't look so sad anymore." Mommy brushes a thumb under the eye. "More thoughtful. Maybe she needed company more than she thought she would."

Rosin's fingers ball into fists. "She told Bow her name," she blurted. "Remara. Bow's been asking who she is for months, and she finally told Bow, right here on her arm. She never said anything to me, not once in all these years, and I've been here talking to her in the dark a lot longer, but Bow—" she cuts herself off, struggling not to cry over the fact that even the glass Lady doesn't like her, doesn't want to be friends with her. That the glass Lady prefers her sister, who probably needs the glass Lady more than Rosin does, too.

Mommy finally looks at her. Her lips part once or twice, as if testing certain words and dismissing them. She studies Rosin with those deep brown eyes, as if she can hear Rosin's unspoken thoughts. Rosin lifts her chin defiantly, but her mouth quivers. She knows what she knows.

Instead of speaking, Mommy pulls Rosin into her arms and holds her there for a long time, running her fingers through Rosin's long, straight hair. Rosin melts into her arms, wishing she could stay like that forever.

"I don't have any performances tomorrow," Mommy says into Rosin's hair. "Why don't you come with me to the lake? We'll make a picnic of it, just you and me. Maybe you can tell me some more about Remara and what you've been doing down here with her and…"

And Bow, Rosin's thoughts fill in, but the thought is more tired than angry, now. It isn't enough, but it is a good thing, and she wants to spend time with Mommy. It can't be both Mommy and Daddy at the same time since somebody needs to be with Bow, but maybe Daddy will set aside some violin time this week if she asks. She nods her head into Mommy's shoulder. She would like a picnic by the lake very much.

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She gets the picnic by the lake with Mommy and the extra violin lessons with Daddy. It happens more often than it used to, and she feels guilty-glad of it.

It's especially good because she can't bring herself to go back downstairs anymore. Can't bear to speak her heart now that she knows the Lady—Remara—would rather talk with Bow. She just knows that if she goes down there, she will start yelling at Remara, and that wouldn't be kind. And she wants to be kind and good and patient, so she stays away. It's the best solution.

Time passes.

The hurt fades.

In another year, Bow's lessons break through some wall inside her, and slowly she collects more and more words of her own. They are still mixed with other peoples' words, but she begins to construct sentences she's never read before. Rosin hears her practicing with her parents and the tutor, but Rosin doesn't try to talk to her. She gave up a long time ago.

Instead, Bow finds her and starts a conversation, and it rattles Rosin all over again.

Bow walks into her room one day, peering around. She often does this, but instead of commending the Bard on his wonderful music, today she asks, "Where's the music?"

"Knock on the door!" exclaims Rosin. "I'm not showing you my violin and I'm not playing right now."

Bow shakes her head, impatiently repeating, "Where's the music? Remara music."

Rosin frowns. "Remara doesn't make music. She's silent."

Bow shakes her head again, her eyes wandering over the walls. "Remara doesn't make music. Music make Remara."

Gaping, Rosin demands, "Who told you that?"

"Music told," Bow says, matter-of-factly. Her eyes brush Rosin's for half a second, then wander off again. "Where's the music?"

"No, don't change the subject! Who told you that music made Remara? Music doesn't make statues or people, that doesn't even make sense!"

Bow's brows pull together and her lips pucker like a storm is brewing, but she just repeats, "Music. Music told."

Rosin stares at her. Bow is still asking merchants and strangers about the music, too. The tutor tries to get her to stop, but some things Bow won't budge on yet. Rosin has heard the tutor talking to Daddy, worrying about the music only Bow seems to hear. That maybe it means Bow has more wrong with her than they thought.

Then again, Bow was the first one to understand that Remara was more than a statue.

Carefully, Rosin forms her question. "Bow, do you hear music right now?"

Bow nods her head at Rosin's bed.

"Are you looking for where the music comes from?"

Another nod.

"Do you know who is making the music?"

A quick head shake.

"How long have you heard the music?"

A long pause. Hesitantly, Bow hunches her shoulders and pulls a quote, " 'It seems as if I have known you forever!' " Her eyes dart guiltily to Rosin's for a moment, then away again.

Rosin sinks to the ground, sitting hard. She's at a loss. Bow is peeking at her out of the corner of her eye every few seconds. It's almost like she's holding her breath.

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Bow answers her questions. All of them, even the last one. Bow understands what Rosin asked. This is a conversation.

And Bow claims that she hears a music that made Remara, and has heard it for a long time. What music can make a living statue?

Rosin says, "I don't know what to think. I… need to be alone. Please go."

Bow's expression goes flat and still. She turns and thunder-stomps out of the room, slamming Rosin's door extra-loud. Rosin doesn't yell at her to be careful this time. She sits there, thinking that if there is a Lady who can be a statue living in the cellar, then maybe there is a music only Bow can hear.

She is almost angry all over again, but she can't quite make it there. Bow's face is in her mind, and she can't stop seeing it. The furtive glances Bow can't sustain. The flat-faced look of… what? Why does she think Bow was disappointed?

Rosin picks herself up and, for the first time in nearly a year, wanders down the cellar steps. It used to take her much longer, easing down steps one leg at a time. Now she could take two stair steps together, if she was being reckless, and crossing the room takes seconds. She's not as tall as Mommy yet, but she might be in a few years.

When she peers into their nook, she stops breathing. Remara is sitting a little straighter, her upper body lifted away from her knees. Bow's hat still sits on her head. The face still has sadness in it, but there is less heaviness around the eyes and mouth than there used to be. The arms are still crossed over the knees, but the hands do not clutch the arms as tightly as they used to. They rest, the fingers loose and relaxed, on top of the arms.

There is no name carved into the arm anymore. The letters have smoothed away.

Rosin stays by the nook's opening, out of Remara's line of sight. Then again, how does she know the eyes are how Remara sees? They are solid glass, like the rest of her, and all one piece at that. In all her years of inspecting the glass Lady from every angle, Rosin has never once found a seam where two pieces had been joined.

A single piece of glass.

A person with a name.

Rosin has nowhere else to put her words, but she can't bring herself to spill them out to the glass Lady anymore.

Her eyes wander around the nook. There are more of Bow's toys in here, all of them either facing Remara or snuggled up against her legs. A small wooden cow nestles between Remara's shoulder and neck. There are several books, most laying on the floor. It looks like Bow has been in Rosin's room and found The Princess and the Bard. She doesn't have the heart to be angry about it. She should have just given it to Bow years ago.

There are two sitting cushions still in the nook. One is empty. The other has Rosin's old coat carefully folded on it. Surprised, Rosin enters the nook and picks it up, shaking it out. She forgot it was down here.

She sits on the cushion, still holding the coat to her chest. Bow has put toys here to keep Remara company, like Rosin used to. Has dressed Remara, just like Rosin did. It seems like Bow has been reading to Remara in Rosin's absence. Rosin shuts her eyes and rocks a little on her cushion.

Bow is a real person.

Bow wants to have a friend like she saw I had.

Bow is lonely.

Does Bow wish she had a real sister, too?

How do you be a sister?

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Rosin formally returns to the nook. She asks permission from Bow, as it has been Bow's place for so long, now. Bow bursts into several quotes about celebrations from different stories she has read and drags Rosin's cushion over for her to sit on. By this, Rosin takes it that she is still welcome.

She spends a few nights a week down there with Bow. She has less time now that she has become serious about stepping into the family profession. Violin practice and maintenance fills most of each day. But she makes sure to visit the cellar a few times a week. It has become the place where two very different sisters try to understand each other. Some days that is easier, some days that is harder.

One day, Rosin offers to show Bow something special. She warns Bow never to do this by herself and repeats that over and over until Bow acknowledges what she says. Then, she takes a candle down, sets it right next to Remara, and lights it.

The light bends into Remara and bursts on its way back out. Bow's face splits into a wild grin like Rosin has never seen in her life. As rainbows ripple around the room, Bow lifts her hands and dances in and out of the nook, chasing colorful specks around the cellar and laughing. Rosin remembers how she felt the first time she saw this happen and is warm from her head to her toes to be able to share it with Bow.

Bow returns to the nook and flops down, still grinning so wide her face can barely hold the fullness of her smile. Rosin leans against the wall, watching her. She hasn't heard Bow speak of the music for several months.

"Bow, do you still hear the music?"

Bow's smile fades a little. "Yes," she answers the ceiling, a trace of sorrow in her voice.

"Is the music…" Rosin searches for the words. "Is it like normal music, or special music?"

"Special music."

"Like magic? Like a secret code? Like…"

Bow nods hard. "Magic conversation life music."

Rosin purses her lips. "Conversation. Do you understand what it says?"

Bow makes a twisted up face that Rosin recognizes. It means she is having trouble finding the right words to answer with.

"Take your time," Rosin reassures her. "Mommy's not coming to get us for bed for a while."

The twisted-up look relaxes a little as Bow focuses on the ceiling, searching it for words. When they come, they come slowly in ones and twos. "Not… says… not words. Not words… to me. To me is… like… feelings. Maybe…" Bow gestures a hand at Remara. "Maybe words… to her… to me… is only… sad feeling. Missing someone. Come back, please. Music makes… makes me feel that."

Rosin tilts her head. "Is the music singing to you, or to her?"

Bow shrugs. She rolls her head back and forth, humming quietly. Abruptly, she asks, "Have a question? For Remara?"

Rosin looks away quickly. There's only one question she has for Remara, and it is an angry one. Rosin shrugs.

"Long time answer. She answer," Bow insists. "Ask!"

Quick as she can, Rosin switches the subject back. "Remember you said the music made Remara? How do you know? I mean, you said the music isn't a conversation, but 'making Remara' isn't a feeling. That's a detail, like someone would tell you."

Now Bow's face is really in a knot and Rosin half regrets her deflection. Bow's face keeps scrunching down harder with each passing second. Bitter tears glitter in her eyes.

Rosin mumbles, "I'm sorry. Hard question. Maybe… maybe think about it and come back to me. Doesn't have to be tonight, okay? Maybe… look for the right words. Tell me someday. When you can."

One tear falls, but the rest of Bow's face melts in relief. "Remember question? Rosin?"

"I'll try."

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Rosin is jerked, half-awake, from her bed and yanked halfway down the hall before she smells the smoke. Mommy has her hand and there's no time for questions. The center of the wood-plank floor is charred black with little glowing specks but she's moving too fast to avoid them. She cries out as her feet scald on the embers, but Mommy doesn't slow. The two of them follow the char-path to the front door and burst out in a billowing gray and black cloud, coughing as they stagger away from the house. Rosin doesn't see any fire, just a lot of smoke.

She also doesn't see Daddy and Bow.

She lunges for the door, shouting their names, but Mommy holds her back. Rosin is almost as big as Mommy now, but Mommy is still stronger. A few moments later Daddy bursts out with Bow in his arms.

Families from all the nearby houses scurry around, organizing a dust-bucket chain. It doesn't take long to cover the embers. There is not much damage and no actual fire, they say, just a lot of scorch marks in the cellar, burnt up crates, and a trail of charred floorboards from the cellar to the front door.

Mommy goes to look. When she comes back, she says the glass statue is missing.

Rosin hears this, that her own dear glass Lady is gone, and all the things she ever felt had been taken from her by Bow surge up from the past and fill her throat to suffocation. She rounds on Bow, still clinging to Daddy, and spews the feeling on her. "You did something, didn't you? What did you do? Did you light a candle? Did you? I told you! I told you not… you… it's your fault!" Mommy grabs Rosin's arm, but Rosin shakes her off and keeps shouting. "She's never coming back! You have to take everything, don't you? I hate you! I hate you!"

She doesn't wait for Mommy to gasp, or for Daddy to scold her, or for Bow to cry. She just runs. Away from the house. Away from Bow. She hears footsteps behind her for a while, and Mommy's voice calling, but she keeps running. Mommy might be stronger, but Rosin is faster and can run longer. Soon, there aren't footsteps behind her anymore.

She leaves all the houses and their warm lights behind. She goes far beyond the edge of Grentleyard. She is scraped by branches and trips over tree roots she can't see. Picking herself up, she keeps running. After the fourth fall, she limps. After the sixth, she stays sprawled on the ground, gasping short little breaths that barely keep her from crying.

Her ankle hurts. Her skin stings. She's not sure how long she's been running. She is cold. She is burning with anger hot enough to turn the rest of her house to ash. She is drowning in the aloneness that is never far from the surface. She has gotten so, so very good at pretending the aloneness away and filling all the spaces with books and violin practice, but there it is again, coiling around her lungs and squeezing them flat.

She is angry with Remara, yes, but at least Remara is always there. Like the sun, like the moon, Remara in the cellar is an immutable fact of life.

Gone.