Night closes over. Voltaire knocks
at his daughter’s window but finds instead Louise
and Lydia locked in each other’s arms—
brilliant in tears, in tumult, unaccustomed to tragedy.
Audible only to V in his ghostcoat, they vow
all is forgiven in the sisterspat. L takes a flower
from her hair and gives it to L.
The other does likewise and thus
the sorority is mended. Self is safe. Pain lulled at least.
Pale, one taps her forehead once; the other twice, not a riposte
but an idiolect developed in the early days
when they were but twee girls dressed alike and spoke little and late.
Each window locked three times, one for comfort
and twice for fear.