As I sat idly reading a book I had borrowed from Océan, I heard the front door open and the sound of her sister, Ciel, coming home. Beneath her navy bzer, she wore a knee-length gray skirt patterned with a fresh tartan of pale blue and white, and a bck flute case was slung across her back.

  Unlike Océan—whose long, light-beige hair matched her own, and whose skin was sun-kissed and warm-toned—Ciel had porcein-white skin and gentle brown-gray eyes. When she noticed me, she smiled softly.

  “So you’re Avery? Welcome. Océan has told me a lot about you.”

  She had an incredibly kind smile. The way her eyes curved into thin crescents when she smiled made me like her instantly. Océan had mentioned it before, but seeing it for myself, Ciel truly felt nothing like her sister. Even twins, it seemed, could have completely different presences.

  “Yes. Something came up today, so I’ll be staying here on short notice. Nice to meet you.”

  I stood and walked over to her, and we shook hands. Without the slightest hint of annoyance, Ciel returned my greeting with a smile as soft and light as chiffon cake.

  “Nice to meet you too. I’m sure Mom will be happy to have a guest.”

  With that, she left the room and headed upstairs, her steps light.

  “You two really don’t seem alike at all, even though you’re twins,” I said.

  “Right? I hear that all the time,” Océan replied.

  “You’re kind of boyish, but she’s very feminine.”

  “On the surface,” she said, fshing a knowing grin.

  Before long, Ciel returned, now changed into a white knit top and a denim skirt. She invited me to come hang out in her room, and happy to be asked by someone I wanted to get closer to, I followed her up to the second floor.

  Her room was filled with the gentle mist of an aroma humidifier, carrying a sweet, peach-like scent through the air. Jazz band posters decorated the pale yellow walls, and several novels I recognized were neatly lined up on the bookshelf. On a simple wooden bed, a light pink futon had been folded with care.

  “Sit down.”

  At her prompting, I leaned back against the bed by the window and sat in front of the low wooden table. Ciel turned on the CD pyer on the bookshelf, and soft cssical music drifted through the room, wrapping it in a calm, soothing atmosphere.

  “It’s such a comfortable room,” I said without thinking.

  Ciel’s eyes narrowed slightly, pleased.

  “Océan’s room is a lot messier. She leaves things scattered everywhere.”

  “You and Océan look alike, but your vibes are completely different. She’s kind of boyish, but you’re very feminine.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “Mom always says we’re total opposites. We’re fraternal twins, so there are plenty of ways we don’t resemble each other.”

  “There are fraternal twin boys in my neighborhood, but I can’t tell them apart at all.”

  “There are twins like that too,” she said. “All kinds, really. Like one being as big as a pro wrestler and the other a tiny girl who looks like a fairy.”

  “I’ve never seen anything that extreme.”

  “Neither have I,” she replied lightly. “It’s just an example.”

  Unlike Océan’s low voice, Ciel spoke in a clear, translucent tone that flowed easily, without hesitation. Listening to her, I had the feeling that despite her delicate appearance, she might actually be refreshingly straightforward.

  I was usually shy around new people, yet strangely, I found myself talking to her with ease, even though we had just met. Perhaps it was her gentle expression, or the unguarded air she carried, that made others feel at ease.

  Then my gaze caught on a single book on the shelf.

  — Wuthering Heights.

  The novel that had served as the source material for the py we had performed at the school festival. Of all the books my sister had ever recommended to me, it was my favorite. Maybe that was why I could empathize so deeply with Catherine—because I had read the novel again and again, and because I myself possessed a temperament just as intense.

  “You like Wuthering Heights too?” I asked eagerly, as if I had discovered a kindred spirit.

  Ciel tilted her head.

  “I wouldn’t say I like it that much. A teacher at school recommended it, so I tried reading it.”

  “You didn’t come to see the py today?”

  “I wanted to, but I had rehearsal for an on-campus concert, so I couldn’t make it.”

  “I see…”

  “Wuthering Heights is a novel full of crazy people, isn’t it?”

  At her blunt remark, I stared at her. Unsure why I was looking at her that way, she tilted her head again and met my gaze.

  “Wuthering Heights is one of the greatest literary works of the nineteenth century!”

  I burst out. “You can’t just dismiss it as ‘crazy’—it’s far too complex and profound for that!”

  For the next thirty minutes, I unched into an impassioned lecture: the essence of the characters, the structure of the narrative, the portrayal of female madness and its historical context, and how the novel is often said to surpass Jane Eyre, the masterpiece of Emily Bront?’s sister, Charlotte Bront?.

  Ciel listened without interrupting. When I finally finished, she looked at me for a moment and said,

  “You’re a Wuthering Heights otaku.”