Esme glanced over at her when she touched her. Odd. "You do," she said, leaving it at that, opening the letter.
It was in her father's hand, yes, and it sounded like him. He explained Ileana's existence, the fact that he'd been waiting until the right time to tell Esme about her, and that she was indeed his daughter--by Esme's mother, no less. Esme felt something then--a twitch, a flare, that she distantly recognized as anger. It faded as soon as it had come. Inconsequential.
She set the letter down on a table. "You want to stay here?" she asked, turning her head to look at her finally. She was a pretty girl. She looked a little like her, but she was all rosy cheeked prettiness where Esme was a willowy, jagged-edged, pale sort of beauty. An odd mix. "Father wants you to stay here," she corrected, in Roma. It was difficult to tell whether or not she even noticed she'd slipped into another language, or whether it was a test to see if her sister spoke a lick. It was often hard to tell anything about Esme, these days.