Poison was… strange. Always a little different. She was a quiet child, always watching. She rarely played with the other children, rarely talked to anyone, except me and her sister, Rain. But she was clever, and quick-thinking, and good. Yes, she was good. She was kind, and selfless, although it rarely showed. I remember, once, at Christmastime, the two of them, their father sent little wool dolls, from Peru, and Rain’s unravelled. And, seeing her sister cry, Poison gave Rain her doll… said she had other toys to play with, that she didn’t really want the doll, although I know that she kept everything her father ever sent her wrapped up in tissue in a box, with a key. I only saw that box once, but I know she treasured its contents above all else.
So she was kind, even if she had a rather... funny way of showing it. Yes, she was kind, and pensive. And beautiful. Oh, yes, she was beautiful. Yes, Rain was a beauty too. Rain was the one to receive gift after gift from suitors, while Poison watched on, smiling graceful acceptance. But she was beautiful. Stand her and Rain together and you would not think they were of the same species, never mind sisters, twins, no less. While Rain had tanned, tawny skin, bronze even in winter, Poison’s skin was creamy and white all year round, so delicate as to look translucent stretched over her fine bones. Her delicate, heart-shaped face was framed by reams of lush inky hair, hanging straight and long. She was small, pixie like – my changeling child. And her eyes… oh lord, her infinite eyes. I once heard a man speak of her eyes. He said to look in them was to lose oneself in one’s soul, to see one’s true self. How could one not love her huge, still eyes? Pools of violet so deep they were almost black, round with wonder at the world around her. Her thick lashes resting on her cheeks accompanied by the faintest rose blush when her beauty was the praise of others. She could quite happily proclaim the beauty of her sister all day, but a compliment was the one guaranteed way to bring some colour into her cheeks.
Poison fascinated many, incited passion in few, but begot love in only those closest to her. It was hard to love her, sometimes, when her quick tongue lashed out in defence without realising the consequence, or when her demure silence was mistaken for haughty quiet, but to love her was to be changed irrevocably. To love her was to throw your whole life, your heart, your soul and body, down at her feet. Her sister, though she would never admit this, was always jealous of Poison. She wished her own suitors would not be so fickle, wished they had a care with her hopes and dreams. For none who loved dear Poison could let her down, not without breaking their own heart, too.
Ah, my dearest Poison. She was clever, very clever. Well read, of course. She spoke… too many languages for me too count, though she did not advertise this. It entertained her, later on, to hear people struggle to make her understand. A little fun, she said, not cruel, but hardly kind. Her sister, too was clever, and enjoyed the feeling of superiority, though through slightly more noble means than dear Poison.
My darling girl, she always had such an… air. She walked regally, with steps any dancer would be jealous of. Her voice was musical, she was soft-spoken, though the words themselves were sharp, and her beautiful, tinkling laugh, though rare, was magical. Although her smile was often false, she never laughed for any reason other than true amusement; its genuinity was one of the reasons it was so beautiful to behold.
Both the girls incited in men the strange desire to want to do better, to be better; to be deserving of the pair. Even an old hag such as me looked at my daughters and wished I could do better for them, wished I was more deserving of my daughters.
Poison left young men tongue-tied, bless them, and was not naive to her power. She could silence a room with one look, with one word. All could be accommodated for her presence.