You go for a drink with the Younger Dustwell

It does not stop at one drink. She orders another. Her throat dry from telling tall tales about their youth, misspent on Mutton Head. And you order yet another, amid telling her about the cat house on Rust and the gang of naked pirates.

Soon you change bars, drinking Workermash and some concoction made with rosewater and lime. The band plays Mariner songs, and the Younger Dustwell dances on the table. She flirts with a Navy boatswain, checking if you are jealous yet all the while.

You hit a dancehall next, then a brothel where she snorts Powdered Spring from a hooker’s chest.

The next morning, you wake with your eyes bloodshot and with a splitting headache. Your mouth tastes like ash and carpet, and you realise that your bones ache because you slept on the floor. Then a figure startles upright from your bed. Her green sundress is ruffled from sleep, and her face looks worse than you feel.

She still looks so much like her sister, the same dark hair and amber eyes. And **** and powdered spring have taken their toll. Her lips are stained with Mash. As are yours. Her hair is a messy tangle, and deep shadows surround her glassy eyes.

”Fuck,” she says. ”Did we?” Fabric rustles and she groans. ”I fell asleep didn’ I?”

Your own memories are fractured. Hazy. But you are on the floor and she is in your bed.

”Fuck! I’m such a... You wanna have a go now?”