Beth, the oldest sister, arrived first. She swept the cabin; put the first logs on the fire. Outside, the weather was cooling, and she could almost feel the storm readying itself up in the sky. For a while, she paced the small rooms, trying to feel something, hoping for a memory to ignite: Nothing. Instead, she looked out of the window, watching the world tighten and freeze, until, at last, another figure appeared in the distance.

John, the youngest, stepped out of the mist and the fog and reached the door. Beth embraced him and didn’t let go for a long time; it was only the sound of his embarrassed laughter on her throat that made her ease up her grip. At arm’s length she looked him over. He had grown, matured over the twelve months the way only the young can do, but there was still the sparkle in his eye, a twinkle that made him a boy.         The two of them talked, both of them wanting to know more about the other, the spectre of why they were here looming large. All these words we speak and all that we cannot say, Beth thought bleakly, even as she smiled. She made fresh coffee, and he followed her into the kitchen, as he always did, when the door opened once more.

Mary stepped in and brought the snow with her. Beth always associated her with the weather; when her younger sister smiled, it always seemed to be summer; the tears she spilled always marked the time of winter. She watched her move inside John’s arms and then over to her; her movements were fluid, like water. She had a grace that Beth had once been jealous of, but with time, she had simply come to be proud. In their embrace, Beth smelled jasmine and cinnamon and sighed; it was as if her sister were somehow made of spices and herbs rather than flesh and blood.

The three sat around the bristling fire and shared their stories; a year’s worth. Since the funeral, the four had sworn not to contact each other, even as they worked towards their goal. Beth had played her part, earning the money, the same as she knew her siblings had all worked their parts, but still the price was high for them all, she knew. Some nights Beth burned with the unanswered questions that plagued her mind; when she closed her eyes she saw the three of them, all in their beds, all wondering and cursing and unknowing, the same as her. Beth understood the anger revenge could bring and the passion, too, but not the other baggage; the impatience, the need, the fear. None of them were married; it was as if none of them could move on with their lives until their desire had been sated. Instead they lived as driven ghosts, working, scheming, planning and waiting. And now, today: One year after.

John began to speak of it, and Mary shushed him before Beth could; it was almost funny, in its own, bleak way. The pact would not be broken until the door opened for the forth time; until then, there would only be silence. Beth watched the flames and thought on it; was any a promise as strong as that made by family, by blood? Marriage, perhaps, but even that was not seen as solid, not as much as it once was. Friendships were fickle, and the church seemed to have been built on as many lies as it was truths. Beth thought of her own world, the only one she knew, and silently nodded to the flames. None as thick as blood, she mouthed to the fire and watched as the flames rose, as if agreeing.

Mary began to set the meat on the fire, as Beth readied the other food they had brought. John fussed in the background, beginning one chore and then leaving it unfinished for another. Beth followed him, even as she went about her own work and he shrugged at her, not knowing he was being a nuisance. She caught Mary’s eye, and the two of them smiled, their first true smile, unforced and natural. Some of Beth’s heart broke in that moment, aware for a second they were a family again, re-connected and whole and not just fevered, broken parts.

It began as a simple assignment. As an upcoming — read struggling — photographer, I took whatever jobs I was offered. One of those happened to be taking pictures of women. When I told my friends, they laughed and raised their glasses. They slapped my shoulders, stinging my skin. I laughed along, though I didn’t find this funny. I told myself it was experience, and I mentioned it on my resumé without drawing too much attention to the details. So the gig became a fixture, the fixture a job.

It wasn’t sexy. Some of the girls who arrived were scared witless, desperate to be something they were not, despite all their beauty, running away so quickly my camera barely caught them. Fleeting girls, trapped for a few hours in my lens, and then gone, disappeared back to their lives.

There were addicts, too, the girls whose job was the highest rung of a ladder they were balancing on. I asked the make-up assistant, my friend Georgina, to cover the track marks as best she could, despite her objections. She argued it would feed their problems; I countered by reminding her what they would do for cash if we turned them away.

This job, for all its faults, did show me how the camera lied, if nothing else. I would look deep into the lens, see the image, these beautiful girls next door, forever 21 and beaming, a friend, a seductress, every sensation to every set of eyes; the props — a little sand, an umbrella, a beach-ball — all at hand and shining. And then lights would fade, the girl would step out of the light, and she would return to who she was — huddled in a blanket, shaking, trying to smile and trying not to scream. That was the cruelest part of all, I think. To see for a second what they could be, before they returned to what they were.

Was I exploiting them? No. I never tried to seduce them; seeing them all up close, willing and needy,  left me cold and unmoved. I was falling in and out of love with Georgie every other week, and she was enough for me, when she stormed out and when she slowed down. But between us we tried to look after them, as best we could. And I drank in circles and knew enough to know we were intervening and keeping them as best we could. I was trapped as much as they were, my agent giving me just enough to keep pushing. My life pushed me just enough to keep needing. I was trapped in the lights as much as anyone else. And then came Eve.

I opened the studio early, as I always did on Friday. Georgie had called in sick, or tantamount to it by going on a bender and passing out in my toilet. I looked at the schedule: the regular girls and a new model. I smiled; it looked as if I could be up and out by the afternoon, just as Georgie usually resurfaced and was ready to meet me in the city. I prepared the props and made myself swear I’d be out by three.