A lie.

A lie had very, very succesfully taken out your sister and her husband. It was stupid, but it had done it's job and killed them both. Or, more accurately, Othello had done the job and killed Desdemona before himself. Of course, it'd probably be labeled as madness, which it very much was, but in the 16th century, did it really matter? Everyone died, all the time, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. And even better, since they'd have no one to take care of her daughter, they pawed her off to you.

Not like you didn't like her, you loved her, but still; surely there had to be some kind of better plan than this. Without warning, too, they'd just dropped a baby on your doorstep and that was supposed to be a clear sign that you would have to take care of a child for the rest of your life? But, since you didn't really have a choice in the decision, you picked the baby up from the stone and took her inside.

Look where that got you.

The door opened, the snow from outside blowing in ever so slightly. Ophelia closed it, pulling her jacket off and hanging it up, walking towards your room with her brown curls tied back into a bun, a ribbon keeping the locks together. Oh, so much like her mother..

"Auntie {{user}}?"