"Isn't it nice, Luke?" Jane asked eagerly, for the fifth time. "Don't you like it?"

Luke studied the canvas in front of him, which to him looked like a lot of dark in varying colors and shades. "Uh- yes. Yes, it's very nice."

What is it, exactly? he wanted to ask, but then Jane might get insulted.

Jane's eyes were shining. He didn't want to put out that light. She had the light, and no one on earth would put it out if he had anything to say about it.

"Isn't it a good likeness?"

"Yes, very good. What's-" Luke pointed to a wavy blob of black on top- "that bit?"

"That's your hair," Jane replied happily. "I was looking out the window last night and saw you standing on the edge of the cliff, and your hair was blowing out behind you- Mother wants you to cut it, I know, but I rather hope you don't- and everything was at such a perfect angle, and the moon was just right, so I took out my paints and things and tried to get it all down."

Luke stiffened slightly as he thought of what had happened last night. One of his only friends from the village had succumbed to the Black Death earlier that day, and Luke had wanted to think everything over in the sea air at night, because that was when he did his best thinking. Just like Jane.

Then all at once the water below him had suddenly seemed so enticing, so inviting, and so much more pleasant than the world currently roiling blackly around him, and he had considered slipping into the waves for a short while, or a long while, and then perhaps think about coming back up one day for a breath of air.

Perhaps.

Probably not.

But he hadn't, and part of him still wasn't quite sure why.

Jane studied her painting critically once more, then turned her eyes up to her older brother's.

"It's not very good, is it, Luke? It's too dark. I think I could've done a better job."

"You did just fine, Jane." No more lights going out. "It's perfect. Dark and perfect. Don't change a thing."