When young, and older, Leta would fill up the sink and plunge her face in.
She'd hold her breath as long as possible, blood thundering in her ears. That's what it was like for Corvus, she thought, as though she needed any reminding.
She never lasted more than three minutes. She'd gasp and sputter, dripping wet, swaying with dizziness.
She always felt like crying. This was how she'd killed her brother; she wanted to share his suffering. Yet always, the urge for air overcame her; she'd think of Corvus in the dark green sea, nothing but water in his lungs.