Memoriae of The Minerva (Eliza) Part 2

You tread softly, your stockinged feet making virtually no sound at all upon the gleaming, polished stone floor. In short order, you’ve arrived at the door and ever so gingerly, you push it ajar holding your breath for a moment and straining your ears for any sign that you’ve woken the chamber’s occupant.
When you hear nothing, you slip through the slender opening like a shadow and close the door behind yourself. Your heart pounds a staccato rhythm against the inside of your chest, and you genuinely worry that the sound of it may be enough to give you away as you cross the room.
Dione lies beneath the sprawling canopy of her bed, bathed in moonlight from the open window and swathed in gray silk sheets that rise and fall softly with her breathing.
She looks so peaceful that for a moment you are unsure if you can go through with this terrible plot. If only you had the skill to best her magic, then you could cast a spell from the other side of the manor, or even the other side of the continent, and never have to actually see what comes next.
But then the memory of Aaron’s face floats to the forefront of your mind - that dreadful moment when you told him “no.” The next thing you know, one of the dozen or so silk pillows is in your hands and you realize that you’re looming over your only sister, prepared to strike.
Dione’s eyes flutter sleepily open as you stand there, pillow raised and hesitating. “E-Eliza?” She asks, obviously confused as she rubs her face with one hand, shifting position to begin sitting up. “What are you doing here?”
That’s that, then. No time to dawdle.
Dione makes a protestant squeak as you press the pillow down over her face, forcing her head back onto the bed. She writhes and squirms beneath your weight, but you have all the leverage here and, though you’ve never been one to physically fight, neither has she.
Her hands come together, beginning to shape the gestures of a silent spell until you climb atop her, pressing your knees into her biceps and forcing her fingers apart.
Your sister kicks at the empty air, bucking wildly and slapping desperately, helplessly at your thighs. Then, inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat, her fighting subsides until at last her arms go limp, falling aside to hang awkwardly over the edge of the bed.
Hot tears streaming down your cheeks, you do not dare ease up. You stay there, clutching the pillow so hard that the silk begins to tear beneath your nails and pressing the material down with all your weight for what seems like an age. Your muscles ache with the effort of it...
Oh, Eliza… Her voice is so disappointed and you know it’s finally over. What have you done?