Later that night, as Marge settled into the guest bedroom, Dolores found herself struggling to find solace in slumber. 

What if the woman succeeded in revealing what Dolores had worked so hard to bury? 

As she tossed and turned, Vernon finally startled awake with a grunt.

"Dolores, my darling," he said as he wrapped an arm around her mid-section, hand coming to rest atop the small swell, the small swell itself, unbeknownst to Vernon, being the source of Dolores' troubles.

"What's troubling you?" Vernon queried, sleep clouding his voice.

"Oh, Vernon!" Dolores wept, encasing Vernon's hand with her own.

"It's nothing really... Just Marge. I'm worried she won't approve,"  

"Come now!" Vernon assured, disbelief evidently layered within his tone.

"Marge just needs a while to adjust. You know her, ever the overprotective sister,"

"I suppose you're right," Dolores conceded with a small sigh of what could be relief but what could equally be the very opposite.

Vernon answered with his second grunt of the night, a grunt which somehow conveyed the meaning of "Aren't I always?" or "When aren't I?"

"Now...." He said, snuggling/burrowing closer.

"Why don't we get some sleep?"

And before Dolores could even formulate a reply, she heard the first soft telltale snores of Vernon's slumber.

Meanwhile,

Marge sat upright in the spacious double bed she'd been assigned to for the duration of her stay,  already small mobile phone encased within her above average sized hands. 

The room was quiet, save for the tell-tale tap tap of her fingers meeting the tiny, miniscule screen.

Marge, being a woman true to her word, had been messaging back and forth with an old buddy of her's.

 George, as he was known to his friends, was one of the more unsavory persons Marge had alligned herself with throughout her span of life.

Marge wasn't necessarily a fan of dirt and grime but she could get down with the worst of them, if and when the moment called for such practises.

Marge supposed now, with her brother's very virtue at risk, was the greatest, most fitting time to roll up her sleeves, hitch up her working trousers and get to rolling around with the livestock of the world.

As she felt her eyes growing heavy, even more strained from staring at the blue light emitted from the screen, Marge temporarily paused her scheming with the seal "Text me in the morning".

As her last message was sent, Marge placed her phone beneath the stack of pillows to her left and began to settle down for the night.

No matter where she turned, how she maneuvered the blankets, she remained in a constant state of cold.

Marge suspected this particular bereavement to be the responsibilty of witchcraft, this suspicion only further igniting the suspicous righteous fire within, this served as the heat Marge needed to carry her through the night.

A/N

So, I've continued this per the request of my most loyal reader 

I hastily put the title together and realised perhaps slightly prematurely that I would need to somehow make it fit the story matter

I'm really, truly, unsure of where to go from here, please feel free to leave any and all suggestions below, if anyone's still here at this point.