Rabbit was always sure of things, she never had to question.

"…And you—" she goes on, her words extended on her tongue, trying to add suspense. "—can be… Fox."

Fox, I remember this, because of my red hair.

Our birthday falls on the same day ever year: October 21st Saint Ursula's feast day. It is a day that is always mirrored in red leaves drooping against the window glass, soggy from the rain. We know the day is drawing near, by how we wake up in the night with a slight chill in our bones from the temperature shift outside. On our birthday Father Urselle bakes us a cake—always vanilla—and we each receive a new sewing needle and a box of colored threads. Rabbit loathes this tradition. The slivery needles always puncture her fingertips, and she cannot stitch in a straight line, even when Rose helps her.

By November each year she has given up and thrust her new threads at me. I know that she does not like this, Rabbit does not like not being the best, so in return, and in gratitude I embroider small vines onto the hem of her white dress. I use only the most vibrant greens.

Unlike the rest of the convent, Rose celebrates her birthday on her own feast day—always a day in May.

I still think of Rose when the weather turns warm and the sun slants against the tall yellow grass in the dead garden.