Rose is dead by our birthday. Father Urselle comes to our room one night with a lighted candle in his hand. The glow of the light spreads wildly across his aging face. I notice for the first time that there are grey patches against his temple. I am very afraid, but I do not reach out for Rabbit to comfort me.

"Girls," he begins, his voices is leathery and cracked. "My Ursula's," it is his pet nickname for us. When Doll and Moppet were younger they used to swoon every time he said it. "Our dearest Rose left us this morning. She is with the angels. She now knows no more pain."

I look around the room. Rabbit and I are nearing nine, and Doll and Moppet soon to be eleven. This is the first moment that I start to measure time.

Time that has already gone by, and the time that I have left.