Doll was never the same once Moppet left, and as far as I know no one from our dorms ever heard from them again. Rabbit told me once that she imagined Moppet on the phantom train that is always whistling outside the city. She shows me a picture of people eating a luxurious meal on a train in one of the books in the library. Unlike Rabbit's fantasy about my mother, I honestly hope this reality is true; if not for our sake than for Moppet's.

The older we get the less we pay attention to the season; it's a constant reminder, like drumming in our veins that time is running out. The following autumn when Rabbit and I turn ten, she doesn't even bother to keep the new sewing kit until November, instead she has barely finished her slice of vanilla cake before she plops it into my lap with a disgruntled. "Here! I want you to have this."

I pretend that her bad moods don't bother me.

That same year Doll (and Moppet, had she still been here) turn twelve. Doll looks more like a woman every day. Her body seems to be settling in on itself. Her chest rounds and Paris tells her that she needs to wear a bra underneath her cloths, which Doll spitefully refuses to do. I notice that her hips have widened and that she has a hard time with her dresses fitting properly.

One morning that winter I awaken to find her pulling the sheets off her bed hurriedly. "What are you doing?" I ask. My voice is groggy from sleep.