My first memory is of Rose trying to sooth me back to sleep.

She was not my mother, but when I look back trying to fill that void it is always Rose's face that comes to mind. "Ursula," she is sighing, her warm breath spilling over my forehead, her hands lightly tracing my cheek. "Try to sleep now."

We were all Ursula's back then; this was before we turned seven and could pick our nicknames.

I know that there is more to this memory. For instance in my mind I have expunged all of the other little girls in the dorm room that night, so that it's merely my tiny bed that she is kneeling against. The deep breathing of Rabbit next to me, the occasionally nasal snore, or the light night call of the train someone beyond the city do not exist in this moment for me. I have even taken out the moment when Father Urselle tiptoed in, accidently spying us, and his sharp rebuke of Rose for comforting me. "She is not yours, Rose." Father Urselle is always harsh in my memory. His face constantly puckered as though he has just sipped something sour.