Knowing that Agnes and Fatma fought was like knowing Santa Clause existed.      “Where are they now?” I asked.

The smell of the herbs on the mortar was greeting me every time I would let the pestle meet its surface. It was a strong blend of bitterness and weird. This was the third medicine I unsuccessfully brewed, it meant it was time to go.      I stopped, and turned to them. Gabriel and Michael were still having a heated yet silent argument, but I interrupted them, “Gabriel, I think it is time.”  

AbigailThere was a crawling crack on its lower part and the wobbly handle was tied by a string of pink yarn she received as a gift from Mathilda. Even though the hand mirror was already broken, she still kept it, or better yet treasured it, for it was the only thing that could remind her of her ended precious life.     It was precious for she was from a wealthy family. Her parents owned a big marble house that had plentiful number of help and they had acres of farm

FatmaMathilda was the pack leader and it meant she was the wolf. Hana was always the caring mother, like an orangutan. Agnes was the cub fox. Abigail was their deer. And Edith was the little pup. Fatma knew she was nothing, but a little scaredy hummingbird. But not anymore.       

Edith Edith had no memories other than the convent, but the farm. Not the farm where Hana was living now, but the far away farm where she fed herself by stealing young cabbages. To her mind, it was her first home and the farmer and his wife were her parents. And that they gave her away to the sisters.