But one morning when I woke she was gone. A different baby lay in her place, less sickly. She could pull herself to her feet and bite the wooden rail of the crib and howl. This one lived. We slept together until we were four, and separated as they always separate toddlers. We were put into different beds far away from each other. In that first year of separation, I would try to catch up to her during our chores. I’d trip over my learning feet. None of us learned to walk quickly. We had spent too much of our first years in cribs.

Fourth years learned to clean. Easy tasks. I washed tin plateware in tepid water. Cup was my first word. I swept corners of rooms and never cried at spiders. I rarely received corrections. Even when I did, the slaps were never cruel.

I would call to my second crib mate. Her name was hard for me to pronounce and I had no words for what I wanted to say, like friend or sister or love. She did not recognize me. Unless she did, and ignored me. People say that they forget faces, but I never do. How can you forget a face? I understood, soon enough, that the first baby in my crib had died, because I never saw her face again, and I had looked.

I don’t want you to think that I was lonely. I was surrounded all the time by people. I was busy, because our work required more attention when we became fifth years, then sixth, and seventh. We carved shells into buttons and learned to operate machines that punched holes through the blank disks. It was only later that I didn’t like the work we were made to do in the orphanage. When I was much older we had to prepare tortoiseshell. This meant holding the live tortoise while prying the scutes from its back with a hot knife. I often lost my grip on the animal because of the blood. The tortoises gasped and squirmed. I remember things too well. I always have. I remember doing double work beside Helin because she couldn’t bear what we had to do and I could.

The tortoiseshell, after it was boiled in salt water and pressed flat with a hot iron, was beautiful. Its mottled brown glinted with gold. The flakes were carved into combs or buttons or decoratively set in furniture. We were told to be proud of what we did. It was for the High Kith.

But we are the tortoises, I said to Helin under my breath.

Our mistress lashed Helin’s palm for it. I protested. She did nothing wrong, I said. It was me. I was the one who whispered.

But she listened, the mistress said.

The more I tried to argue that I should receive the punishment, the more the mistress punished Helin.