For the third morning in a row, Mary woke feeling dreadful. She had just turned fourteen and it seemed as though with a new year came many new things about her body that she couldn't quite grasp. Her dresses felt awkward against her skin, she was often grouchy and then instantly laughing again. She found herself crying at the most absurd things and for nearly a week now she had experienced unrelenting stomach upset that didn't seem to be related to anything she'd eaten. This morning in particular she awoke feeling so poorly that she could hardly rouse herself from bed.
Across the room, at the vanity, thirteen year old Edith perched in front of the mirror, brushing her long, honey hued hair with Mary's favorite brush. Rising with a sudden, smoldering rage, Mary lept from the bedcovers and raced across the room, snatching the brush from her sister's hands.
"Edith, that's mine." she hissed, folding her arms across her chest.
"Mary, you weren't using it. You were asleep." she reached up and grasped for the brush, which Mary held up above her head just beyond Edith's reach.
"That's beside the point. You have to stop taking my things without asking permission. It's poor manners."
Edith sulked, "Yes, and I suppose racing across the room in your nightclothes to pull it from my hands like a ravenous animal is considered proper?"
Her cheeks pinking up, Mary turned from her sister and went back to her bed. Having risen so quickly, she now felt dizzy and a bit sick. Noticing that her sister appeared to be backing down from a row, Edith came toward her, sitting beside her on the bed.
"Mary, are you ill?" she said incredulously.
She swallowed, "I don't know. I haven't felt well for a few days."
"Do you want me to get Mama?" Edith asked. Though she and Mary fought like sisters do, she did care about her and certainly wouldn't wish her ill.
"No, I'm just going to have a bath, I think. Perhaps that will help." Somewhat distractedly, she handed the brush back to Edith -a peace offering of sorts- and headed for the bath. Edith heard the tap running, the large claw footed, porcelain tub filling up with water, and went back to brushing her tresses.
Having woken herself and padded down the hallway to her older sister's room from the nursery, ten year old Sybil hovered just outside the door. She was hoping that, unlike the past few mornings, today Mary might agree to play with her. It wasn't that Mary always turned her away, in fact, most days she at least begrudgingly accepted the role of Queen in Sybil's play stories. When she opened the door this morning, however, only Edith was sitting on the bed. Mary was nowhere to be seen, but she did hear water running.
"Where's Mary?" she said, walking over to Edith. Noticing that she had Mary's favorite silver brush, Sybil snickered. "Does Mary know you have her brush? She's going to bicker with you."
Edith looked at her smugly, "As a matter of fact, she lent it to me."
Sybil eyed her, "Where is she?"
Nodding toward the bathroom door, Edith rose and went back to the vanity, Sybil crossed to the bathroom door but before she could even reach for the doorknob, she heard a shrill screech from the other side of it.
"Mary?" Edith called, turning from the mirror. "Are you alright?"
Stepping out from behind the door, Mary, huddled in her nightclothes and pressing a towel to her chest, appeared pale and shaken.
"Edith, come quickly. Please." she said, her eyes wide. Not accustomed to seeing her sister plead for anything, and certainly not frightened, Edith set the brush down and went to her. The two girls disappeared behind the bathroom door and Sybil, feeling dejected, pressed her ear up against the wood.
"There's blood, Edith." she heard Mary said. "Look, it's all over my night gown."
Sybil inhaled sharply - Mary must be hurt! She felt her heart race and she lept up from the door, not wanting to hear anymore. She started to ran out of the room, but the glimmering silver brush caught her eye and, as an after thought, she grabbed it and raced out of the room and back to the nursery.
In the bath, Mary sat crumpled in a heap next to the now steaming tub and Edith paced the floor nervously. "Do you hurt?"
Mary nodded, "I feel dreadful." she looked up at her sister. Although Edith was younger, she wasn't by much, and both of them were old enough to know that this could only be one thing: Mary had begun her "monthlies."
"I thought girls didn't usually start until they were sixteen or seventeen." Edith said, "But of course you'd have to beat everyone."
"It's not like I can help it, Edith. And if this is truly it than I can only say that I wish it was not true, because I feel perfectly wretched."
Edith looked down at her damp and pale sister. She didn't look well at all. Even though she imagined it wasn't a pleasant experience, it was still a major event for a young girl to face. Mary was a woman, and Edith was immediately jealous. Even though she understood that since Mary was older she would almost certainly be the first girl to get her cycle, it still made her feel a bit left out.
"So, you should tell Mama. I'll fetch her." Edith said, turning toward the door. She felt Mary grasp her skirt, stopping her.
"No." she said, her voice curt. "I don't want to."
"Why ever not?" Edith said.
"I. . .I don't know, just not yet."
Edith wasn't certain but it almost appeared as though Mary was embarrassed. Feeling like her older sister's vulnerability could be used to her advantage, and well aware that now they were compatriots in keeping an enormous secret, she looked at her judiciously.
"Fine, then. I can keep a secret. For a price, of course."
Mary rolled her eyes. Always the opportunist, Edith.
"What do you want?" she said, pulling the towel tightly around her as she grimaced. She was now in enough pain that she wasn't interested in expending any mental energy to barter with Edith.
"Oh, don't worry Mary. I'll come up with something." With that, she gave a small smile and turned on her heels, heading back into the bedroom.
In the nursery, Sybil held her doll close to her and whimpered, overcome with sadness. Mary was not always nice to her but she was her sister and she loved her. She looked up to her. She was tall and beautiful and very smart. She had Papa's tough wit and Mama's delicate beauty. Unlike Edith, who could be wishy-washy, Mary always knew exactly what to do and she always had an answer for any of Sybil's inquiries. Now, she had some mysterious ailment and could even be dying. She looked down at the hairbrush, Mary's hairbrush, a memento of her darling sister. She traced the intricate design inscribed on the back of the brush and felt the cool silver against her fingertips. She cried quietly as she hid it beneath her pillow.
If Mary was going to die at least she'd have a token to remember her by.
