12) Marie Shepard, sister.
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The thing with adoptive parents was that some (her own) believed they needed to give their child everything so it would feel like theirs. They didn't but Marie saw no reason to tell them otherwise. With Jane, things didn't work like that. Her sister gave what little she could – orphan, trainee with little time – and no amount of temper tantrums would change it.
More time with her, was that too much to ask? Jane said it was. That her vacations were numbered and short before she was appointed anywhere. Crying had done nothing. Neither had shouting, complaining or whining.
"Done, kitten?"
Jane was smiling down at her – still too short, damnit! – and it was a familiar smile, one she loved beyond everything. It reminded her of her dark haired mother, strong armed father, a brother who carried her everywhere; a farm, dusty plains and the twinkling of water as soundtrack for miles and miles.
Marie extended her arms, wordlessly requesting, and Jane's closed around her. Her laughter regained that warm quality Marie treasured while losing that sad quality born of powerlessness.
Silently – selfishly – the younger girl asked for the elder to take her with her.
Aloud, ice-cream was requested instead.