The rest of the term was bitterly cold, and it rained nearly every day from October through December. Rose's new quarters were cramped and poorly insulated. Everything seemed dingy, faded, ugly, and her powdered and lovely world was replaced by this nightmare.

Rose's life became muggy and cramped, the school closing in on her. She shunned weekend excursions with the other girls—she no longer had spare cash to blow on new dresses and fancy lunches. Their attitude toward her turned from pity to confusion. Rose, always a social butterfly, now rarely talked or made eye contact. She didn't participate in class. She dutifully ladled out food to the other girls but took her own meals in her room, chewing, chewing, deliberately and angrily and staring off into space, as if angry that she was still alive and had to bear these trivial physical burdens while her father was gone, bodiless, in heaven.

She spent her spare time reading and studying. She passed her classes with perfect grades. She practiced ballet in the gymnasium on weekends, her favorite hobby and passion from the age of three.

By the time midterms passed and she handed in final papers, Rose had all but completely walled herself away from the world she'd previously thrived in. She was ready to leave Dice Willows.

She assumed that Mr. Hockley himself would come to get her.

On the last day of term, while the other girls were preparing for ski trips, shopping sprees, and cozy winter nights with their families, Rose was alone on the bed in her room, crying into the alarmingly fraying quilt that never quite kept her warm enough at night.

There was a knock. "Rose? Rose, are you in there? Mrs. Freight wants you in her office." It was Bernice, someone she once called her best friend. In another, much happier world, Rose and Bernice had splashed in the waves of the ocean together, they'd gone to birthday parties, giggled over boys, dressed up, stayed up late, and tasted their first sips of beer together. Now, Bernice sounded like a stranger to Rose.

Rose cleaned herself up, brushed out her long hair, and put on a freshly starched white blouse and the dove gray wool skirt of the school uniform. On her last day at Dice Willows, she dressed in almost exactly the same manner as when she'd entered it as a sticky handed six year old with curls and a yellow bow in her hair. She loved the school. Her memories at Dice Willows defined her entire life, up until then. It pained her to leave it feeling so desolate and hollow. This was too terrible to be real life.

"Take a seat," Mrs. Freight instructed when Rose walked in, motioning toward the empty chair in her large, dim office.

Rose instantly noticed an older man in the other seat across from Mrs. Freight. He was small—probably as tall as Rose—and slight, dressed in a black suit, with thin gray hair, light gray eyes, and deep wrinkles. She didn't recognize him, yet felt an instant childish gratitude. She assumed this was Mr. Hockley, come to deliver her from orphanage.

"This is Mr. Sickmiss," Mrs. Freight announced. "He will be escorting you to your new residency."

"Yes, ma'am," she said. Both Mrs. Freight and Mr. Sickmiss were momentarily taken aback by the sweet childish ring in her soft voice, as if expecting a stronger, more defiant tone.

"You will take only the absolute necessities with you—Mr. Hockley is doing you a great service by taking you in as it is, and he doesn't need further clutter in his home."

Rose nodded in complacency, "Yes, I understand, ma'am."

"You may say good bye to the other girls, but your car is waiting. Be quick about it." Then, her voice momentarily softening, Mrs. Freight added, "It has been a pleasure watching you blossom into a woman."

The good byes were not lingering. Rose gave away most of her clothes and the old useless trinkets that reminded her of painfully fond memories. Bernicewais left clutching a pair of emerald earrings custom designed and purchased from a swanky Parisian jeweler.

"Rose, this is too much!" she exclaimed. Rose shook her head. "It's not something I mind giving. Please take it from me."

She kept her photographs and journals. She kept the books, of course. And she kept the porcelain music box, the ballerina inside just as delicate and beautiful as the day she received the gift from her father.