She turned the corner, and then started breathing again.

A matron had just told her to go weed a garden; Moira had asked what that meant, and then the matron had explained it, looking rather annoyed. Moira had rolled her eyes and explained that she couldn’t go near dirt or her dress would be ruined (not that it was that nice of a dress, anyway). Then the matron had gotten even more mad, and told the girl that if she didn’t get to that garden right now, she would be in big trouble. When the girl had turned and walked away, she just knew the matron was still standing there, glaring at her back.

Being out of sight was a relief, now all Moira had to do was figure out where the garden was, and then convince herself to touch the dirt. She wrinkled her nose and tried not to think about it; it couldn’t be worse than scraping food off of dirty dishes. She stuck her tongue out as she walked; she would avoid dishes for as long as possible.

Suddenly the girl stopped in her tracks, and stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. Just where was this garden?! The matron had pointed in this general direction, but there was this winding hallway with all these turns to go through. She bit her lip and dropped her gaze to her feet; how much trouble would she get into if she were lost?

"Be quick, little one,
Be nimble, learn fast
And someday, little one,
It wont seem so bad."

A warbly voice echoed down the hallway in song. A shadow appeared on the ground, cast from a figure beyond the corner, and moments later an old woman hobbled around the corner. She was a frail little thing, with a big round head. Wispy white hair fought to come out of its thin bun. Her face was wrinkled and pocked like a crater, good-natured crow's-feet crinkling around the corners of her animated blue eyes. Liver spots speckled her temples. Her dress was standard passive attire, yellowed lace clinging to the neckline in some vague imitation of individuality.

Her singing trickled into a polite hum when she saw she was no longer alone. She saw little Moira and took note of her blue passive garment. The old woman also noted the girl's upset posture. "Well," she said kindly, voice gnarled like an old tree, "You're a new face. What's your name?"

Nanette remembered, vaguely, what it had been like to be new to the passive ranks. Admittedly, the years had dulled the pain, and the monotony of her life had become something of a buffer, but sympathy always struck her withered old heart when she saw an especially young passive.

(Sorry for late reply, was making Christmas gifts! Haha!)

Moira jumped at the sudden voice. She looked up at the woman, her face still screwed up as she was deep in thought. She stood looking at the woman, seeing the dress with the lace. Yellow. Like her own apron. The girl looked down at it and smiled; she did like yellow. She studied the woman’s hair, it was pretty. She had always thought buns looked nice; she herself just could never get her hair into them without the curls making bumps everywhere.



Moira sighed and tried to smile politely; she had been raised believing that anyone older than you, especially the ones waaay older than you, are wise and should be respected. She had been told you needed to be polite to them no matter what.

"Moira Catriona Montrose, ma'am. Though I usually have people call me Kitty..." She pursed her lips in thought, and then spoke again. "What is your name?" She asked, and then smiled a little.

Her face fell again as she remembered that she was lost. "And, um. Would you happen to know where the garden is?"