Two months later...

"Liselotte, make haste!" Sofia called out as I trudged down the hill slowly, roads of terrain, dirt, and clay overlooking the horizon. Sofia happens to be my (supposedly) elder sister by three years. Yet if you saw us side by side, you'd wouldn't ever believe it thanks to my much taller stature.

"Whatever Princess Pushycat. How about you quit rushing me for heaven's sake?" I snapped, grumbling behind my breath.

Sofia huffed back, "Well, I wouldn't have to if you weren't so lazy. Never in my life had I heard of somebody who took half a step a second."

I gestured vulgarly at her, hastening my steps. "Well, if you weren't such a condescending prissy pants, I'd wouldn't have to." I sneered.

She hung her head, clearly agitated with my mocking tone, "When Mrs. Harsbarry scolds us, you'd better not blame me." She crossly said. I rolled my eyes.

Mrs. Harsbarry was my estranged grandmother's childhood friend and mama's godmother. She was a plump, cheerful elderly lady whom I and Sofia would often, at the crack of dawn, trudge down the hill, through all the neighborhoods and all the way down to town square, where Mrs. Harsbarry's flower shop was located.

Sofia then decided she had enough. She ran to me with the basket of quiltwork, pulling me forcefully through the neighborhood of the snobby upper-class families such as the Abbotts and Newports, where the eldest sons would usually lust after Sofia. Not that I could blame them, she'd be perfect. Submissive and tight-laced with warm honey brown eyes shaped like a doe's and silky honey-brown tresses. It wasn't as if they'd want a towering, deathly pale vampire with piercing cyan eyes and raven hair. Mama always told me that I'd do prettier without the 'dreadful' scowl on my lips and the 'pluckiness' of my character but I'd always give nothing but a sarcastic quip as a response.

"Mama told us, we needed to be on time with the quilts Liselotte, walk at a more reasonable pace," Sofia explained, patiently, as if she were talking to a five-year-old. I rolled my eyes.

"Who the hell wants to wake up at five am every morning to take care of some meaningless roses? Seriously, you'd have to be insane." I loudly complained yet Sofia pretended not to hear.

After some tortuous minutes of Sofia dragging me onward the streets like some puppet to Mrs. Harsbarry's, Sofia released my hand. Knocking gently on the door to let her know it was just her daily little rose helpers.

"I'm praying she doesn't scold us," Sofia muttered under her breath worriedly. Mrs. Harsbarry peered through the window.

"Ah, if it isn't Sofia and Liselotte? Please come in immediately!" Her stern voice rang out, opening the door and gesturing inside.

Once we were inside, Sofia profusely apologized at the second. "Ma'am, we sincerely apologize for being late." She regrettably beseeched, bowing her head as a sign of her respect.

Instead of the expected response of Mrs. Harsbarry's harsh scolding, she tenderly smiled. "Late you say?" She glanced over at the ticking clock. "Dear sweet Sofia, what are you talking about? You came just in time." She rustled our hair in precisely the exact playful way I detested. "I ain't angry girlies."

"Thank goodness, thank you to the bottom of my heart! We thought you'd scold us." Sofia nodded her head in appreciation.

I'm pretty assured what you meant by 'we' was 'you'.

"Oh by the way." She chimed, picking up the basket of quilts excitedly while I lingered nearby. "Mama finished the quilts you requested, free of charge." Sofia handed over the basket, looking less on edge.

"Why thank you both. You two are truly the best rose helpers one ought to ask for." Mrs. Harsbarry said with a smile.

Someone kill me.

I glared at Sofia and she right back, eyebrows arched up and all. It could have stayed like that for centuries if it wanted to but Mrs. Harsbarry snapped her fingers.

"Alright, you girls know what to do." She tossed our aprons and pair of gloves over to protect us from the prickly thorns. Grudgingly, I tied the apron on and went out, entering through the white picket fence. Mrs. Harsbarry's garden was nothing but big acres of roses and grassy terrains. This made the work both so time-consuming and back-breaking that if there were an option to either do this all day or jump off a cliff, I'd would've opted for the cliff. Otherwise, shall you choose to do this then good luck. Firstly, you'd have to prune the roses for maintenance. Then, you'd fertilize and water the soil. Also during the fall months, you'd have to winterize them.

I rummaged around the gardening shed, taking out the pruning spears while Sofia took the pruning saw. I dragged the bag of organic fertilizer out for feeding. The recipe was made personally by Mrs. Harsbarry's late husband, Mr. Harsbarry, who perished a few years back when I was six and Sofia around nine.

The routine of labor in Mrs. Harsbarry's rose garden was the usual. Dull and bone-aching, no words exchanged. Sofia and I barely spoke to one another. It's been like this for years. I honestly had no recollection of the last time we had an actual conservation without verbally abusing each other. Actually, it all started not long after Sofia's 13th birthday. But it wasn't as if I cared anymore.

I smelled the main seven scents of the roses as I worked. Damask, nasturtium, orris, violet, apple, clove and lemon along with the more complex ones such as honeysuckle or moss. But there was one unusual scent wavering in the air, dominating the others. Intoxicatingly syrupy and cloying, like a more enhanced version of damask.

Adjusting my straw hat, I hesitantly asked, "Sofia, do you smell something unusual?" I didn't need her to go under the impression that I was delusional.

She tipped her chin slightly, sniffing tinges of the air. "Almost like damask roses..." She muttered more to herself than me.

That's when I spotted the unfit oakwood archway, crisscrossed with vines of plum shaded roses. Mrs. Harsbarry drilled the rule within us that we were never allowed to go in there. Sofia, being the diligent cat she was, never dared to ask why; much less attempt to bend it. But I did and all I got was a vague answer and severe scolding. Ever since I had tried (and failed) to take a look inside.

Sofia didn't address the matter any longer as she finished watering the violet roses. Neither did I. I cropped it up to the development of the damask roses.

Afterwards, Mrs. Harsbarry offered us glasses of sage water, chatting with Sofia as usual while I watched coldly.

"How's grandmama faring?" Sofia inquired mildly.

That's when my mood turned sour. My grandmother and I were never on good terms. Never. From the moment I was born, she dismissed me. She called me a 'bastard' and 'impure' which never made sense to me. She also never called me by my name, instead referring to me as 'you' and 'girl'. All I knew concerning her is that she was born in one of those snobby upper classed families, the Brascos, and was disowned by her father when she married my grandfather, a commoner. What I saw as hypocritical and ironic is that she did the same to mama when she married Papa, as she didn't approve of their relationship.

Mrs. Harsbarry's face turned downcast, "She's gotten worse. Her memory loss is much more problematic, she's having trouble recognizing people, including me and finding the right words to say." She signed. "She also has trouble controlling her behavior. I don't know what else to do."

Sofia purses her lips tightly, her eyes on the rug, "Had they found what's wrong?" She asked.

Mrs. Harsbarry shook her head, "No, her doctor says it's delirium but I'm not convinced." She wistfully grasped the table and signed, "It just seems so unreal dear. Charlotte nor did any other Brasco ever have any psychological problems."

I looked down my empty glass, having gulped the whole thing within seconds. I could care less what the state of my grandmother was. She never gave a damn about me so why should I?

"I'm sure she'll get better," Sofia said in her usual spirited tone.

Mrs. Harsbarry nodded despairingly, clearly not as optimistic, "I hope so..."

They chatted for another three hours until it was time to send us home. "Bye Mrs. Harsbarry, we shall see you tomorrow," Sofia said as she waved goodbye.

"Bye girls, make sure to give your mother my sincerest gratitude for the quilts." She said lastly.