My new sibling, for that’s all I can consider her to be, is polite and shy. She doesn’t want to be in my way and she seems like she’s not quite sure about the situation; I guess I can’t really blame her. Momma can be kind of a bitch sometimes from what I can tell, to such a point that the others we’ve met so far can be less than kind to her. Momma just doesn’t care about their dislike of her; I think Thistlebabe does.

When she steps away from the food, I glance at the receding of her cloven hooves and spy the end of her tail from beneath momma’s round, brown belly. She’s not that much different than us, is she? As far as I can see we could have been born from at least one similar parent, and part of me wonders if she doesn’t belong to my dad just like I do. I wonder who her mother is and why she isn’t here when my mother never leaves me for even a moment alone.

It seems that my dam has been thinking, too, but about different things. She watches the gold embellished snowflake of a girl stretch and yawn while I absently pull away from her side to look at the orphan alongside her. "Don’t take this the wrong way, but Thislebabe is the dumbest name I’ve ever heard," she says down to me with a faint laugh on her lips, the cloud of dust settling on the grasses alongside the girl she discusses with me.

How am I not supposed to take that the wrong way? My lower lip pouts outwards and my brows knit tight over my eyes, ears slipping astray either side of my head. At least the other child can’t understand her yet, I don’t think, as she hasn’t said anything and looks at us like we’re weaving magic while we talk, and so I don’t look foolish in front of her.

"Something tells me to let her name herself, though," momma continues, and my features soften from shame to interest, "maybe she already has one. Either way, call her whatever you will until you are told otherwise, even if its Thistlebabe." She’s still smiling but she shudders, and I grimace at her once again with a dark light arising behind my gaze.

Prowling away from her in agitation at her haughtiness, I walk up to the girl and nudge her shoulder with my nose, feeling the soft edges of those white things against the rim of my muzzle and wondering again why it is mother didn’t like them. They are soft, and they smell sandy like the rest of her. "Sister," I say, looking at momma for approval of my selection to find her glowering with faint amusement lighting the corners of her eyes.

I think mother is crazy; her face says too many things at once in comparison to other people when it says anything at all.

Either way, she shakes her head and turns to go, asking if I am going to follow as if I have any other choice over her armored shoulder. "Com’mon, Thistle Sister," I say, glancing over at her with a smile on my lips as I trot after mother a few steps, "we goin’ home."