"Have all the Mr. Wilson's left for winter?"
In the center of the sunken marble terrace, a small pallid girl of about twelve or thirteen peered out into the rings of trees hoping for a fleeting blur of gray, blinking at the faint winter sun. She suddenly faintly recalled a moment when she was smaller, and less sick: a soft, watercolor brushstroke sky, faint lavender with touches of peachy orange. It had seemed much larger, as she had been much smaller. Her older brother, Darren, was carrying her over his shoulders, so handsome and robust with his short brown hair combed back, in his scratch tweed overcoat that felt like sandpaper on her cheek. He spun around and around, the clouds whipping in and out of her vision and she squealed until her cheeks turned rosy pink with delight and February cold. After nearly half an hour, he finally stopped, panting for breath. And then she had asked him the same question she did now. "Have all the Mr. Wilson's left for winter?"
[Elise: 1, Darren: 1]