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Vera awoke to the scent of semolina and fresh snowfall, blanketing the streets in a white, frosty cloak. She shrugged on her dressing gown, her feet pattered down the stairs- careful not to tread on the creaky step- slid on socked feet towards the rickety kitchen table.
“Morning, Vera,” murmured Rosa, sprinkling sugar on the semolina porridge and pushing it towards Vera. Baby Alice burbled cheerfully in her chair, waving stubby fists at Vera. Gulping her porridge, Vera waved goodbye to her aunt and cousin, and rushed upstairs to her room. Taking off her dressing gown, she fiddled with the numerous ribbons, buckles and layers of the Russian skirt Aunt Rosa still made her wear. Then, lifting onto her tiptoes, she shoved the wonky ceiling beam that revealed a small hole in the roof slat. In here, Vera kept her three treasured possessions: an old string toy, a sticky lemon sherbet, and a tiny, golden, engraved clock with three hands. The last one of these was in her basket when her mother had left her at Alice’s door, with a note to look after Vera until she came back. It had been twelve years since that day. Vera’s mother wasn’t back. Vera sighed tragically. Her tragic sigh was rather good now, after ten years of practice. She twiddled with the three hands on the clock so they tinkled, ticked, and whirred. Why had her mother left her a strange old clock? Why had she left her at all? All of a sudden, the mysterious third hand started to spin violently and Vera Morozov was spat into darkness.
“Morning, Vera,” murmured Rosa, sprinkling sugar on the semolina porridge and pushing it towards Vera. Baby Alice burbled cheerfully in her chair, waving stubby fists at Vera. Gulping her porridge, Vera waved goodbye to her aunt and cousin, and rushed upstairs to her room. Taking off her dressing gown, she fiddled with the numerous ribbons, buckles and layers of the Russian skirt Aunt Rosa still made her wear. Then, lifting onto her tiptoes, she shoved the wonky ceiling beam that revealed a small hole in the roof slat. In here, Vera kept her three treasured possessions: an old string toy, a sticky lemon sherbet, and a tiny, golden, engraved clock with three hands. The last one of these was in her basket when her mother had left her at Alice’s door, with a note to look after Vera until she came back. It had been twelve years since that day. Vera’s mother wasn’t back. Vera sighed tragically. Her tragic sigh was rather good now, after ten years of practice. She twiddled with the three hands on the clock so they tinkled, ticked, and whirred. Why had her mother left her a strange old clock? Why had she left her at all? All of a sudden, the mysterious third hand started to spin violently and Vera Morozov was spat into darkness.