As the memories of her first childhood jelled, more solid by each year she spent in this new life, Jo recognised her sisters. Her first sisters, each of the three of them, reborn and shuffled about.
How strange to have Meg (a different name, if also shortened to one syllable) be younger than Jo herself was. How peculiar to have an Amy who did not draw (but remaking of dresses was its own art). Beth, dear Beth with all health in this life... No housework for her, to sing sweetly over as she went about her tasks. In this life they all yearned for music.
All of them among these many other girls, so many new sisters. The dozen had no Marmee to comfort or guide them, and their father was further away in his office two floors down than the March sisters' father had ever been when away at war.
Jo had to protect them all, every one of her sisters. Ironic that Jo who had detested balls when she was Jo March, in this life found all her freedom in dancing. Her own freedom and that of all her sisters.