Greta has to bite back a grin at how deliberately grown-up Saoirse sounds. But then again, maybe it's not that deliberate. A year or so ago, it would have been inarguably precocious, but she's old enough now that she might just... genuinely be thinking a little less like a child.

It makes her heart ache, even as she realizes how lucky she is to have this: to be able to watch a child grow up, to have enough time to note changes like this. Not just the rapid milestones babies fly through (and she saw so few of those, in the end), but the slower, more subtle growth achieved by older children.

"That's a good idea," she says. Her smile is small and a little wistful, but not patronizing. "If I do forget about the biscuits, you'll have to remind me. And we'll have to pick a good flavor. He probably gets chocolate chip or sugar cookies at every other house."

The thought of making egg-nog sends her eyebrows creeping upward. "We could," she allows. "Though the egg-nog I've made before isn't the sort you could have. It often has alcohol in it. Traditionally." But after a considering beat, she adds, "There must be some way to make it work without that, though. Maybe we could find a recipe online."