andhiswife | (Reply)

"I suppose it would be," Greta says with a faint wince. Amalthea does seem steady enough on her feet, so rather than brace her hand beneath her elbow or something, Greta briefly rests her hand on the girl's back -- a different sort of support.

Maybe it shouldn't, but the comment about being tired makes her hum in something like wry amusement. Between the baby and the bakery, she feels rather well-versed in exhaustion. Granted, ever since the baby arrived, it mostly had been needing to sleep. But before then -- before the Woods -- it had been something else. She'd be kneading dough or hauling a sack of flour, something she did so often it no longer required thought, and it would occur to her that this was it: that for the foreseeable future, this was all there was and all there would be. She had known better than to hate her life, but god, the sameness of it had worn on her. She can't imagine what it's like to be a unicorn, but she knows the business of being human is often relentlessly dull.

"... Like variations on a theme," she muses dryly, meeting Amalthea's gaze for a moment or two before she has to look away. She could get lost completely in eyes like that; if nothing else, she might end up walking right into a tree.