smiling at the majorettes smoking winston cigarettes

"You've changed."

"Have I?" It's a genuine question, instead of a challenge.

"Yeah," Mythra says, quiet and slow, all lived-experience maturity vis-à-vis live-wire spark. "Back then, everybody was a...purse dog to you. Hugo, Haze, Aegaeon. Me, except I was someone else's purse dog, too yappy for your tastes."

Brighid nods, taking that in. "I suppose it's not something I would have recorded in my journals."

Mythra shakes her head. "Not at all. But..."

History: something precious, valuable, true.

Oh, the old Brighid would have stabbed her for this one. "I guess I'd hate to see you domesticated too much."