A good date, when you're ten, is not candlelit dinners or concerts except maybe the buzz of the bees in clover or the argument at the back of the kitchen over whose turn it is to get to save the last jar of raspberry jam. It's with whom you are that matters, and the odd bravery of saying, "This is for us," in a world that has not treated either of you all that well.
Velka and I stood shoulder to shoulder along the rim of the garden, my mothers' eyes a unspoken thread of caution and desire, suspended down from the upper balcony. Velka wrinkled her nose and sent a wicked wave. I waved my fingers, trying to hold the flush at bay.
"Always like that?" Velka breathed, eyes glinting with devilish laughter.
"They created the concept," I said. "I often wonder whether the royal guard was a rehearsal for motherhood."
