Greta's mother would be completely right to clutch her hand, if they passed in the street; that makes it much better that they're meeting like this, surely, as... well, clearly not equals, but with no mothers hovering to tell them to come away.

"I haven't," she says, and takes up two of the flowers, pressing their stems together so their blooms are paired together. They look like a couple dancing, she thinks, when she twirls them. "Is it like braiding? Or like knitting? Or like a crochet chain? I know how to do all those things."

Perhaps she should be embarrassed to let this little girl know how little she knows, but she can't find it in her to care when she's curious and the other child is willing to tell her things, freely.