Holidays
Apparently, Emilia – Atlanta’s adoptive mother – refused to grant my wish only because she was pondering it, and our paintball session was part of it. It is because now, as we are once more back in her home, she announces that we shall depart to somewhere called the Adirondacks an hour hence.
“Shes like that,” Atlanta types on her phone and shows me the screen. “Now wed best be packing. If she says an hour then its an hour.”
Her excitement is palpable and infectious. Otherwise, I would not return her widen grin and twinkling eyes with my own.
`But what to pack? And how?` The servants packed my belongings under Mother’s supervision, when I was small, and under my own supervision since a few centuries ago. Besides, is it fair for me to claim Atlanta’s clothes as my own and pack them with me?
Atlanta nudges me none too gently, when I spend a long moment just staring at the satchel that she has just tossed me.
“Come on wed be late!!!” She shoves the screen of her phone under my nose with an audible huff. “it’s a holiday!!!”
I swat her shoulder lightly, but cannot help smiling a little.