Running around, all commotion. Upsetting old and young alike. Annoying squalling little things. She said as much to Ma, when they were making dinner, and Ma chuckled. ‘Just like you, when you got your cutie mark,’ she said, and Smith blushed and stammered, ‘Not likely,’ and changed the subject.
Well the rain was miserable too, so no firelight, no music, only straight to bed and lying there in darkness, waiting, as the rain drummed down upon the canvas. The sort of thing she used to find comforting, when she was young and stupid.
And Apple Rose was out tonight. Again.

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