"Oh, aye," and when she looks up at the sky, it's not as if it's night, but the moon, if she looks hard enough, is still clear in the sky.

(If you look hard enough, you can pick out every star, for all it's day time yet.)

"Aye," she repeats, smiling a little. "Twas one of the things a nymph who was near mother to me taught me, as I grew."

She wonders if it's hers yet, hers or Susan's, really, and her smile fades a little as her hand drifts over her stomach for a moment before falling again to her side. There's no rhythm of the moon that marks her days anymore, not like there once was, no pains or aches or mess.

"--Why did he think it made you love to run?" she asks finally, softly, and hates that here she brings enough with her to make it possible to hurt.