Sawtooth Spire We were talking for a minute, then some guy tried to cut in

Wylla often marvelled at how different Phaedra was from Tiercel. It was unfair to compare the two, but she'd be lying if she hadn't expected another complete pain in the ass for a daughter. That wasn't to say she was letting Phaedra off the hook, for the pale girl was bound to challenge her in completely novel ways, but it was nice to not have a toddler talking back about every little thing. Phaedra was, in comparison, an absolute delight.

And no one had informed Wylla that delightful children often made the worst teenagers imagineable.

It was a good thing Phaedra was so focused on saying Windholme, else she might've caught the flash of irritation that sprung across Wylla's face when she very nearly pulled a Mahler. Ain't no child of Wylla's gonna talk like some mini-ass Dracula. But then Phaedra corrected herself and even Wylla had to smile. Yes, Widhoe, very good! she praised. That was the other difference between Phaedra and Thade, and the wayward Tiercel. Wylla had nothing but criticism for her first daughter. This time around, she was trying to be a litttle more forthcoming with praise, taking cues from Mahler as needed. So far it seemed to be working, although it would be awfully big-headed of her to take all the credit for Phaedra's demeanour.

(She took credit for it.)

The question was obviously rhetorical, for Phaedra was off with a sagely nod, but Wylla answered anyway even as she trailed after her milk-white child. Yes, Thade stayed up too late playing with the ghosts, she said, and naughty children who don't go to sleep don't get to go on field trips. She'd take Thade later. The kid was kind of a layabout anyway. She wouldn't be surprised if he grew up to be a night owl. They walked for some minute or so before Wylla chanced to spot a snail, arisen early from hibernation and still out from the night before, crawling alongside a puddle. Oh Phaaae-draaah, she singsonged, turning toward the puddle, do you know what that is?