Mira Morganstein: The Pink Lemonade Club 017
“Mira,” her mother fastened her gaze on the table cloth, still pristine and white, “I’m going to tell you a story. I need you not to interrupt me until I’m finished. All right?”
Not liking the sound of that, Mira nodded. How was she supposed to figure things out if she couldn’t ask questions?
“Once upon a time—”
“I thought you said this was a real story.” Mira folded her arms and raised a brow.
“It is.”
“Then why did you—”
“All the very best stories start with ‘Once upon a time,’” her mother said in her usual no-nonsense voice. “This one is no exception. May I continue?”
Gwyn turned her pockets out, searching in vain for a handkerchief. When none seemed forthcoming, Robin sacrificed one end of his scarf with all the air and dignity of a martyr. She buried her face in the soft red wool, mindful not to tug too hard, as her cousin was still wearing the rest of it. It smelled of the wild with a hint of blackberry, and made her stomach fizzle as though she was the one accustomed to swooping through the air and gusting with the wind.
“Where I come from, people help each other because it is the right thing to do, not because there is payment involved.”