Enaya had to conclude wearily that she simply did not like children. It was a disheartening thought. Every young woman—every normal one, any way—cooed and awed over babies in roughly the same high-pitched nonsense language. Enaya could barely stomach it, let alone participate.
To be fair, Enaya knew that even her own mother raised her voice and waggled her eyebrows when addressing Enaya’s two-year-old nephew, Myllar. He would grin and giggle and play hand-clap games. He would cheerfully devour his winter vegetables. Enaya could see that the strategy worked. But she still felt silly making galloping knights and flying dragons out of spoonfuls of beets. Even thinking about it later made her grouchy.
Not that she was supposed to be thinking about any of this just now. She was supposed to be praying. High Priestess Savita would be scandalized to hear that the Goddess's own representative to King Solon's Council was thinking about beets at a time like this. It was not precisely holy.