She was no good at sewing. It was terrible and awful and she hated the fiddly threads and she kept stabbing herself with the needle and ‘Maaaaaa...’
‘Hush now.’
Smith ground her teeth, and stuck the needle through the cloth straight into her leg.
‘Look at you,’ said her mother. ‘You’ll be getting blood everywhere, go clean up. And you can wipe that smirk off your face, filly! You’ll be back here soon as to keep at it.’
Pearly had been good at sewing. Ma made a sort of choking sound, and Smith winced. Did I say that out loud?