[SE] Yeast of the Sun, Zest of the Moon

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help Rather taken aback by her friend's sudden frankness, Amalia colors a vibrant pink, only slightly slow with a rejoinder. "And if I could cleave your ponytail, I would have more silver than the moon, old man." A wink and a laugh; it is all meant in jest, good fun among good friends, the better to lighten the mood. "But I think Rory might skin me alive, if I ruin the look of his silver fox." She still is not sure how to teach him, he who ever seems to know all. She appreciates the faith, however, will try to rise to what he expects. Dressed in a typical leaf-green tunic, Amalia's hair is in a plait, looped and braided to keep from her face, though strands continue to escape. Turning back to the kitchen, she dons her most beloved gift: an apron made by Deimos' magic, a beautiful starwhale on the front. Clearing her throat, the girl begins. "The first thing to know about making cakes is the butter and the sugar." She gestures that he should add those ingredients to the bowl, producing a large wire whisk. "You need to mix them thoroughly - cream them, really - so air gets caught inside." It is an old lesson plan, and not her own: as ever, Amalia is reciting limericks, lines once told by a wiser woman of whom the girl is merely a shade. a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine