It had been so long, yet she never forgot that time. No matter what was happening, it always came back in an instant.
At the time, she had been six years and five months old, according to the ancient calendar. No matter how far they traveled or where they settled, the people had kept those old traditions. Arenda always found it amusing how ironic “months” were, considering where they were, but they remained as useful milestones nonetheless. One such major event, and the one which played host to her bittersweet memory, was the annual celebration of November.
Her family’s many relatives had gathered for the usual reunion, which mainly consisted of large meals, loud voices, and plenty of drinking. It was after the main feast that she found she could no longer resist the temptation to indulge herself in her secret.