update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/motes/004.md

@@ -144,7 +144,9 @@ There was a quiet chime from the door and the letters on the nameplate faded fro
 
 Beyond, rather than the comfortable and comfortably her home that Slow Hours kept, there was a well-lit reading room, a solarium of sorts with glass that looked out over some far distant part of the selfsame prairie that the neighborhood abutted. A table, several chairs, and a small collection of far more comfortable recliners huddled in the middle, while beyond, room of shelving stretched into dimness.
 
-And there, already levering herself out of her chair, was Where It Watches The Slow Hours Progress. Sis Hours, her big sister. Slowers. Slow, if she was feeling particularly cheeky. Behind her, scattered among the shelves, several more instances of her cocladist were at work, peeking over whenever they thought she was not looking.
+And there, already levering herself out of her chair, was Where It Watches The Slow Hours Progress. Sis Hours, her big sister. Slowers. Slow, if she was feeling particularly cheeky. Had Beholden been human or Slow Hours a skunk, they could easily have been mistaken for twins, so similar were their builds — short, soft, round of face with curly black hair framing that pale skin — and yet as soon as they spoke the differences were immediately evident. Where Beholden was brash and snarky, Slow Hours was quiet and thoughtful. Where Beholden leaned into music as the lead sound tech, Slow Hours leaned into books as the lead script manager. Where Beholden was fun — really, truly, earnestly fun and a joy to be around — Slow Hours was nice. She was the one with which one spoke about feelings. She was the one who cried with you.
+
+Behind her, scattered among the shelves, several more instances of her cocladist were at work, peeking over whenever they thought she was not looking as though ready to do just that.
 
 "Hi Speck," she said, smiling. "If you are calling me 'Slow Hours' then something must be up."