The crayon, clutched in little Lily’s chubby fist, was a vibrant green. It was, I noticed with a rising sense of unease, the precise shade of emerald that covered Bartholomew’s coat. Bartholomew, who I'd, at the age of six, insisted was a dapper gentleman fox. Now, Lily was drawing him, complete with monocle and tiny top hat, in a picture of a picnic, alongside a girl who looked suspiciously like *me*. I shifted uncomfortably on the small chair, my throat suddenly tight. This was not happening.
Lily chattered, her voice a cheerful melody. "And Bartholomew likes to drink tea, just like Aunt Sarah does!" She looked up at me, her eyes wide with innocent joy. I managed a weak smile, my stomach twisting. How could this be? It had been decades. Bartholomew had remained buried deep in the recesses of my childhood.
The illustration continued, Lily's hand moving with impressive speed. The picnic basket now contained an assortment of miniature sandwiches, each painstakingly rendered. I felt a prickle of sweat break out on my forehead. I needed a distraction, an escape. "That's… lovely, Lily," I stammered, my voice sounding strangely high-pitched. "Maybe… maybe we can go get some ice cream later?"