[She hadn't been nervous in years. Not since leaving behind Vegas and hotel doors that opened onto worlds and not since she'd gone back to the little house close to the base. She had worked places where the men were all brusque and sharp and clipped, and that wasn't bad temper, it was just the way things were and she'd figured out a rhythm that had swung in-step. But Max wasn't her mom, who loved like love was going on sale right before Christmas and she wanted every piece and Max wasn't her father, quiet, where you could see him thinking everything through. Her sister had hauled her out of rough spots, but she'd done so with the distance of age and duty. And Ella figured duty was something but it wasn't this.
She was jeans under a soft gray sweater and boots, and a heavy wool coat buttoned up over the top and Elizabeth towing her toward the doors of a flower-store that made her wonder if Max had gotten the address wrong. Max and flowers, and she grinned and she pulled one of Elizabeth's braids into line (which did nothing for the uniform skirt hem hanging loose over her knees and the socks that were down around her ankles and a suspicious color of off-white).
The air inside smelled green and fresh and it was a quick kick of memory of sitting outside on her knees beside the flower-beds with her mom. Ella looked for Max, in a maelstrom of people all shoving and jostling and yeah, she saw her tucked behind the register, a little older but still the same Max.]
Touch nothing [She warned Elizabeth and she shrugged off her coat and ducked close enough to the register to be out of the way of traffic.] What can I do? [because she was a spare pair of hands, if she was anything.]