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Word Count: 580
Haha, how much experience do you have with weed?
★ ★ ★
Cannabis had always been a part of Grace's life. She could remember her father smoking it from his pipe when she was very young, with her sitting on his lap, still too young to shift. He had blown the smoke into her face, very gently, and chuckled when she coughed softly and shook her head, her nose wrinkled in surprise. 'Do you like that, Gracie?' he had asked, and she had taken the most indignant tone that anyone had ever heard from her. 'My name, Pa, is Grace! You should call a thing by its proper name.' She had been quoting her parents, who had never encouraged poor speech, even at a young age. He had seemed surprised, but that was quite simply that - she didn't care for nicknames, and that hadn't changed as she had gotten older. Neither had her cannabis usage. Her first shift had marked an occasion: she was a week earlier with it than her brother, and hadn't really tried too terribly hard. He had tried all the next week, when he thought that he was alone, and she had watched, sad that he was so resentful. She had hoped that they could learn together, but that just hadn't been how it had happened.
The day that Gabriel finally managed, even that had been overshadowed by the completion of Grace's first cannabis pipe, the same that she still used, a masterpiece by her father. Gabriel was given one as well, of course - a much less ornate, more "masculine" pipe. The only advantage over Grace's was that the bowl was bigger, customary for a male. She got the idea that Gabriel didn't like how differently they were treated, particularly by their father, who had always favoured Grace for her bubbly, charming, quirky personality, and her intuitive inventor's mind. It hadn't been fair, but Gabriel had their mother, who showed nothing besides dismay at the way Grace developed under her father's watchful eye. Their mother had always approved more of Gabriel, who didn't break the mould, who didn't step out of line. Grace was always pushing limits, trying new things, a trait that her innovative father had loved, and her traditional mother had despised. She couldn't help it, and she didn't really see it as a problem that they saw the world differently. She couldn't change her mother, and wouldn't want to, and her mother couldn't change her. It was better to just accept it and be at peace.
She took her pipe back and hit it, leaning back into her pillows and sighing on exhale. It was nice to be home, to relax. She looked up at Taj, who was now perched on her head. "Taj, moĭ drug, would you get me some cured meat?" The crow looked at her and cawed pointedly. "Oh, fine, yes, have a piece too." She then looked at Hadley. "Are you hungry, honey? I just cured some strips of rabbit and squirrel, and I have some cured salmon left, I think." Grace was a poor hunter, but she could catch small game, and she preserved much of it, so that she had food when she didn't care to go out and catch any, or when game was scarce. "There's plenty to share, so just tell Taj what your fancy is. He understands." That reminded her - he had actually spoken earlier. She would have to see what was up with that tomorrow. Tonight, she wanted to rest.