"Actually," said Astrid, "most literary poetry doesn't actually rhyme. It's considered amateurish and out of style..."

She hesitated again, in part to shake off the echoes of Ingrid's voice in her head as she said that and because she wasn't sure if she should ask what she was about it.

"Can I read it?"

She knew art was personal, after all. Or could be. She could think of a few sketchbooks under her bed right now that she'd be mortified if Mae ever saw. But she couldn't help being curious. And even though Ingrid was the last thing she'd want to bring up right now, she found the words leaving her before she could even stop them.

"My mom's a poet, actually, so I grew up reading and listening to a ton of it..."

As if her expertise could perhaps sweeten the deal a little.