Nicola, whose mouth was already full, nodded her head. “Tarts! These tarts are too tart!” she managed around the pastry.
Fen’s expression fell. “Really? They are? Och, well, I’ll add more honey next time.”
If they were too tart, that didn’t stop Nicola from reaching for another one. Robena stood and crossed to the worktable and scooped one up for herself. After biting into it, she shook her head as she chewed.
“ ‘Tis no’ as sweet as yer last batch, but I like it.”
“Mayhap adding a honey glaze?” Fen said hopefully, her round face breaking into a smile. “Or perhaps some sweetened cream?”
Robena nodded, then reached for Leanna’s cup with her free hand, obviously intending on taking a sip. “That might— What, in the name of St. Kelsi’s spoon, is this?”
Since she’d had no intention of stopping her sister from trying to sip from her green paint, Leanna burst into giggles. Nicola turned to frown at the cup.
“What’s what?”
“This.” Robena’s nose wrinkled as she stared into the cup. “I was hoping ‘twas water.”
Nicola waved dismissively and reached for another tart, obviously afraid Fen—who was chewing thoughtfully—would eat them all. “Something Leanna was working on.”
Still giggling, Leanna pushed herself to her feet, eager to explain. “ ‘Tis paint.”
“Green paint,” Robena corrected skeptically.
“Aye. I found some malachite in Nicola’s trunk”—Leanna ignored her sister’s angry sputtering—“and I mixed it with some oil.”
Robena sniffed the cup, then shook her head and held it out to Fen. “I think ye might’ve used the wrong kind of oil. This is the kind ye cook with.”
“I dinnae cook,” corrected Leanna.
Fen took the cup in her free hand and sniffed it. “Aye, I dinnae think this is painting oil. What are ye doing with it?”
I thought ye’d never ask.
Excitedly, Leanna hurried toward the corner where they all—very infrequently—worked on their stitching and scooped up the treasure she’d pilfered that morning. Proudly, she brandished the small object as she turned.
Fen gasped. “Mother’s looking glass? Does she ken ye have it?”
Wynda rolled her eyes. “Clearly no’. What mischief are ye planning this time?”
“Mischief? Me?” Leanna did her best to hide her smirk. “Whatever makes ye think I’m up to mischief?”
“Because, since Da declared we all have to find a husband and curtailed yer adventures and wanderings, ye’ve had to resort to practical jokes to satisfy whatever twisted urge for excitement is to be found in yer head,” Wynda said, correctly, as it turned out.
But Leanna smiled innocently. “I dinnae ken what ye mean.”
“Remember the time she balanced the bucket atop the door to this chamber,” Fen asked, “and I got a faceful of old milk?”
“Or when she painted mustaches on all the portraits? Even great-grandmother?”
Leanna had been eight years old; not her best work.
Wynda chuckled. “My favorite was when she talked us all into dressing in shades of gray and black and blue. Do ye recall? And when Mother commented on it, Leanna claimed we were all in bright colors and convinced Mother she must be going color blind.”
Aye, that had been a good one.
Fen shook her head. “Or when she stole Mother’s needle box and slipped it into my dough. I swear, I only turned my back for a moment! And then I served the bread to Mother for supper!”
Robena was chuckling. “That was bad.”