I cannae say as I blame him. I think this whole project is horrifying as well.
But Wynda stalked after him, as if measuring a man with a length of increasingly grubby string was the most natural thing in the world.
“Because—and I explained this when we requested yer help—we’re measuring handsomeness. Since ye, cousin, are generally agreed to be handsome, we’re measuring ye.”
“But why?” the huge man called plaintively, still backing away.
“So we can determine what makes ye handsome!” she huffed in exasperation. “And thus understand it so we can apply that knowledge when it comes time to pick our husbands. Hold still.”
By this point, Robena was giggling and Fen was wishing she were anywhere else but here.
Her kitchens were warm, which could be uncomfortable in a hot summer’s afternoon like today, but they were safe and cozy and far from all the stares Wynda’s antics usually gathered. As she looked around, she saw the crowd was already quite large, and more were on their way to join them. Fen did her best to distance herself from her sister, who was currently waving her string at the blacksmith, but she knew it was useless.
The clan all recognized her; the painfully shy lady who much preferred to spend time in the kitchen, working until her shoulders were sore and her hands were raw, to provide delicious meals for the castle.
At least in her kitchens, she was comfortable. She could organize things around her the way she liked.
Except for him.
Aye, except for him.
She couldn’t organize him, and he was always there. So maybe ‘twas better she wasn’t there at the moment after all.
“But milady,” protested Craig, who was currently standing still long enough for Wynda to measure the muscles of his arms, “even ye said it; I’m yer cousin. ‘Tis no’ proper!”
“Oh do shut up.” Wynda moved to the next arm, after calling the measurements out to Fen. “We call everyone cousin. Thanks to our great-great-grandfather’s prolificacy, we’re related to most everyone anyway, so ‘tis likely not a far-off assumption.”
“My father really was yer grandfather’s—”
“Och, I ken!” interrupted Wynda. “Fen, did ye notice his other forearm was bigger?” She frowned at her string. “What do ye think that means?”
“I think it means, just possibly, yer string is faulty.”
“Dinnae be ridiculous.”
Ridiculous?
Wynda thought a faulty string was the most ridiculous aspect of this whole endeavor?
Fen hunched her shoulders and pulled her slate board against her chest. “Then mayhap it means measuring a man’s attractiveness with a string is a poor paradigm.”
“What are dimes, and why would he have two of them?” asked Robena.
“I dinnae have a pair of dimes,” Craig said, “but I have a pair of nuts.”
Nodding, Fen glanced down at her slate. “See? Food metaphors work.”
But Wynda was still pondering this new data. “What makes his right forearm bigger? Is that part of his attractiveness?”
“Mayhap he uses it more,” smirked Robena with a lewd pumping gesture of her fist at groin level.
“By St. Jennifer’s bones!” Fen exclaimed with exasperation and a roll of her eyes. “It means he swings his hammer with his right arm, Sister.”
“’Tis true,” Craig agreed. “I do. Both things,” he added helpfully.
“Och, aye!” Wynda blew out a breath. “Fen, disregard that last data point.”
As Fen scratched it out, she muttered, “Ye can take yer own bloody notes next time. This is embarrassing."