“I do not expect to become fluent overnight,” Kuni promised. “I want to be able to communicate with all of you at all times. And I am not afraid of hard work.”
“No, I suppose you’re not.” Marjorie lifted her hand and gave a decisive shake to two of her fingers.
Kuni tried it. “What does it mean?”
“‘Again.’ You can use this sign to ask me to repeat something you didn’t understand. And you can also interrupt my siblings to ask them to repeat themselves in English. Now it’s your turn.”
Obediently, Kuni made the sign foragain.
“Not that,” Marjorie said with a laugh. “Although you did very well. How do I say ‘again’ in Balcovian?”
“Opnieuw,” Kuni answered. “Why?”
“You’re not the only one who likes to learn new things.” Marjorie’s blue eyes sparkled. “And it will delight me to have a secret language even my siblings don’t know. Before you leave, we must flaunt it in front of them obnoxiously.”
Kuni laughed. “Then we have a trade.”
“Agreed.” Marjorie held out her hand.
Kuni shook it. “What are you working on up here?”
“Something to hang in the empty wing of the house we’ve finally started using again. So far it only hosts the Lusty Literary Ladies’ reading circle—”
Kuni made the sign foragain.
“Opnieuw,” Marjorie said. “Philippa’s bluestocking society, though she claims they don’t have an official name. Do you know what a— No? All right. ‘Bluestocking’ means ‘unfashionably bookish female,’ although the term originates from literal blue stockings once worn by a man…to a woman’s intellectual salon.”
Kuni snorted. “At least they were not called the Powdered Wigs or the Graying Whiskers.”
“Philippa doesn’t care what others say. She loves books and learning, and so do her friends. She put in a library on the ground floor of the west wing, and they fill it up with noise and laughter every Thursday afternoon. The rest of the rooms are empty, and all the walls are blank. For now.”
“What are you painting?”
Marjorie rocked on her heels. “A wonderful, nostalgic, only mildly embarrassing then-and-now series featuring each of my siblings.”
Kuni’s mouth fell open. “Show me Graham’s only mildly embarrassing portrait at once.”
Marjorie grinned and led her to one of the easels. “I kept all the sketches I made over the summer of ’ninety-eight, when Bean adopted us. Even if I hadn’t, I would never forget my first look at each of my new siblings. I’m still working on it, but you’ll get the idea.”
Kuni stared at the portrait in wonder. A strong countenance gazed back at her, defiant and vulnerable.
The same flyaway crop of soft black curls, the same golden bronze skin, the same quick brown eyes in a face that looked barely nine or ten years old. His clothes were unpainted and the background was indistinct, causing his hopeful-yet-wary expression to stand out all the more.
“That is incredible.” Kuni could not tear her gaze away. “I can imagine him just like this.”
“Here’s Chloe’s.” Marjorie pulled her to a pair of canvases. “Her before-and-after is complete.”
Kuni could not suppress a grin. Young Chloe’s clothes had been painted in, as had the background, but with a monochromatic palette of cream and tan and beige. The effect should have been blurry and forgettable, but instead served to highlight Chloe’s pretty face and the startling intensity of her sharp gaze. That was then.
In her “now” portrait, Chloe was a veritable kaleidoscope of color. She also wasn’t alone. The Duke of Faircliffe stood beside her, his puppy-love eyes only for his wife.
“I’m working on Tommy and Philippa’s now,” Marjorie said. “You and I can teach each other words as I paint. Hand me the puce?”
Kuni’s eyes widened. She made the sign foragain.
“It’s a brownish-pinkish-purple version of Balcovian amaranth. And I was just testing to see if you remembered the sign. I’ll arrange my own palette. You can sit on the chaise longue and tell me how to say ‘color.’”
“Kleur.”
