“And the red one,” Katie said. “The strong red. Like the berries.”
“We can have both,” Erica said. “But ye willnae fight me for it.”
“We never fight,” Bettie said.
Katie snorted. “Wealwaysfight.”
Erica held out her hands. “Give me the ribbons. If ye fight, I will keep them.”
They handed them over at once, mouths pinched into thin lines to keep from laughing.
Erica untangled the lengths, measured them with her forearms, and handed them back in equal shares.
“Now,” she said, “we will go cut flowers.”
They took her to the low slope by the east wall, where the sun reached early. Since her arrival, the ground now held thick patches of wild thyme and small purple heads that Leah always called by a Gaelic name Erica could not remember, no matter how hard she tried.
The girls dropped to their knees, and Erica did the same, ignoring the dirt that clung to the bottom of her dress.
“Nay, nae that one,” Katie said, swatting at Bettie’s wrist. “It is too short.”
“It is perfect,” Bettie said. “She likes the small ones.”
Erica said nothing. Instead, she bent the stem clean with her fingernail and added it to the bunch in Bettie’s hand.
“We can use height to show the small ones better,” she said. “Put the tall white behind, then the purple comes forward.”
Bettie squinted. “Like the way Grandmamma sits in the chair and we stand in front.”
“Aye,” Erica agreed. “Like that.”
They moved along the border, choosing and rejecting and choosing again. When they found a stand of buttercups, Katie held one beneath Erica’s chin and narrowed her eyes. “It says ye like butter,” she said.
“I do like butter,” Erica said.
“That is why ye have soft arms,” Bettie said, solemn as a priest.
Erica barked a laugh before she could stop it. “Is that so?”
“Aye,” Bettie said. “Soft is good. Hard is for rocks.”
“Grandmamma’s cane is hard,” Katie remarked. “She hits the floor with it when we shout.”
“Then let’s nae shout,” Erica said, and tried to look stern.
It only lasted two heartbeats before they dissolved into giggles.
By midmorning, their fingers were green and their baskets too full.
Erica taught them to twist three stems into a braid and tie it with the end of a ribbon so it would hold. They concentrated so hard that their tongues poked from the corners of their mouths.
When Katie’s braid slipped, she made a small noise of frustration and flung it down. Erica picked it up, tightened the twist, and handed it back.
“Try again,” she said. “Things hold when ye keep the pressure even.”
“Like tug of war,” Bettie said.
“Aye.” Erica nodded. “Like that.”
