“I was about to leave you a note,” Meara said from behind the work counter. “The both of you.”
“Now you’ll have some tea, and a visit. I’ve missed seeing you. Iona, don’t track up the floor.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re dry, I’m soaked. I must look like a wet cat.”
“More a drowned one,” Meara commented.
Branna walked straight to the kettle. “Do a glamour.”
Saying nothing, Iona glanced at Meara.
“Meara knows all there’s to know, and likely more besides. Fix yourself up.”
“I’m no good at glamours. I told you I tried one once, and it was a disaster.”
“Sure it’s why it’s called practice. For usual, it’s my thinking glamours or drying your clothes instead of changing them is lazy and vain, but for now, it’s good practice. If you end up with warts or boils, I’ll fix it for you.” With a wicked smile, Branna glanced back. “Eventually.”
“You did one for me, do you remember, Branna, when we were fifteen, I think, and I desperately wanted to go blond, as Seamus Lattimer, my heart’s desire at that time, preferred them.”
At home, Meara took off her jacket, hung it on a peg, unwrapped her scarf to do the same, then her cap. “I was about to do the deed—had the hair product I’d saved two weeks to buy, and Branna came along, did the glamour, and changed it for me.”
Considering, Iona studied Meara. “I can’t picture you as a blonde, not with your coloring.”
“It was a rare disaster. I looked as if I’d developed the jaundice.”
“And you were too stubborn to admit it,” Branna reminded her.
“Oh, I was, so I lived with it near to a week before I begged her to turn it back. Do you remember what you said to me?”
“Something about changing for yourself was one matter, changing for a man was weak and foolish.”
“Wise, even so young,” Meara said with her bawdy laugh. “And Seamus spent his time snogging with Catherine Kelly, as blond as a daffodil. But I lived through the disappointment.”
“A lesson learned, of some sort,” Branna said. “But in this case, we’re considering it practice. Fix yourself up there, Iona, and we’ll have some tea.”
“Okay. Here goes.” She released a breath, sincerely hoping she didn’t set herself on fire as she concentrated on her jacket, sweater, and jeans first.
Steam puffed, but no flames snapped. She began to feel her toes thaw out, her skin warm, and, smiling, ran a hand over the dry sleeve of her jacket.
“It worked.”
“Think of the time I’d save on laundry if I had a trick like that,” Meara commented.
Grinning, Iona ran a hand over her wet, dripping hair, turned it to a sunny, dry cap. On a quick laugh, she covered her face with her hands, closed her eyes briefly. When she lowered them, her face glowed, the color of her lips
deepened to a rosy pink, her eyelashes darkened, lengthened.
“How do I look?”
“Ready to head to the pub and flirt with all the handsome men,” Meara told her.
“Really?” Delighted, Iona rushed to the mirror. “I look good! I really do.”
“Smoothly done, and with a bit of finesse as well. You’ve come along well.”
“Stick around,” Iona said to Meara. “She never says things like that to me.”
“So when I do, you know I mean them. I’ve shortbread biscuits, Meara, and the jasmine tea you’re fond of.”