Marigold sighed as she reached for the sugar dish, only for it to skitter just out of reach with an impudent little hop. The porcelain handles—shaped like arms akimbo—tilted at an even jauntier angle, giving it the undeniable air of a troublemaker.
“Oh, don’t you start,” she muttered, adjusting her grip on her cane as she tried again.
The sugar dish bounced to the other side of the table with an enthusiastic clink, its lid rattling in what could only be described as laughter.
Marigold narrowed her eyes. “I am too old and too tired for this foolishness.”
She reached again, faster this time, but the dish leapt onto the windowsill with an infuriating little twirl, handles cocked like a rogue about to tip its hat.
Marigold huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “Fine. Be that way.”
Turning away, she grabbed the honey jar instead, dipping her spoon in with great deliberation.
“Honestly. No respect. And honey’s better for my joints anyway.”
Behind her, the sugar dish gave an indignant clatter, but she ignored it entirely.
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