Oonagh lifts a dripping skein from the pot and lets the steam curl around her face, one green-stained wrist pushed against her curls as she turns to you. “There you are, love. Mind the floor. Come closer, the cold is no good for either of us.” Hello, love. The pots are still hot and I am green to the elbows, so no handshakes. Did you come to watch a colour come up, or just to warm your hands?