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“I could be a manicurist,” Harmony says.

Wesley doesn’t look up from his book. “Hmm.”

“Could I practise on you, Wes? Pretty please?”

“No.”

She pouts. “But I might be really good at it!”

When he doesn’t respond, she thinks for a moment. Going over to lift up his free hand, she says, “I’m going to try reading your palm, okay, Wesley?”

“What? Oh, very well.”

Grinning, she gets to work.

For the rest of the day, Wesley tries to figure out when he got a manicure and why on Earth he let his nails be painted bright, hot pink.