Conversation drifted through the gap in the bedroom door, Cillian’s raised voice making us both turn that way to listen. “Why is he so annoyed?” I asked. “And why is his accent even more difficult to understand?”
Finn resumed making the bed. “He’s talking to his brother. He’s been having a few issues. If you ask Cillian, they’re of Mac’s own making, but he’s possibly being unfair. It’s something we’ve agreed to disagree on.”
“Mac? I thought his brother was called Liam, and he was married.”
Finn smoothed down the sheet and started on the pillows. “He does have a married brother called Liam. That’s the one who’s only a year younger than him. This is Cormac, his baby brother. He’s… I guess what you’d call the black sheep of the family.” He pulled a face. “Let me guess… you need that explaining.”
Finn often forgot, possibly on account of me having an English father, that it wasn’t my first language. I might be more fluent than most, but that didn’t stretch to quaint idioms that usually made no more sense once they’d been explained than they had before. This one, however, I knew. We had le mouton noir. Or brebis galeuse which translated to scabby sheep. But where wasthe joy in admitting that? It was much more fun to watch Finn struggle to explain something. “Please.”
Finn sighed. “I hate it when you make me explain sayings.”
“I hate it when you use them rather than simply saying what you mean. Why do you need to say that it is raining cats and…?”
“Dogs,” Finn supplied before I could screw up the saying, either accidentally or on purpose.
“Exactly. Why not just say it’s raining? Why bring animals into it?”
“Because it provides more meaning. Raining cats and dogs isn’t just rain, it’srain.”
“Oh well, glad we cleared that up.”
Finn rolled his eyes. “Stop being difficult.”
“If I stop being difficult, what will be left of me?”
Finn’s attempt at being stern-faced came to a screeching halt, his scowl transforming into a grin. “Nothing but hair and cheekbones.”
“There you go, then.” Finn shook his head fondly. “Sheep?” I prompted him, Cillian’s raised voice still filtering into the room from the living room. “Black ones?”
“Most sheep are white, right?”
“I am not a sheep expert. I am not from Wales. We do not have them strolling along the Champs-Élysées.”
“You don’t have to see them to know what color they are,” Finn said irritably. I shrugged, enjoying winding Finn up too much to stop. “Most of them are white.”
“If you say so. I will bow to your expertise of such a thing.”
“A black sheep stands out in a field of white sheep. So we use it to say that someone is different, that they’re the…” He grimaced. “I suppose that they’re the difficult one of the family. The one who causes trouble.”
“And this Mac, he causes trouble? He is more annoying than his brother? I find that difficult to believe.”
Finn didn’t rise to the bait of me having a dig at Cillian. “If you ask me, he’s a bit of a free spirit. Cillian would probably say otherwise.”
“Cillian would say otherwise about what?”
Unbeknownst to both of us, Cillian had ended his call and now leaned against the doorjamb with one eyebrow raised.
“Mac,” Finn explained. “Laurent was asking why you were arguing on the phone.”
“It wasn’t an argument,” Cillian said smoothly. “I was just trying to get through to him. Mac’s attention wanders if I don’t speak loudly.”
“It sounded like an argument,” I said with a fake smile.
Cillian’s gaze swiveled my way. “Your lack of English is presumably to blame for your lack of judgment in that area.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and regarded him coolly. “Roi des cons. Trou de ballet. Casse-couille.”
Finn looked to Cillian, the Irishman the strongest out of the two of them at speaking French. Cillian shook his head. “I don’t know. Nothing good.”
