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Oh, Lord, what had Myra's mother put Renfield in now?
Mrs. Turnbull slid her son into his high chair, gave him an approving once-over and then peeked over Myra's shoulder to check the saucepan.
"Mum, what have you--?"
"Myra, dear, you really must remember to use enough cornstarch, this'll never do..." Mrs. Turnbull plucked the spoon from Myra's fingers and slid her out of the way of the stove with a smooth motion. "I'll see to this. Please feed your brother."
Myra threw up both hands in a gesture of give over, moving off to stand in front of her little brother.
Renfield beamed up at her as best he could considering the overabundance of cowboy hat currently surrounding far too much of his head. He'd already taken up his plastic spoon and was beating it happily on the tray.
Myra slapped a hand to her forehead and laughed. The get-up was priceless. She couldn't even begin to guess where her mother had found a toddler-sized fringed waistcoat. Why she couldn't find a child-sized hat to go with it was a mystery for the ages.
She glanced off at her mother, debating; in the end, she decided she didn't want to know.
Renfield banged more insistently on his tray, giggling along with his sister.
Myra sighed and pulled up a chair, flicking the brim of that hat back and stuffing a rag into the front of Renfield's shirt. "Mustn't ruin the rhinestones with mushy peas, eh?"
Renfield answered with a playful raspberry, the motion of which slumped the hat right back into place nearly covering his eyes.
Myra glanced off at her mother, making absolutely sure she was still engrossed in the saucepan before sticking her tongue out in return.
"Stop that," came the amused but patient instruction from their mother.
Myra rolled her eyes, finally digging the spoon out of her brother's hand to feed him.