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Greta isn't normally up this late, but she also isn't normally perfecting a recipe under severe time constraints. She's beginning to think this bloody contest will be the death of her. She's beginning to think she might win.
She doesn't want any fae help in that regard, so she's asked Sweeney not to apply his luck to her efforts in the tent. (Well, she'd asked after a few of the early episodes, after it occurred to her to wonder if other bakers' nervous mistakes and her own fortunate guesses were entirely coincidental.) But she's still leaving out offerings for him. She's not a fool. He might respectfully refrain from giving her good luck in the tent, but she suspects he'd apply bad luck wherever he pleased.
So there's a chocolate-dipped biscotti pinning a napkin to the windowsill. It's only open a few inches, dispelling the heat and moisture from both baking and scrubbing up. She's wiping down the counters when she sees a small, pale hand pluck the offering from its resting place, and she stiffens in surprise. Squinting past the kitchen's reflections, she sees a flash of red hair a good foot or so lower than she'd expect it to be, and a smirking, female face.
"Wh--!" She doesn't stop to consider that there might be two leprechauns in the city. All she can think is that someone who isn't Sweeney has just helped themselves to his offering, and her indignation has her flying out the back door with a broom in hand before common sense can catch up with her. "I beg your pardon!" she snaps, her tone suggesting she shouldn't be the one begging.
She doesn't want any fae help in that regard, so she's asked Sweeney not to apply his luck to her efforts in the tent. (Well, she'd asked after a few of the early episodes, after it occurred to her to wonder if other bakers' nervous mistakes and her own fortunate guesses were entirely coincidental.) But she's still leaving out offerings for him. She's not a fool. He might respectfully refrain from giving her good luck in the tent, but she suspects he'd apply bad luck wherever he pleased.
So there's a chocolate-dipped biscotti pinning a napkin to the windowsill. It's only open a few inches, dispelling the heat and moisture from both baking and scrubbing up. She's wiping down the counters when she sees a small, pale hand pluck the offering from its resting place, and she stiffens in surprise. Squinting past the kitchen's reflections, she sees a flash of red hair a good foot or so lower than she'd expect it to be, and a smirking, female face.
"Wh--!" She doesn't stop to consider that there might be two leprechauns in the city. All she can think is that someone who isn't Sweeney has just helped themselves to his offering, and her indignation has her flying out the back door with a broom in hand before common sense can catch up with her. "I beg your pardon!" she snaps, her tone suggesting she shouldn't be the one begging.
