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Fiona arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me. I am fairly sure we sell tea with cookies on the side.”

“Feeling a little wee bit prickly this morning, are we?” I teased.

A loud crash in the snug startled me, and I jumped, then listened for follow-up sounds for a beat. All I heard were a few muffled curses.

“You okay up there?” I called to Viv.

“I’m fine! Everything’s fine! I just… I fell off my chair! It’s all good. Do NOT come up here!” Viv cried.

Even without honed parenting skills, I knew that sounded suspicious. I turned to go check on the teen, but Fiona held up her hand to stop me, her eyes unfocused as she chased a thought, frowning at the counter.

“Say that again,” she said.

“Feeling a wee bit prickly this morning, are we?” I repeated, frowning right back at her.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Prickly. Prickly. There’s something there.”

I laughed. “Really? Prickly tea? That’s where we’re going?”

“Why am I thinking of the color purple?”

“Purple? Prickly purple?”

Viv stomped down from the snug, sighing theatrically. “Are you seriously both this dense?” She planted her fist on her hip and rolled her eyes at us.

I quirked an eyebrow at Fiona, who shrugged back in response.

“Prickly purple? Are you serious?” Viv cried. “Look around a little bit.” She pointed at the crown molding I’d just been studying, then walked to the door and yanked it open to gesture at the wrought-iron handle.

Fiona and I gasped in tandem.

Viv rolled her eyes. “About time,” she said, and stomped back up to the snug.

“Charming,” Fiona muttered.

“No. Not charming. I don’t think,” I replied. “The Charming Thistle doesn’t roll off the tongue. It’s a little too… fairy tale-y for me. The Purple Thistle?”

“Och, no. How about The Prickly Biscuit?” Fiona suggested.

I grimaced. “That’s not very appealing. The Painted Thistle? Because so many of the cookies are painted?”

“Sounds a little like a brothel, dinna ye think?”

I snorted a laugh. “Okay. The Happy Thistle?”

“Eh,” Fiona said, unenthusiastically.

“Oh! I know! How about enchanted? The Enchanted Thistle?”

Fiona’s expression brightened. “Och, aye… that might work.”

“The Enchanted Thistle,” I repeated, seeing how the words felt in my mouth.

“That might be perfect,” Fiona replied, clapping her hands happily.

“Well,” Viv called down from the snug, “at least it’s not basic.”

“Do you think we have time to make a sign before we open?” I asked, scrunching up my nose as I glanced at the time on my phone.