"Three." Marc couldn't not respond, not easily. He only ever discussed yarn with Isolde or his mum, and neither of those had this full level of enthusiasm. and they knew him far too well. But he clamped his mouth, using the scowl to clench his jaw against saying more about spinning because out of all of it, that was actually his favorite part. Spinning and dying were his and his alone; he made the yarn and the silks that his mother and wife used, and that he used as well. But they didn't handle the fibers before they were yarn.
He winced at her squeal. "Bloody hell, Bulstrode, take it down a notch. I need those eardrums." He unwound his arms enough to drop the book of patterns on a table, and toss the one on dying to her. "She thought you'd like to see that. S'the techniques used on the most recent batches of yarn, and that's one of them."
Books relinquished, he settled himself down near the yarn she'd brought, unable to resist pawing through it, picking up the skeins that attracted his interest and testing the texture of the yarn with his large hands.