George was literally elbow deep in his latest project, his sister's mood paint. Even if he didn't adore his youngest sibling, the idea was too good to leave sitting unused in his head for too long.
Trouble was, it wasn't coming out quite right. Oh, the reaction was there to adjust to a person's emotional state, but only if the person were touching it, which did no one any good. The idea was to have a room shift color in response to changes in feelings from anywhere inside, and a person shouldn't have to get up just to change the wall colors if the book they were reading suddenly made them sad.
So, there he stood, a bucket of the stuff on the table and his arms plunged into it. The paint was currently a deep red of frustration. Not quite the bright scarlet of anger, but closer to a burgundy. This was the color of a young man about ready to throw the paint can across the room if it didn't start behaving.
And then the foghorn on the workshop wall went off that signaled the front door had been opened. He was just pulling his hands out of the paint and magicing them clean again when the sister in question bustled in with food.
Glorious food.
George can't cook. It's a serious problem.
"Great," he said, stuffing his paint-marred wand back into his pocket and advancing on the sandwiches. "You talk, I eat."