13th of Carros

I was up and dressed before Arramy came back the next morning, determined to have breakfast ready for him. I had a few slices of eggybread toasting in the pan on the stove when the keys rattled in the front door.

For a moment I reached for the throwing knife tucked into my belt, but then that familiar raspy brogue broke the tension with, "S'only me," followed a moment later by, "Smells good in here... What are you making?"

I smiled. "Something Cook taught me when I was little," I called, and made the mistake of glancing into the sitting room.

My heart rolled right over.

He had stripped off his dirty work shirt and was standing there in nothing but his docker denims, which were slung low on his lean hips.

The very next instant, I missed the inside of the pan with the scrapespoon and nearly flipped eggs and bread all over the floor. Face ablaze, I dragged my attention back to the stove and made a desperate attempt at looking like I had just shoved the pan askew on purpose, clattering things about with weirdly shaky hands.

All my pretense at ignoring him evaporated when he walked right up behind me, reached around with one long brown arm, and stole a slice of frying bread from the skillet, taking a bite while giving me a devilish grin that sent my pulse skipping before he turned and padded off into the washroom.

See? This is what happens when you start daydreaming about unladylike things. I let out my breath on a long, silent whistle, giving myself a mental kicking as I took the pan off the stove and carried it to the table.

~~~

The rest of that day passed very much like the one before. We ate, Arramy walked me to the cannery, he went down to the docks for the day shift, and then came back up to walk me home.

In my previous life I might have been insulted, or assumed he thought I was too dumb to find my way to the cannery, but that second day Snakeneck appeared again. He didn't do anything. He was just loitering on the corner during our lunch break, but there was something about the way he kept watching me that made the hair stand up a little on the back of my neck. I wasn't irritated at all when Arramy was waiting for me after my shift.

I dyed Arramy's hair again that night, although without sheers there was no way to trim it. His military short-crop was long gone, his hair curling and sticking up in unruly waves that resisted any sort of brushing. He had a cowlick at the front that made everything swirl to the right across his forehead, too, and the overall effect was so uncharacteristically boyish that it made me grin.

The next two weeks went by in a similar vein: breakfast, going to work, coming back, sleeping, breakfast, working, coming back, sleeping.

I feigned a growing friendship with Nalle and the other girls, as much so I could seem like a normal person as to have a group to sit with during breaks. It seemed Snakeneck made a regular thing of lingering around the cannery whenever we let out for lunch, and there was no way I wanted to give him the idea I was interested in his company. As long as I sat with Nalle and the others, he kept his distance, seeming content to flirt with Rivany, but I couldn't help noticing the long, lingering glances in my direction when he thought she wasn't looking.

It was annoying, more than anything, and I just ducked my head and ignored him.

Then came the 13th of Carros, otherwise known as my first day off.

After having too much to do for weeks, a day off sounded heavenly. It would have been, too, except that I had to stay cooped up in the apartment.

So I beat the rugs and swept everything. Mopped the kitchen. Dusted.

Around noon I had the brilliant idea that I should wash the laundry. I had seen the maids at home do the laundry on many occasions and it hadn't looked complicated. I lugged the washtub out into the yard and got the wringer set up, boiled water, found the laundry soap, stripped down to my shift and half-corset, and then started scrubbing.

I developed a new appreciation for washerwomen everywhere. It was not complicated, but that didn't mean it was easy to pick up and learn. I had to stop halfway through to find something to serve as a clothesline. That took much too long, and then I had to reheat more water and rescrub the clothes because the soap had gone sour and greasy. Then I had to rescrub everything again because I tripped while I was getting fresh rinse water and accidentally toppled the washtub off the table. Getting dirt out of petticoats turned out to be a nightmare. I was still trying to figure out how to feed clothes into the wringer when Arramy came down the back steps from the kitchen.

I saw him, did a double take, glanced at the sky, and then bit back a frustrated groan. It was nearly dinner time. Where had the day gone?

And now Arramy was smirking as he turned in place, taking in the absolute muckery I had made of the yard. Then he looked at me, his gaze traveling my person, noting my sweaty hair, mud-smeared undershift and bare, dirty feet.

I jammed my hands on my hips and glared at him, chin jutting. "Don't you dare laugh."

His lips twitched. "Generally, the purpose of washing clothes is to make them cleaner."

"Thank you," I growled. "So helpful."

He quirked an eyebrow and began rolling up his sleeves as he sauntered toward me, boots squelching in the mud made by the first load of washing water. Without a word he held out his hand for the brick of hardsalt soap.

I pinched my lips into a sullen line, then handed the soap over. "No gloating."

One of those insufferable dimples was threatening to escape. "I never gloat."

"You're gloating right now," I pointed out. Then I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly very aware that I was wearing little more than my underthings. He had technically seen me in less, but heat clawed up my neck anyway.

He regarded me for a moment, his gaze drifting from my face to linger on the leather thong around my throat. If he recognized it, he didn't say anything. Instead, he bent to dip a hand in the washtub. "You weren't using hot water, were you?"

I blinked at him. "... No?"

There was that dimple again, teasing his cheek. "Aye. Well, hot water separates the soap. But the water's cool now... So... first, you take a piece of clothing — you might want to watch this bit."

He was enjoying this entirely too much. I opened my eyes and glared at him. He had pulled one of my blouses out of the water and slopped it onto the washboard.

"Soap goes on like so," he said again, showing me with exaggerated care how to swipe the bar of hardsalt soap over the fabric. Once, twice, three times, four, and then he wedged the soap in the handle of the tub and began pushing the blouse up and down the washboard. Slowly. While watching me with that infuriating smirk. "Up, down, up, down, make sure you turn it a few times."

"I've already done that part," I said, voice tight. "I just need to know how to get the wringer to work."

He paused, brows rising. "Is that so?"

"Yes. I've been out here for hours, and —"

The brows rose a notch higher. "Hours?"

"Yes, so if you could just show me how to use this blasted wringer, I'll —"

He plunged my blouse into the water, brought it up soaked, wadded it together, and dropped it on my head. Just like that.

My words ended on a swift, indrawn breath as cold water sluiced down my back and over my face. For all of two seconds I stood there, spluttering and gasping. Then I tore the blouse away and let out a screech.

"You look a bit warm, you should really cool off," he was saying, but I had already grabbed the nearest available object – the pitcher of rinse water – and sent it sloshing up at that rugged, handsome, smirking face.

He didn't stop smirking. In fact, as the water dripped from his hair and his eyelashes, the smirk just turned into a positively devious grin.

I saw the devil of mischief in his eyes, and I whipped around, but it was too late. He was already too close. His hands were at my waist, bracketing my hips, snagging me clean off the ground as I wheeled to flee, and then I was dropped unceremoniously into the washtub.

But in the act of dumping me into the washtub, Arramy had to bend at an awkward angle. An awkward angle that I knew exactly how to exploit. I hooked a foot around his off-side knee and gave a yank. Caught off balance, he staggered backward, his boots slipping in the mud. With a snarl I lunged up out of the tub, sending it flying over for the second time as I launched myself at him, tackling him squarely in the middle and bringing him all the way down, where I landed astride his ribs, one hand holding the front of his shirt, the other brandishing the scrub brush over his head.

He stared up at me, lips parted, eyes wide with surprise.

I didn't move.

A large bubble floated lazily between us.

Then his chest rose beneath my knees, a deep, raspy chuckle rumbling free. That sunstealing smile broke over his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, robbing the breath right out of my lungs and all rational thought from my brain.

All my fight left. I lowered the scrub brush. I was being ridiculous. This was ridiculous, this man with his ridiculously beautiful laugh that melted right through my fury and left me feeling confused and shaky and entirely off plumb. I got clumsily to my feet and stumbled clear of him and his ridiculously lean, ridiculously powerful body.

"Bren," he said, laughter still warming his voice. "Come on, kid. I'm sorry."

My clothes were in the mud again. Teeth ground tight, I started picking everything up.

A moment passed. Then, quietly, Arramy got up and set the heavy old washtub on its base again.

I didn't look at him. I didn't dare. My chin was quivering. I just shoved my dirty clothes back into the tub, grabbed the bucket and began filling it at the spigot. Apparently I wouldn't need to boil it this time, at least. I could learn a thing.

Arramy watched as I filled the tub. I could feel his gaze boring into me, following every move I made, but I didn't stop marching past him, bare feet splashing through mud.

When I finished, I glanced around for the soap.

Arramy cleared his throat.

Finally, I lifted my head and made myself look in his direction.

He was standing next to the tub, holding up the brick of soap – but not to give it to me. He wasn't smirking anymore. "You really don't know how to use the wringer?"

I took a breath, glancing away. It was proving to be surprisingly painful, letting him see just how little I knew about simple things like washing my own laundry.

He reached into the tub and pulled out one of my blouses again. This time he simply lifted the top roller of the wringer – which I hadn't realized could move – placed a bit of my blouse on the bottom roller, clamped the top one down again, and got the old winch handle going. It had been just that simple.

It was an odd peace offering, but it worked. I stepped closer when he dipped the blouse back into the water and gave me a little jerk of his head, indicating that I should come try again.

It was absurd, how pleased I was when I hung that clean blouse on the line.

I was going to let Arramy help me scrub the rest of my clothes until I realized he would be scrubbing my smallclothes, which made my stomach do weird things in my middle, so I shooed him back into the house, promising to wash his dirty shirt if he went to get dinner.

~~~

That night, I fell into bed exhausted but oddly exhilarated, a sense of accomplishment still painting a grin on my lips.

My grin turned into a breathless scream as something prickly and damp met my back, stabbing straight through my chemise as I rolled over onto it. Scrambling off my mattress I took several steps away from the bolster, straining to see what had just bitten me in the dark.

Nothing moved.

There was a muffled cough from the sitting room. Then another, this one sounding rather suspiciously like a smothered chuckle.

I narrowed my eyes to slits. The faint, but distinct smell of scouring powder and lemon hardsalt was wafting the air. I hadn't thought anything of it at first, but now realized it was too strong. Too present. I stalked to the bed on stiff legs, bent, and swatted around until my fingers met cane-bristle.

"You do realize this means war," I called, plucking the scrub brush off the bed.

Silence.

"You will rue this day, Captain," I vowed into that silence. "Every meal you eat, every time you use the privy, you will look back and you will think, 'I should'na'er have pranked Brenorra Warring.'"

Arramy's usually deep voice was a little strained and sing-song, "Good night, dear."

I bit my lower lip, fighting a smile as I put the scrub brush on the shelf above my shoes. If there was one thing I knew, pranking Arramy was one thing I would never get tired of. He would return as good as he got.

My smile slowly died as I lay looking up at the now-familiar shadows of the loft ceiling.

I hadn't thought much about what my future would look like, when this was over. I was only focused on that one thing: getting from Phyrros to NaVarre's pirates on Aethscaul. Rejoining the fight. Doing some good. Finishing what my father started. But after? Would there ever be an after? What then?

I could find Aunt Sapphine. Work on Aethscaul, maybe.

But something told me it wouldn't be enough. Even if, by some miracle, I made it through and found some sort of place for myself, it would be empty. There would be a great, gaping, two-span-and-six Northlander sized hole in everything.

Span: a measure of length based on the arm of the average man. By Bren's calculations, Arramy is somewhere around 6'6".