Eleanor had thought bread baking was hard work, it was nothing on the laundry. Items were dunked into a tub and thoroughly wetted, which made them ten times heavier than they’d been mere minutes before. The water was nearly hot enough to scald, and the soap used felt like it was removing the skin from her hands as well as the dirt from the sheets and clothes she wrestled with.

Lily Smith showed her how to scrub at the obstinate marks on Cadan’s tunic, chatting in hesitant Sundarian as she did. “I’ve not spoken my parent’s tongue since my father died. It feels strange to speak it and be understood. Baba made the plans for this bath house, you know. He was very clever and invented many things before he died.”

Eleanor replied, aware of Martha’s storm-cloud scowl from the other side of the tub she’d been bathing in earlier. “This bath house is better than any other I’ve been in. Your father was very clever indeed.”

She dearly wanted to ask why a man with the apparent skills of a Sundarian Master Creator had decided to live out his days in a hidden-away village, far from home. It didn’t feel right though, and not just because of the echoes of Master Fang’s voice in her ears. “We aren’t like you Clearfall people, with your sharp knife questions, stabbing straight to the heart. To find the tale of a Sundarian friend, you must approach like water flowing around stones. Be gentle, take time. Eventually the stones will tumble.”

So she bit her tongue on questions, practiced her Sundarian, and learned how to wash. From soapy tub to rinse, then a second in water that nearly froze her fingers. The numbness made it hard to hang their sheets, cloths, and clothes over the heating pipes near the firepit to dry. She nearly tumbled into the fire when a wet sheet she’d hung decided to fall on top of her. She was grabbed by several pairs of hands before she could do more than stagger, and one of the men helped her heave the horrible thing back over the pipe and centre it. Martha sniggered, and flipped one of their sheets neatly over a nearby pipe in a single, smooth motion.

Once Sarah had approved all their items, they returned to the cottage for a quick lunch of bread and cheese. “Now we’ve just enough time to sort out tomorrow’s bread, then harvest the last of the peas before we fetch the laundry back.”

Eleanor’s arms felt like over-cooked noodles; floppy, mushy, and ready to fall off at any moment. She bit the inside of her cheek on a groan. “Of course, what do I need to do?”

That grumpy smith and his sullen daughter would never have an opportunity to accuse her of not doing her share of the work.

Sarah’s garden tucked around two sides of the cottage in a broad L, a densely planted blend of herbs and vegetables, many with applications in both healing and the cooking pot. Sarah showed her what to do, then moved a little way down the long side of the L to dig out some small, bushy plants and put them into pots.

At first it was easy, even fun, to pinch the lumpy little pods of peas off their vines and into the basket but too soon, it started to hurt. Her fingertips, already pink and miserable from the washing, protested every tweak and touch. By the time Eleanor had made it to the last plant in the row, she was clumsily snapping stems with the sides and lower parts of her fingers. But she’d picked the peas. That was when she realised the other side of the bed held a mirror-image row of the vines she’d just harvested, still decorated with pods.

She swallowed a sob and went to work, finally presenting Sarah with a basket full of pea pods and hoping her eyes weren’t as red and teary as they felt. Sarah barely looked up from her potting work. “Thank you, that’s a big help. Just pop the basket inside on the main table, then you can help me carry some of these in.”

The little bushes turned out to be rosemary, Sarah said. “It’s good against colds, so I stock up on the bushes for growing indoors over winter and hand them out to those that want them.”

They entered the bath house for the third time and Sarah directed Eleanor through a thorough washing of her already raw hands to make sure no dirt found its way onto the clean laundry.

Pulling the dry things off the pipes was easier, it was astounding how heavy water had made them before. When Sarah had to show her how to fold the different items, the villagers around them began to murmur. Eleanor set her jaw and focused on getting each piece perfect.

Finally the baskets were full, sheets in one, clothes in the other and Eleanor followed Sarah out of the door with the clothing one. She’d barely made it five steps from the bath house when something whipped at her ankle and she fell, tumbling the basket full of clean, dry, folded clothes into the mud.

Under Sarah’s concern and concealed frustration, she heard a snigger from around the corner of the building and bit down on a snarl when Martha strolled into view a moment or so later. The black-haired girl paused, her eyebrows flying up in sarcastic surprise. “Oh dear. How clumsy of you. Now you’ll have to start all over again.”

Eleanor clambered to her feet. “Yes, I will. So kind of you to point it out. I never would have realised otherwise.”

With that, she turned her back and began gathering up the clothes. Sarah had already started the rescue and said with forced cheerfulness. “Only half the load fell, so not a huge amount to re-do. I’ll take the sheets and then we can get these into the tubs the children aren’t using.”

Maggie emerged from the shade of the trees edging the clearing, with a basket of her own on her hip. “You go ahead and start on your dinner, Sarah. I’ll help Eleanor with these, and she can help me with mine.”

Sarah’s relief was palpable as she thanked the older woman and hurried off.

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