Laundry had never felt so political.
Aria only realised that when she found herself standing over a basin behind the hall, hands deep in soapy water, thinking about fate and narrative structure.
The wind snapped at the lines strung between posts. Shirts and trousers flapped like restless flags. A few stubborn snow piles clung to the shady side of the yard, refusing to admit winter was almost over.
“Stop glaring at the socks,” Mara said as she came out with another basket. “They’re not listening.”
“I’m negotiating with them,” Aria said. “Trying to see if any of them want to volunteer for future human stakeouts.”
Mara snorted. “Humans deserve worse than damp socks. But I like the way you think.”
She dumped the basket and went back inside, leaving Aria alone with steam and cloth and her
