The laundry of Muirwood was a small wooden structure protected from the rain by wooden shingles attached to a sloping roof held up by six sturdy posts. There were no walls, but the roof was broad enough to provide shelter, for it rained often at the abbey, and it overhung the little spillway where the water drained away towards the wetlands. At first Lia thought that no one else was there, but she heard humming and discovered, to her disappointment, that Reome was there.

Reome was seventeen and worked as a lavender. She was the kind of girl that Lia always distrusted because of the way she gossiped. She had a certain cruelty to her – a way she talked to others that showed how little she cared about their feelings. One moment she would praise a girl for a pretty embroidery, the next she would mock how her hair was braided.

Lia had witnessed this behavior first hand on many occasions, though had rarely been the victim of it except the occasional jeer that she was taller than the other girls her age or that her hair was neither brown nor raven but pale as flax and too crinkled and wild – both attributes Lia could do nothing about. The best way to handle a person like Reome was to ignore their taunts and their praise – to desire neither. Lia arrived at the shelter of the laundry and set the basket down, then shook the droplets of water from her hood and let her cloak hang on a post hook to dry while she worked.

Reome scrubbed a soaked gown on the ribbed stone edge near the water, then dunked it again. Her hands were wrinkled and sudsy. She twisted the garment, wringing out the water as she would a hen’s neck, loosened it, then twisted again. She had strong hands. Lia had seen her pinch a girl once, leaving a bruise and making the girl weep.

“Hello,” Lia said, announcing herself to the other girl.

She received no answer, which did not surprise her.

Lia knelt at the other end, across from Reome, and drew the stained dress from the basket and dunked it into the water. Because of the rains, the stone trough was nearly full. During the summers, a Leering was used to summon water for the duty. A teacher might summon its power, or the Aldermaston himself. She had seen it done on occasion followed by gasps from the other helpers who watched. She looked at the Leering, its cold stone eyes flat and lifeless, no glow of light emanating from it visibly. But even kneeling a few paces from it, Lia could feel the power sleeping within the stone. She would not wake it – not in front of Reome.

Lia pulled a cake of soap from a wooden tub and smacked it against the fabric. She churned the garment with her hands, scrubbing it against each other, then knelt down and scrubbed it against the stone. She worked quietly, ignoring Reome, wishing the other girl was gone already.

For some reason, the boys of the abbey did not notice the same cruelty in Reome. It bothered Lia that so many would offer to carry a basket for her. They would leap over a well hole if they thought it would earn them a fickle smile. Since last summer, she had taken to wearing a leather choker around her neck with a polished river stone dangling from it. No doubt she was mimicking, as only a wretched could, one of the learners who sometimes wore chokers fashioned of silver and glittering with a gem. One by one, the other lavenders were wearing them. Then the other kitchen help – not Lia and Sowe, of course – began fashioning them. The boys cured leather or searched for stones in the river. It was silly how desperate some of the girls were to have one, or the boys to assist.

After a short while, Lia heard Reome folding the wet clothes and stack them in her own basket. Rain pattered on the water in the trough and tapped on the shingles overhead. The air smelled like soap and purple mint. She continued to scrub her dress, wringing and rinsing it. Reome started to leave, then stopped.

“I know who is going to ask you to dance at the Whitsun Fair,” she said.

Curse her, Lia thought blackly. “Hmmm?” She pretended not to care, but her stomach started to churn.

Reome’s basket rested against her hip. “Everyone knows. The boring one. The one who is always reading, yet never misses the chance to bid a girl hello. Neesha says that he walks around the cloister, greeting only the girls. Never the boys. But he greets us too, even the wretcheds. His shirt is in your basket. Did he ask you to wash it for him? Will he pay you, or are you doing it to be nice?”

Lia wiped her forehead, trying to think quickly. Reome was teasing her about Duerden, one of the first-year learners. He was small for his age, in height and look he appeared to be about ten, instead of thirteen. He was the nicest young man at the Abbey – the most thoughtful and friendly, treating everyone the same way, both wretched, teacher, and other learners. Lia liked him because he explained to her what words really meant. He would not teach her to read or engrave, of course, but he did not mind sharing knowledge with others.