“Thirsty? No,” she said. She leaned forward, plunking the glasses at her chest down on the counter beside the sink, then placing down the ones she’d held in her hands. “I came to do the dishes.”
“What do you want to do to the dishes?”
“What do I…” Her brows pulled together, then she suddenly laughed. “Rivven, I’m going to help you wash them!”
I was left so breathless – so brainless – by her laugh that it took me a few moments to recover.
“Why?” I asked her.
“Because…That’s what you do? It’s good manners! You made us a wonderful meal, you let me sleep in your bed. It’s the least I can do.”
“You do not have to do this. You should be resting,” I argued. But she had already stationed herself at the sink, examining the tap configuration.
“I’ll rest after,” she said. “I had that nap, and it really helped.”
“But…” It did not feel right, to have this lovely little female doing chores in my kitchen. Especially when she’d only just gotten here, and she was recovering from being unwell. I stood there, still holding the plates and tray balanced on my left hand and right forearm, feeling rather useless as she filled the sink with water.
“Just put those down there,” she said, finding the bar of soap I used for dishes and sudsing up the first glass. “I’ll get to them.”
“I can do these ones,” I said. “They are more soiled. And heavy!”
Shiloh gave another small laugh, and turned to look at me over her shoulder, her hands plunged deep in soapy water.“Rivven…If you get married, don’t you think your wife is going to do at least a few things to help you around here?”
If, she said.Ifyou get married. I tried very hard not to dwell on that word.
I did not think I was entirely successful.
“Just let me do this for you,” she said. “You’ve already done so much for me.”
I still did not feel right about this. But she seemed so adamant. And above all, I wanted to make her happy. If letting her wash a few plates was what it took, so be it.
I put down the tray and plates.
I refused to leave her, though. The idea of her alone in here, washing up while everyone else relaxed, was entirely intolerable to me. I retrieved a clean rag and began to dry the dishes once she had rinsed them. She glanced at me, but did not argue about me participating this time. So perhaps this was acceptable to her – even expected. To work together like this. Side by side.
“You are good at this,” I said. She washed everything with a graceful sort of efficiency. I found myself staring at the way her fingers worked through the water, nimble and stronger than they looked.
“Well, thank you,” she said, passing me a plate to dry. “I’ve had lots of practice. When Daddy was alive, I always washed and he dried.”
“Your father? And he is not alive now?”
She paused to scrub extra vigorously at a spot on another plate, her head bent away from me. “No,” she finally said. “He’s not. I’ve been on solo washing and drying duty for a while, now.”
She really was very focussed on this one plate. She kept working at it even though, to my eyes, it was clean by now. When she spoke again, there was a brittle sort of brightness in her voice.
“How about you? Are your parents around? Do you…I don’t know how this works. But do you ever get news from home?”
Home.
I wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for when she asked me such a question.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever had one.
“I do not remember my parents,” I told her. She finally relinquished that plate so I could dry it. “They both died when I was very young. Before I came here, I lived in the orphans’ barracks at the local village school.”
“Oh.” She said it very quietly. “I’m sorry.”
I was about to ask her what for, because I could think of nothing that would ever require her to apologize to me. But then I remembered the section on human funeral traditions in the book that Tasha had written. Apologizing was a common way of expressing one’s condolences. Warden Hallum had made us study the text endlessly, hosting lesson after lesson here in my saloon, so that even those such as Xennet, who would not be able to read the text on his own, could learn it all by heart.
