Page 60 of The Pumpkin Bride

Though his legs itched to do the same, he calmly delivered the last of the laundry to the wash basin, then placed the bucking board across half of it.

“What’s next?” Marigold asked.

The flush that whorled over her freckled cheeks was a gateway to the universe of Marigolds he’d known. The childhood best friend, the adolescent crush, the grown lover, and now this version, a woman fully settled into her adulthood yet meeting challenges and adventures with the bright, unbroken spirit she’d possessed as a girl.

“Jask?”

“Soap.” He cleared his throat. “Add more to the areas where grime collects—collars, cuffs, underarms.” He lifted a shirt from the bucking tub, then painted the collar with the jelly-like substance he’d made earlier this season from lye, linseed oil, and water. “Bundle it up, slap the bundle on the board, and then knead it like dough to squeeze out the water and grime.”

With his forearm, he swiped the squeezed-out water back into the tub. Marigold followed his lead with one of her shifts. She paused mid-squeeze, then unbuttoned the sleeves of her dress to roll them up.

“Next.” He lifted his battledore. “The beating.”

Her laugh startled the chickens. “What?”

“We beat the water out of the garment. If it has buttons, fold those under to protect them. Then have at it, like so.” With a might thwack, he smacked his shirt. Water shot out of it, sprinkling them both. “If it helps, imagine . . .”

“Someone I don’t like? My theory about farmers using chores to vent their frustrations holds.” She whacked her shift, spraying Bram. “But is this really the most advanced laundering method? With all the great mechanical minds in our world, why are they fantasizing about flying machines and diving suits? If someone were to invent a machine to do this work, people would line up the world over to acquire one.”

“A good question,” Bram grunted as he smacked a pair of breeches.

“I suspect if men were responsible for washing clothes, they’d leverage the same innovative spirit that gave us trebuchets and well drills.”

“You’re probably right. I’ll work on one in my free time.” He tossed his shirt into the next basin. “After the beating, we put the garment in the rinse water. On and on we go until we’ve washed everything.”

“This is tedious.” Marigold tapped the battledore against her open palm, her eyes shifting between the bucking tub and the rinse. “I fully appreciate you want me to learn the correct, labor-intensive laundry process. For that I’m grateful, because now I understand how desperately I’ve undervalued the laundresses who serve in the castle.”

“But . . .” He smacked an impressive amount of water from his hose.

“Can I not minimize these garments to the size of doll’s clothes? I’d wager we can be finished in a quarter of the time and maybe, possibly, have a little leisure time this afternoon for reading or games.”

He furrowed his brow. Smaller clothes would make for less work. Though he was wary of magic, Marigold’s minimancy had been nothing but useful.

“Go ahead,” he said and stepped back.

She focused her attention on the clothes in the wash basin, then snapped a shower of blue sparks over them. The clothes shriveled until they looked like fancy doll clothes. She reached for her cloak, then squeezed and kneaded a bundle the size of an apple.

“See? So much easier.”

He reached for his breeches. “These look like they’d fit you now.”

“Scandalous, a woman wearing trousers.”

As they worked their way through washing and rinsing, they pinned the garments on the line that crisscrossed the courtyard. Fuzzle took one look at the tub and bolted back to the front of the house. After they finished the colored garments, Bram explained smalt and starch, then showed her how to lay out the whites on the field of grass next to the byre.

“You’re teasing.” She clutched a fine shirt. “After all that work, why would we lay the garments on the ground?”

“To brighten them.” He spread his now-tiny shirt out in a T. “The sun will bleach the front. And the grass breathes out a bleaching agent from underneath.”

She laid her shift next to his shirt. “Grass breathes?”

“Yes. All living things do.”

Once they laid out all the whites to dry, Bram dried his hands on a nearby linen, then handed it to Marigold.

“What’ll you do with all your free time this afternoon?” he asked. A frisson rippled over his skin—Grimroot Farm had a visitor. A rambler, hopefully, but he pricked up his ears.

“Read or gather honey from the hive.” She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe later we can play a game?”