11th July, evening; A riverside bounty

Nodding, he put the shirt into the basket. Could washing at night cure stupidity too? He didn't quite dare ask but the question loomed in his mind.

"Fresh flowing water at all, maybe?" Jérémie suggested as he draped a pair of trousers over his rock. He couldn't imagine doing the washing in stagnant water, like that of a pond.

~



The rough lap of the kitten's tongue surprised Stéphane and he nearly jerked his hand away. It was like having moist sandpaper scraped over his fingers. But the kitten's fur was soft, as it rubbed its face against his hand and Stéphane turned his hand, a little reluctantly, to scratch uncertainly at the little creature's chin.

A rattling pur rose in Kazhig's throat and he tilted his head to better expose his chin.

"Told you," said Paol mildly, before Suie decided to arrest his attention by broadening his predations to include Paol's thumb.

*



"Oh! That must be it." Rosy knew just about everything, after all. Maybe not as much as her mother and Madame Bellot, but close.

It made sense enough to him, anyway. Again, not that it really mattered. He set to work with the washing bat once more and employed the same frustrated energy as before. The exertion would leave him aching from his other, unseen, bruises later but at the moment he didn't care.

~



So... purring was good. Right. Being scratched under the chin was good as well. Or at least the kitten seemed agreeable to it. Strangely, it was not so bad in Stéphane's estimation either.

"Never been near a cat before," he muttered, half to himself. "Tiny things, sure."

Rolling Suie onto his back, Paol continued to let him savage his fingers and hand. He was still young enough that it did not hurt. Much.

"They're only little ones. You really didn't have any cats 'round where you grew up?" He found it difficult to imagine, having grown up on a farm. There were always cats in the manor's outbuildings. He and Maugan used to chase rats "with" them. The cats, needless to say, did not appreciate the competition.

He wouldn't have thought scratching a kitten's chin could be pleasurable, but it was certainly turning out to be. For him and the kitten both.

"No," he replied with a shrug. "There were dogs, though. We shared one with some friends, till it got old and died."

Mathilde frowned, her forehead scrunching in thought as she pounded away at a pair of waistcoats. They were the last of the pile; it had gone faster than she would have thought possible with Jérémie helping. That was good, of course, but-- "Oh," she said aloud. "I forgot. We should wring them out. I mean--" she caught herself too late and blushed at the assumption. "I should. Well, unless... But you don't have to. Um..." She stared down at the two sodden waistcoats in her hands, shyness once again overtaking her.

"I've helped so far," Jérémie pointed out. The pile in the basket would take longer to wring dry if he left her to do it alone - which was an unfathomable thought anyway. He was here and he would help.

"Thanks," she said, handing one end of a pair of trousers to him with a timid smile. It worked best, she'd found, with two people twisting opposite. And that reminded her of something else. "Have you heard of les lavandieres de nuit?"

He set the washing bat aside and took a firm hold of the opposite end of the trousers. This would not take long with the two of them at it, he guessed. After they were done... he realised he didn't know what he would do once they were done. Except perhaps go back to that little fire. Which could be good, even though he was not sure about Proulx being there.

"No," Jérémie answered, shaking his head. He gave his end of the trousers an extra twist to draw out as much water as possible, and just managed to suppress a wince at the strain in his hand. Damn.

"They're old women, dressed in white. Maman says they wash the...shrouds? Of the dead. And are a bad omen. But they only appear to men out alone at night. Sometimes you can sneak away, but if they see you, you have to help them. Wringing out the sheets. Like this," she grinned. "But it's a trick. If you twist the same direction as they twist, they will let you go. But if you twist the other way..." She made an imitation of a snapping noise, "They break your arm. Oh! And if you refuse to help them, then they roll you up in the shrouds and drown you. Or hit you with the bats. Or maybe both."

Both Jérémie's eyebrows arched at the story. It was one he had never heard before and it was... rather ominous. While he was not necessarily superstitious, he decided he was not in any hurry to find out if such creatures truly existed.

"It's a good thing I'm not out here alone, then." He managed a grin. "With my luck, I would twist the sheets in the wrong way."

Mathilde grinned back at him as she handed over another piece of clothing. "Tsk. You are practically a blanchisseur now. They would not dare." She wasn't sure if that was actually true, but it sounded good.

"Hopefully not. Still, it might be best to stay near you. For protection." Smiling properly now, Jérémie took hold of the shirt's tail and gave it a twist.

She giggled, blushing ever so slightly at the idea. "I would break their arms. With my bat."

He nodded. "I know! That's why it's best to keep close by. Just in case."

That there was indeed someone at large whom she ought to wrap in a sheet and beat senseless with her bat, and that she was almost certainly incapable of carrying out such a vengeance occurred to her rather suddenly and her face fell. But she quickly blended the expression into one of mock gravity, nodding in sage agreement. "Just in case."

It was a little strange, but this piece of conversation went some way to easing his lingering disquiet. The thought brought a bit of colour to his face and Jérémie was glad for the darkness.

"Now," he said, once the next shirt was suitably wrung out. "I believe we're nearly finished? I don't think we should leave Paol alone too much longer with the kittens - for his sake."

He was right, of course, though Mathilde couldn't help feeling a faint twinge of regret that they'd finished so quickly. His last remark, however, brought a smile to her face. "No, probably not," she agreed, handing him the last of the shirts.

With that wrung out, she dropped it back among the others and hefted the basket, trying to balance it on her hip like her mother did, with only marginal success. "Thank you," she added, quietly sincere.

"You're welcome," Jérémie said with a smile. It had felt good to help, even for such a comparatively simple chore. A validation of sorts that he was not completely worthless - a foolish thought, to be sure, but it had been a difficult one to shake earlier.

He offered his arm. "Back to the fire, then?"

The darkness blessedly masked the faint touch of pink in her cheeks and she smiled back at him, taking his arm. "Back to the fire."

All his various lumps and bruises seemed to ache just a little less as they returned to the fire. This was a better turn to the evening than he had thought possible. Of course, good company could improve almost any sort of ill mood.

"Everyone is still alive here?" Jérémie asked with a grin, his gaze taking in the other two men and the kittens. It seemed they had paired off, one man with one kitten, though he noted that Kazhig seemed more interested in Proulx's long, plaited hair.

Or at least the smoke-grey kitten was trying determined to catch the ribbon at the end of the plait, as the ex-sailor tried to go about the business of arranging his sodden coat and shoes near the fire so they could dry.

Paol looked up, the momentary distraction affording Suie the opportunity to abscond with the piece of string and the small, dark shape went scampering across the sand towards Blanchard like a thing possessed. "Aye, something like," Paol laughed, noting with no small relief that the pair of them looked in better spirits than when they'd left.



Paol had shifted over closer to Proulx and, setting down her basket, Mathilde dropped to the sand beside him. "Finished!" she exclaimed with cheerful relief, holding out her hands to the fire. Washing always left them cold. "I would have been there all night if it weren't for Jérémie."

Still alive and, it seemed, in a peaceable mood. Good.

"I only did a little," Jérémie said, his cheeks swiftly turning pink.

"You did just as much as me!" she protested.

"Only to keep up with you. But it was good for..." Jérémie checked himself, realising almost too late what he'd been about to admit to. "Exercise," he finished and hoped the near-slip was not too obvious.