Lyra led Kite through the camp, hurrying through the tents, wagons and soldiers that cluttered the field with the ease of familiarity. The men, for their part, ignored the little girl and only gave Kite a cursory glance as the pair made their way through, trying not to slip on the muddy ground.

At the far side of the field, the ground sloped down to a small, clear river, running bright and fast, swollen with the rain that had fallen constantly for the past few weeks. Lyra led Kite to a rock jutting into the river.

"We normally wash there," she said, and Kite rolled her trousers up and twitched her skirts out of the way so they wouldn't get dirty when she knelt down. Lyra joined her, and they skirled the cloths in the river, letting the looser dirt be swept away before they started scrubbing the more ingrained stains. The scrubbing was repetitive but not hard; the sandy soap that Fiona had given them very effective at removing marks from cloth even in such cold water.

"Lyra?"

"Mm?" The little girl turned round with a wet cloth in her hand. She turned out the dirty cloths onto the rock, put the clean one in the now-empty basket, and took a soiled blanket to wash.

"What is the war about?" Kite plunged her cloth into the river to remove the last of the soap, wrung it as dry as she could and added it to the basket.

"I'm not sure."

"When did it start?"

"About two years ago." A serious war, then, not a little skirmish. "I don't know what caused it, but we sent a messenger." Lyra pulled her blanket from the river, struggling a bit with the heavy folds. "To ask for peace."

"And?"

"He never came back. Nor a message." She tugged the blanket into shape and started wringing it, excessive force making up for the small size of her hands. "So... it's their fault, isn't it? My brother Padraic." She pushed the blanket back into the water. "He's a flyer. If he dies... it's their fault. Right?" She had stopped rinsing the blanket and was just sitting there, tears running down her face. Kite felt both horribly guilty to have brought a constant worry to the fore, and uncertain of what to do; cautiously, she put a hand on Lyra's shoulder and waited until sobbing slowly eased. Unwilling to try asking any more, she returned to her washing, and Lyra followed suit. They finished the basketload in silence.

By midday, the air was warmer and the sun had burned through some of the obscuring clouds, although it hadn't managed to do much to the mud. The sky wasn't really blue yet, but it looked more promising. Kite and Lyra carted the now-heavy basket back to the house slung between them and canting precariously due to the difference in height. They made it safely despite the slippery footing, putting the basket down with relief when they made the farmhouse doorstep. Inside, Saryth stood at the table with his back to them. The scent of fresh bread and a sprinkling of flour over the table, the floor and his tunic testified what he had been doing. Kite wondered if there was any flour in his long hair, and if there was, would she even notice? At the sound of the basket being put down, he turned round. His cheek was smudged with flour, and he was smiling.

"Finished the laundry?"

"Just this load." Kite took the top sheet from the basket and shook it out in preparation for hanging it up. "You're making bread?"

"Yup." He held a lump of dough in his hands, halfway through kneading. Beside Kite, Lyra giggled.

"You've got flour on your face," she said.

"I have? Where?" He sounded surprised, as though he hadn't noticed the flour strewn all over his clothes and the work surface.

"On your -" Lyra began, but Kite cut her off before she could finish.

"On your forehead," she said. Lyra stared at her, and Kite winked discreetly. Saryth disentangled one hand from the sticky dough and brushed at his forehead, ignoring the bangs dislodged by the gesture.

"Anywhere else?"

"On your chin. And your left cheek," Kite said mendaciously. Lyra stifled her giggles as Saryth put the dough down and trustingly wiped flour and sticky dough across his face in an attempt to remove nonexistent smudges. The original smear remained untouched.

"Is it gone now?" he asked cheerfully, and Lyra burst into laughter.

"What?"

"Now you've got flour all over!"

Saryth stopped in surprise, and then, realising the joke, raised a dough-covered hand and started forwards. Kite dodged one swipe, still laughing.

"Saryth, no! Clean laundry!" She backed out of the door, clutching her sheet and followed by Lyra, still giggling.

"Go and wash clothes!" Saryth shouted from the door as they fled, and the sound of his own laughter followed them out.

As the sun began sinking towards the horizon, Kite and Lyra hauled the last basket home and wearily draped the clean linen over the makeshift washing lines set up outside the house. They had run out of space in the basement halfway through the first load, and the second load had filled up Fiona's normal washing line, so a pair of soldiers had offered rope and struts in a rough but effective jury rig. The clean blankets and sheets waved gently in the evening breeze, but Kite didn't think they were dry yet. They'd probably have to come in for the night, in case it rained, but the thought of arranging them around the limited indoor space was depressing.

"Is Saryth good at making bread?" Lyra asked, giving a final tug to her blanket so it hung square. Kite hadn't actually known he could bake, but the scents drifting from the house all afternoon had certainly been promising.

"I think so," she said, putting a peg over the blanket's edge.

"I'm hungry."

Saryth smiled at them as they came through the door, taking off their muddy shoes at the threshold. He was wiping his hands on a wet cloth, and the last of the loaves was sitting on the table, almost glowing with warmth and the lovely fresh bread scent. The table was liberally spread with food; portions of cold ham sat amongst bowls of vegetables, peas, carrots, lettuce and tomatoes all jostling together with tubs of pate, butter and plum jam. A jug of milk stood in the centre of the table, and five plates sat around the edge.

"Welcome back," Fiona said from the doorway behind them. She bore a basket containing a round cheese protected by a deep reddish wax and several eggs, which she put straight on the table. Behind her, a slim, bearded man came through the door, nodding to Kite and Saryth as though familiar.

"My husband David," Fiona said, and David nodded again in response to Kite's "good evening." He seemed content to remain silent even as he took his place at the head of the table, and the meal was a quiet one, but the silence was good-natured. Towards the end, when much of the food was gone, Fiona broke the silence to say:

"Thank you for your help today." Kite looked up from the last of the warm bread.

"Thank you for your hospitality," she replied. Fiona smiled.

"It's the first time we've caught up on the laundry for weeks."

It was not hard to believe.

After the meal they cleared the table together, and Fiona washed up while David dried, insisting that their guests do no more work. Lyra was sent to bed amidst half-hearted protests, almost asleep on her feet. The firelight flickered around the room, its dying glow catching on the cutlery and pans hanging on the walls, emphasising that night was coming on.

Fiona finished by hanging David's teatowel up, and bidding her guests goodnight. Kite had almost fallen asleep at the table, and she jumped awake at Fiona's voice.

"I'm really sorry," Fiona added, as her guests made their way to the basement stairs. "There's nowhere else..."

"It's fine, really," Kite tried to reassure her. "It's nice and warm." And in any case, they were both so tired she didn't think it would matter.

It didn't.

Morning dawned as it had the previous day, thin sunlight on muddy ground and skies that half threatened rain, half promised sun. A weak, undecided day. Kite was just relieved it hadn't rained overnight. The laundry was still damp, but it was only dew. She hung back by the basement door as Fiona waved David off to go about the farm work. Then she tensed, and peered out across the field, shading her eyes with her hand. For a moment she was still, then she stepped back from the door with a broad smile.

"Padraic! Welcome home!"

A young man who could only be her son stepped into the house and smiled back at her. Lyra came hurtling down the stairs and squealed with delight before flinging herself at her brother for a hug. He swung her round with a grin.

"It's good to see you," Fiona said. "Have you come on leave?"

Padraic's face fell. He turned away slightly, not seeing the strangers behind Lyra and Fiona. Saryth, hair rumpled with sleep, had come up the basement stairs in time to catch his reply.

"I'm not on leave," he said. "My wing was posted here yesterday." He looked back at his mother, and the anxiety in his face was clear to see. "It's not going well. The enemy are only a few miles away." He cleared his throat. "This is our last main camp. We're fighting from here now."