After a few moments you approach a copse of thin-leaved willows alive with birdsong. There's a bit of laundry next to the cluster of trees, and there seems to be movement therein. "Brothers, 'tis Bandochel! Are you well?" you call out.
The tuneful sound stops, and you realize that it was not birdsong but whispered laughter. Your older brother Oliver peeks his head out of the small grove, his face flushed and his shirt hanging off his shoulders. His eyes widen when he sees you.
"Bandochel—what are you doing here?" he hisses.
"I saw the laundry in disarray and suspected the worst…."
"Of course you would," he says, rubbing his palm over his face.
Your brother Morris, bare-chested, also comes out of the trees, closely followed by a girl with chestnut hair and a wiry young man with a shaved head. The girl puts her hand on Oliver's back and the boy presses his fingertips against Morris' shoulder, a brief question that Morris answers with a reassuring nod.
Comprehension settles in. You don't think that pile of clothes is laundry after all—at least not yet.
Oh