"You had a task to do, and it wasn't supposed to involve hired help."
"Come on, Bandochel," Oliver says, gesturing for your silence. "Be a sport."
"Don't concern yourself with my reaction—think about how Mother will take this, knowing that our clothes are strewn in the dirt or sitting in the grass, sopping wet."
"You're one to talk," Morris growls, his eyes narrowing. "I don't see you hopping-to on your chores."
He points at the bowl of potato peelings in your hand. "Carting that around for your own amusement, are you? Or is there something else you ought to be doing too?"
"If you're not inclined to have me share this during supper, make it worth my while."
Your brothers exchange a dark look as you wait, cool as you please. Morris gives Oliver a stiff nod.
"We will owe you a debt, and a good one too," Oliver says slowly, "if you let us say goodbye to our friends and get back to work, without mentioning that you ever saw any of this."
You grin and agree. As they turn away, your brothers may not be pleased with you, but that's hardly anything new. And one never knows when such a favor can lend a decisive advantage. [+Bile]
Onward