Brella moaned salaciously in the steaming water. “Untie my hair, please?”

Scratch obliged, gently prising the curls free. She liked this act nearly as much as kissing, having Brella’s trust for this. Tending to her care. It felt important somehow. Precious.

All this time searching for meaning, and she could have just plucked it from Brella’s hair.

“Can you imagine, Scratch,” Brella said when she was through, “what it would mean for everyone to have hot water? Like, okay.” Her hands flew out of the water, sending droplets into the air. “There’s a cobbler who comes into my pub a lot. Carwell. He has terrible back pain from hunching over shoes all day. So he comes into the pub, and he drinks until he can’t feel the pain. And all the while his wife is going out to the pump and bringing back buckets to boil for his bath. The bath helps,” she explained.

“Sure.”

“The thing is, though, she’s spent so many years lugging buckets that she has back pain, so now they’re both drinking.” Brella made a clucking sound with her tongue. “And nobody gets a bath.”

“Everyone should get a bath.”

Brella smiled broadly, showing every one of her teeth. “The revolution demands free access to baths.”

“Public baths!” Scratch cried. “Private baths!”

“Hot baths, cold baths!”

“Ice baths!”

Brella grimaced. “Ice baths?”

“You’ve never had military training.” Scratch flexed a muscle in her arm, inviting Brella to touch. “The ice baths almost feel good after that.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Maybe I’ll train you up,” Scratch mused as Brella prodded her bicep with mild curiosity. “Not to kill. No bloodshed. But I’d love to see you throw a punch.”

“Good thing I couldn’t when we first met.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

Brella ceased her poking. “No,” she said quietly, words heavy in the echoing, tiled space. “I wouldn’t have.”

Scratch drew her close. “You’re so good. You see a bath and you think of everyone else who needs one.”

“You needed one the most.” Brella wiped an invisible smudge off of Scratch’s shoulder. “Really. You look as though you’ve been fucked on the forest floor.”

A giddy laugh burst out of her chest. “What sort of tart would allow that?”

“An insatiable tart.” Brella booped her on the nose with a wet finger. “But if we’re talking of goodness, sweetheart, I have to say how much I admire yours.”

“Excuse me?” Scratch drew back. “Have you forgotten the bit where everything I’ve done up to this point has been for my own personal benefit?”

“Of course not. It’s only . . .” She wiped a bit of condensation from her heat-flushed face. “That’s not entirely true, is it? You always thought about James.”

“Okay, fine. He was the exception to my selfishness.”