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his shirt back on and avoided the issue altogether.
    Slipping into the cottage, Myron blinked in the dimmer light inside. It was cooler in the cottage, despite the fire that was still burning in the grate. Myron wandered over to his usual seat at the table and poured a cup of tea that was, by now, room temperature. He drank it slowly, waiting for Tamsen to join him.
    Tamsen appeared just when Myron was beginning to get antsy. He'd dumped a bucket of water on his head, if the dampness of his shirt and hair were anything to go by. His hair was no longer braided and hung limply where it was loosely tied back. Tamsen's shirt was sticking to him, and his face was red where he'd scrubbed it clean.
    He headed straight for the pantry, and Myron waited, tense, for whatever Tamsen had to say about his chest binding. Tamsen was quiet, however, even as he laid out food for them. Lunch was slightly less stale bread, bits of roasted meat, and more apples.
    "How is it not stifling in here?" Myron asked when it became clear that Tamsen had no intention of breaking the silence. "That fire hasn't been out since I arrived."
    "Magic," Tamsen answered. "The house is charmed to maintain this temperature. The fire has to keep burning to heat the humidity out of the air."
    "To dry those," Myron said, glancing up at the endless bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters. "Clever."
    Tamsen smiled but lapsed back into silence. Myron let him, in no hurry to prompt Tamsen into a conversation he didn't want to have. Myron tried not to let it get to him—if Tamsen wanted to be an idiot about it, that was his right, and Myron didn't have to do anything to make it easier for Tamsen to deal with.
    He'd gotten used to people knowing. Everyone in the palace was well-aware, and he rarely ran into anyone who had a negative attitude about it. He hadn't had to deal with explaining it to anyone in ages.
    Finishing his meal, Myron stood. He brought his dishes to the washbasin, pausing there to glance back at Tamsen. Tamsen was staring off into space, picking apart, but not really eating, the bread on his plate. He looked pensive, and Myron wondered what, exactly, was weighing on Tamsen's mind. Deciding it didn't matter, Myron left the cottage and returned to the wood pile.
    By the end of the day, Myron was beyond sore and tired. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a hearty meal, and to sleep for hours. He hadn't worked that hard in ages. Tamsen was still working in the garden when Myron finished the last of the chopping, but when Myron ducked into the cottage, he found Tamsen had dug out a small tub at some point. It was set up in front of the fire, empty, and Myron stalled filling it by pouring himself a cup of tea.
    Water hauling. Myron groaned at the thought of it as he drank some of his tea. Was it his imagination, or was the tea tasting better the more he drank it? Probably he was being indoctrinated through prolonged exposure. He'd still give his left hand for a pot of decent coffee. Myron drank the last of his tea slowly, in no hurry to start hauling water.
    Eventually, he couldn't put it off any longer. He started out counting the buckets, but lost track around the twelfth bucket or so. Eventually the tub was filled, and Myron collapsed into his chair, tired and sweaty and sore. He could simply fall asleep and bathe in the morning; the water would still be there, since he doubted Tamsen would get rid of it when he had Myron there to do the hard work.
    Tamsen stumbled into the cottage then, drawing Myron's attention before he made his decision one way or another. He was dirtier than he'd been earlier and looked as tired as Myron felt. Tamsen tossed his hat in the corner, barely looking at Myron as he headed across the room to the bed. He knelt, and Myron watched lazily as he fetched out drying cloths and a chunk of soap from a wicker basket beneath the bed.
    "Do you have something clean to wear? Or would you like to borrow clothing until I get the laundry