"THIS," Grayson said, standing in front of the washing machine as if it were an enemy combatant, "is an inefficient use of space and time."
He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing veins that pulsed with a slow, demonic rhythm beneath his skin.
He looked at the pile of laundry on the floor—mostly his silk shirts and Mailah's jumpers—with a disdain that was almost majestic.
"It's a washing machine, Grayson," Mailah said, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea. "Not a riddle from the sphinx. You put the clothes in, you add the soap, you press the button."
Grayson reached out, his fingers hovering over the dial. A faint, silver spark jumped from his fingertip toward the machine's control panel.
"Don't you dare," Mailah warned.
The spark vanished.
