"The best spies aren't in the shadows. They're the ones holding your laundry."
***
"Blessed saints, these noble brats go through more clothes in a day than my whole family owns."
Martha Crowley, the head laundress, wheezed the words out while her face turned a mottled shade of crimson. The heat rising from the massive copper tubs had transformed the underground chamber into something resembling hell's waiting room.
Her graying hair clung to her skull in damp tendrils. She grappled with a waterlogged sheet that seemed intent on dragging her into the murky depths of the wash basin. The fabric twisted in her reddened hands like a living thing.
Lyra appeared at Martha's elbow without a sound.
The wash hall's noise, the splashing water and crackling fires and constant murmur of working women, had covered her approach entirely. She grasped the other end of the rebellious sheet without waiting for permission.
"Let me help you with that."
