Before Twain, neat lines of hampers marched from wall to wall. Each one overflowed with sheets, clothes, linens, and cloth-based items of all description. He swept his eyes from one side to the other. How many baskets are there?

A clank from the next room brought him back to life. Twain hurried from hamper to hamper. With quick efficiency, he dug through the laundry, searching for a solid, inflexible human body. Nothing. Not under the tablecloth. Not in the pile of fancy trousers. Not under the lacy—Twain stuffed the unmentionable thing back into the hamper and hurried to the next. Full of towels, the large wicker basket dwarfed the hampers to either side. He frowned, pulling towels apart. She wasn't carrying this one, was she?

“Twain! Hurry,” Spar whispered.

Annoyed, Twain threw a towel at the window. “I am hurrying—”

The door slammed open. The maid stood in the doorframe, candle held high. She surveyed the hampers slowly, turning to take it all in. "Hello?"

Back pressed against the stone floor, Twain barely breathed. From the gap between towel hamper and the smaller basket to its right, he could make out the maid’s feet and a slice of the door. She took a step forward, and her feet vanished from his line of vision.

“Is someone in here?” she called. Light spilled over the hampers, sliding closer and closer to his peekhole.

Twain held his breath.

Abruptly, the maid drew to a halt. Her footsteps turned away from him, growing fainter with every step.

Twain breathed out a sigh of relief. Go on, further from me, further.

"How did this get over here?”

Craning his neck, Twain peeked around the hamper. He saw the maid bend over, back to him, to pick something up. She straightened, the towel he'd thrown at Spar in hand.

Twain’s heartrate spiked. He clenched his fists, arms and back tensing. Carefully, he reached for his shortsword.

The maid looked around, frowning. After a moment, she shrugged and headed toward the hamper he’d plucked it from.

Lying behind that hamper, Twain sucked in a breath. He braced himself against the floor, ready to lunge.

The room darkened. The maid whirled to the door to find a man standing there, backlit by the cozy lantern in the next room.

“Hello there, beautiful," a suave voice purred.

Spar? Twain half-sat up and craned his neck to get a better angle. The maid turned around at the same moment, whirling in his direction. Twain startled. He dropped to the floor. Double-taking, she started to turn back to him, but Spar let out a low, appreciative whistle and caught her attention.

“Excuse you,” the maid said, insulted but not angry, a hand on her hip.

“I noticed you in the hall earlier. How could I not notice a beauty like you?” He swaggered over to her. She stumbled back a step, then stopped, letting him come closer. Spar drew so close that their bodies almost touched, then halted. The maid swayed to him, wanting to touch, but caught herself at the last second. A small smile on his face, Spar traced a thumb along her cheek, caught a curl of her hair, and twined the chestnut lock through his fingers.

What are you doing? Twain wanted to shout, but held himself back.

“Oh,” the maid murmured. A faint blush warmed her cheeks. “Well, hello there. Coming to harass me by the wash? You knave.”

“A knave indeed, if it means I can gaze upon my fine lady even after the moon is risen upon the night sky,” Spar continued. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her in.

She leaned into the contact, abusing the moment to place a hand on Spar’s wide chest. “I don’t mind a knave when he possesses such honeyed words and such a… firm body.”

“Indeed, madam. Ah, from the moment I saw you, I knew we were fated to meet again.” Spar led her away, into the other room. Over his shoulder, he cast a ferocious glare at Twain. Find the damn prince! he mouthed.

Twain sat up. Scowling, he mouthed, I’m trying!

As soon as the door shut behind the pair, Twain jumped up. He ran from hamper to hamper, but the further he got in the room, the more he wrong it felt. She wouldn’t have put the newest hamper in the back of the room. Where is it? Where…

He whirled around and stared at the door, still leaking candlelight around the edges. No.

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Twain rushed to the door. Squeezing one eye shut, he peered through the keyhole.

On the far side, Spar held the maid close, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. She giggled, her face flushed, girlish and cute and nothing like the stiff woman from the hallway.

Beside the cavorting duo, a large laundry basket sat next to a bucket of soapy water. A few sheets already soaked in the water, including one a little dingier and bulkier than the rest. As he watched, the surface flickered. Black motes sparked off it, and the illusion vanished for a second to reveal a half-submerged Reginald, then flickered rapidly back into place.

Oh, shit. Twain caught his breath. How am I going to get that? If she sees me…

He turned around slowly, inspiration striking.

Moving quickly, he darted from one hamper to the next. A pair of dirty silk gloves hid his hands. A funny hat with big flaps hid his ears. He tied a sheet over his shoulder, obscuring his clothes. And the piece de resistance! He reached to the nearest hamper.

The door to the backroom swung inward. The maid appeared, head turned back. “Darling, I know, I know, but I must get another—” The maid gasped. “Intruder!”

Twain grabbed the nearest piece of clothing and yanked it over his face. He whirled, grinning evilly under his makeshift mask. “Indeed! It is I, the Laundry Thief!”

She screamed and pointed. “You—you—”

“Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll save you!” Spar declared. He pushed the maid behind him, out of the doorway.

“Aha, my dastardly plan comes to fruition! All the laundry is mine!” Twain grabbed the hamper of clothes next to him and threw the clothes up into the air. Brightly colored cloth filled the air. The maid flinched back, arms up to block her face. The maid flinched back and hid her face against Spar. Spar drew her back protectively, carefully removing her from Twain's path. He charged past, through the fluttering clothing.

A lightweight, brightly colored garment fell across his eyes. He plucked it off and dropped it, but it didn't fall. A stray string twined around his fingers and held it in place. Annoyed, he glanced down and shook his hand hard. A pair of lacy underwear drifted gently from his hand to the floor.

Twain’s eyes went wide. He touched the thing on his face, then turned to Spar in horror.

Spar grinned wide and gave him a double thumbs up behind the maid’s back.

Fucking hell. Twain wanted to yank the thing off his face and run a million miles away from here, but it was too late. Cheeks burning, he sucked in a breath and charged for Reginald.

He scooped up the prince and raced for the outer door, past Spar and the maid. As he sprinted by, the maid suddenly lunged and grabbed the wet sheet Reginald was wrapped in.

“No you don’t! I haven’t washed it yet!” she screeched.

Twain yanked back. “Give it up, maid! It belongs to the Laundry Thief now!”

“Never!” She pulled the sheet toward her with all her might.

Surprised by her strength, Twain staggered a step forward. I’ve slain legions of darkfoes without receiving a scratch, battled off goddess-only-knows how many assassins, but this woman can move me? He looked at her with sudden respect.

The second the maid had a length of the sheet in her hands, she wrapped it around her arm, securing it in her grasp. She yanked again, reeling in another length of fabric. Twain dug in his heels and fought back, but yank by yank, the sheet spooled out from his grasp and into hers.

“A worthy opponent! I see you, too, know your laundry inside and out! But you won’t best the Laundry Thief!” He pulled back, twisting his whole body with the motion.

The maid didn’t so much as stagger. She glared him down and wound in another length of sheet.

Only a few feet of sheet remained between Reginald’s head and the maid. If she winds him in, he’ll be the first prince to die from the laundry, Twain mused. A second later, he came back to his senses. That’s my head on the line, too, dammit!

At once, he drew his shortsword. The maid gasped and stumbled back, loosing a coil of sheet from her arm.

“I hate to defile laundry like this, but a man must do what a man must do!” Twain slashed downward and severed the sheet with a single stroke.

The maid stumbled back into Spar’s waiting arms. In the moment’s reprieve, Twain dashed out the door into the night. He slung Reginald over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, damp sheet bleeding soapy water behind him.

“Come back, thief!” the maid shouted.

“Never fear, milady! I’ll catch the bastard!” Spar shouted. He raced after Twain.

Twain bolted around the corner of the castle and yanked the lacy—thing off his face. Spar caught up with him, and they panted for a moment. When it became apparent the maid wasn’t giving chase, Spar laughed.

“The Laundry Thief? I’ve never heard something so ridiculous.”

“I had to come up with something on the spur of the moment. It was the best I could do,” Twain deadpanned.

Spar chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Amazing. Almost as shameless as me.”

Twain shook his head. “And you. I thought you didn’t like women?”

“I don’t want them to ride me, but I don’t mind taking them for a ride,” Spar raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Who’s the shameless one here?” Twain grumbled.

Shaking his head, he pulled Reginald from over his shoulder and peeled back the damp sheet. Eyes shut, Reginald gasped a breath, face red and lips slightly purple, damp hair strewn across his forehead, a nasty bruise blossoming on his left temple, but still alive. Twain let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Shouldering the prince again, he turned to the unicorn. “Spar, where’s that spot you mentioned? The one by the south wing?”

“Right over this way.” Spar set off at a jog.

--

Flies buzzed. Sheep brayed. In the distance, pigs grunted. Twain laughed aloud. “Spar, you mongrel. It’s perfect.”

“It’s good fertilizer. It’s a real waste to plant something rotten in it,” Spar sighed.

“At least he’ll be among peers,” Twain pointed out.

The manure heaped high before them, still faintly steaming. Pungent, it made the eyes water to stand too close. Twain breathed short breaths through his mouth. He pulled the last of the sheets off Reginald. The illusion had long since given in, and he hadn't bothered for the few feet to the stables. His arms hurt enough as it was. Balling the wet, cut sheet under his arm with the rest of his Laundry Thief disguise, he leaned forward and heaved Reginald into the pile. The man sunk limply into moist effluent.

“Nice and fresh,” Spar said, satisfied.

Twain sighed, pleased with a job well done, and immediately regretted it. Putrid gasses filled his mouth and burned his throat and nose until he coughed. He waved a hand in front of his mouth as thin tears rolled down his cheeks. “Let’s not stand around too long.”

“No,” Spar agreed.

They stood over Reginald a few beats longer, both silent. A final laugh escaped Twain’s mouth, and he turned on his heel, braid whipping after him.