Chapter 15: The Rota

The first thing Grant did was produce a timetable.

It was written on stiff cream paper and ruled in three columns, one for each name.

"Monday, Grant," he read. "Tuesday, Harry. Wednesday, Felix. Thursday, Grant."

"Why does Grant get two?" Harry asked.

"Because I am the eldest, and I have the earliest claim."

"You have the oldest knees."

"That is not a measure of claim."

"Friday's mine," said Felix from the stove, with a pickle in his mouth. "I've had Fridays since the ivy. It's practically in my contract."

"You have no contract."

"I have a pickle, which is stronger."

James lay on the couch with a pastry on his chest and watched all three of them with great interest.

"Seven days, three of you," he said. "That's four on a bad week. Do I get a day off?"

"No," said Grant.

"Yes," said Harry and Felix together.

"Sunday," Grant said finally, "is for rest."

"Whose Sunday?"

"Yours."

"Then I'll nap on Sunday. Done. Next topic."

"The topic is tonight," said Harry. "I had the first claim in the pool, and I was interrupted."

"By a towel," said Grant.

"By you."

"I was holding the towel."

"You were hovering."

"I do not hover."

Harry took a step toward him.

Grant stepped back onto air.

It was a small, precise step, a hand's breadth off the floor, and he used it to look down at Harry from the height of a balcony.

"Get down," Harry said.

"Make me."

Harry held out one hand.

The water in the kettle rose, wobbled, and poured itself out of the spout in a long clear rope.

It wrapped itself around Grant's ankle and pulled.

Grant dropped, caught himself six inches above the floor, and kicked the rope into spray.

"Dry yourself," he said, with dignity.

"Gladly."

The water soaked every inch of his coat in the same moment.

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