The voice was sharp enough to make both of us jump.
It was the nanny.
The corridor was a mess.
Water everywhere. Buckets on their sides. Streaks of brown and black across what had once been a perfectly polished floor. It looked less like cleaning duty and more like the aftermath of a tavern brawl.
And in the middle of it stood Freya and me, soaked to the skin, holding our mops like swords caught mid-duel.
The nanny stopped dead, her mouth hanging open. For three long seconds, nobody moved.
Then her eyes locked on me.
"You," she hissed.
I pointed at Freya immediately. "Her fault."
"What—!" Freya sputtered. "You tripped, you spilled, you—"
"Ah-ah," I cut in, raising my mop like a witness taking an oath. "All I did was attempt teamwork. She's the one who challenged me to mortal combat with cleaning tools."
Freya's jaw dropped so low I thought it might hit the floor.
The nanny's glare flicked between us, her face growing redder by the second.
