Freda Pov
I picked up a torn piece of flannel and wrapped it twice around my fingers before lifting the hot rim. My left heel caught on a loose pine splinter near the wood box.
My skin felt hot from the heat of the fire box, and the small room smelled like vinegar and old willow bark.
"The water is hot enough for the linen, Mara."
Mara was sitting on the oak bench by the wash basin, using her small pocket knife to scrape the black crust off a piece of dry salt pork. Her fingers were stiff from the morning draft, and she had a thick smear of charcoal across her forehead from cleaning out the ash pan.
"Bring the bucket here."
I set the iron pot down on the table next to the grease jars. "We only have three strips of clean sheet left."
"We will use the flour sacks when the sheets run out," Mara muttered, scraping the blade harder against the fat.
