Page 35 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“Right. I’ll…shampoo, then? Do I do it now? Or after I’ve used the soap? And to what count do I lather before rinsing?”

“There aren’t rules, Yumi,” he said. “You’vereallynever done this before on your own? What about when you were a kid?”

“I told you I was chosen by the spirits as a baby,” she replied. “Taken from my parents, raised by the wardens to my singular purpose.”

“That’s terrible,” he said (lowly). “You didn’t get a childhood at all?”

“A yoki-hijo is not a child,” she said, her voice bearing the air of an oft-recited line. “Nor is she an adult. The yoki-hijo is a manifestation of the will of the spirits. Her entire existence is service.”

No wonder she was so strange. Didn’t excuse her being the human manifestation of what it felt like to miss the last bus home, but—considering all of this—at least she made more sense to him now.

“How is it,” she asked, her voice echoing, “that your people have captured this geyser and channeled it to your will?”

“It’s not a geyser. It’s water pumped from the lake, filtered and heated.”

“Pumped? Are there people working those pumps right now to deliver this?”

“No, it’s machines powered by the hion lines,” he said. “The heating too. Touch opposite hion lines to metal and it will heat up. It’s basic science to turn that into a bus engine or a simple heater.”

“How do you know all this?”

“School,” he said.

“You are a painter.”

“School teaches more than just painting.”

“I was not taught anything but my duties,” she said, her voice softer. “It is better that way. I must keep focus. Other things might…cloud my mind with frivolities.”

The conversation died off, and he let her linger in the shower—longer than he’d have let himself. Eventually Yumi stopped on her own. A few minutes later she said, “Do I put these clothes back on?”

“Please don’t,” he said. “They haven’t been washed in days. Put on a towel for now.”

She stepped out a moment later, wrapped inthreetowels. Well, fair enough. Painter led her to his pile of clean clothing. “I didn’t get around to folding these.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“I intended to,” he said. “I usually fold everything right after it’s washed.”

“I’m sure,” she said, nudging the pile with her toe. “This is all going to be too big on me, isn’t it?”

“Yumi, in your world, you wear a dress that’s roughly the size of a bedspread. I think you’ll be fine.”

She put a hand to her towels, then paused. But he was already walking to the bathroom, which was close enough that he didn’t hit the end of his leash. He stepped inside, giving her privacy.

“Thank you,” she said from outside. “For being so…thoughtful.”

“This isn’t being thoughtful,” he said. “It’s basic decency.”

“Still, I didn’t expect it.”

“It’s almost like it’s unfair to judge a person based on how they react after being forced into someone else’s body, towed off to a strange location, then forcibly stripped. Eh?”

“I guess,” she said, “we’ve both been under…unusual amounts of stress.” A few minutes later she continued. “All right. I don’t like it, but this will have to do.”

Painter stepped out to find her wearing…

Well, it certainly met the definition of an outfit. It wasclothing, at least. Worn on a body. She’d found one of his longer shirts—a thick turtleneck—and had put that on. He wasn’t too surprised by that, but she’d put a sweatshirt onoverthat, and the combination of long turtleneck and shorter sweatshirt was comical. In fact, the sweatshirt puffed out a little, as if she had another smaller one on underneathit. How many layers was she wearing?

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