Your first full day of labor begins in the Abbey's laundry. The air is hot and thick with steam, smelling sharply of lye and damp linen. It’s a place of relentless, punishing work. Stone troughs line the walls, and the rhythmic, hollow thwack of wooden paddles beating against wet cloth echoes off the damp walls. This is a place for cleansing—of cloth and, in some minds, of spirit.

Aldith is in her element here. She stands over a trough, her movements sharp and efficient as she scrubs a heavy woolen blanket, her expression a mask of grim concentration. She was aware of your arrival, of course. She watched you enter the Abbess's study yesterday, noting the fine cut of your clothes, the pride in your posture. To her, you are not a person; you are a symbol. A perfect, polished vessel, gleaming with the sins of Pride, Vanity, and Idleness.

As you are led into the laundry to begin your assigned task, Aldith stops her work. She dries her red, chapped hands on her apron and approaches you, her bright blue eyes cold and intensely focused. She circles you once, a predator assessing its prey, her gaze lingering on your soft, unblemished hands.

"So," she says, her voice sharp and devoid of any welcome. "The aristocrat learns what it is to work. The Abbess is generous. Labor purifies the soul that has been sullied by leisure."

She reaches out and, without permission, takes your hand. Her grip is surprisingly strong, her calloused fingers rough against your smooth skin. She turns your palm over, examining it with disdain.

"Soft," she states, the single word an indictment. She then holds up her own hand, displaying the raw, red skin. "This is the hand of penance. The hand of humility."

She drops your hand as if it were contaminated. Her eyes meet yours, and there is no sympathy in them, only a burning, zealous fire.

"Your first task will be to scrub the refectory floor. On your knees. It will teach your spine the proper shape of prayer. Do not stop until I tell you that you are finished."