# Chapter 2: Saint of Cleaning
Alen woke to the sound of his cottage *singing*.
Not metaphorically. Actual choral notes drifted through the hole in the roof, accompanied by the faint *ding* of holy bells and the smell of lemon verbena so pure it could sterilize a battlefield.
He rolled off the mattress, hit the floor, and discovered his boots had been polished to a mirror shine. His socks—once gray with the grime of a thousand quests—were now folded into perfect origami swans on the windowsill.
"Rina," he groaned.
The singing stopped. A head poked around the doorframe. "Good morning! You're late for hygiene."
Alen squinted. Rina stood in the kitchen, robes spotless, hair tied back with a halo that *literally* glowed. In one hand: a mop that hummed with divine energy. In the other: a bucket that steamed like a volcano.
"My house was dirty," she said, "but now it's *saved*."
Alen shuffled past her. The floorboards gleamed. The table—no longer wobbly—stood proud on four matching legs. Even the dagger-pinned note had been laminated.
He opened the pantry. His emergency jerky was gone. In its place: a neat row of labeled jars. *"Dried Basil – Blessed for Digestive Harmony."*
"This is a war crime," he said.
"Cleanliness is next to godliness," Rina chirped. "And you, sir, were living next to a swamp demon."
Gorim stomped in, beard dripping stew from last night. "Lass purified me ale! Tastes like flowers now. *Flowers.*"
Rina beamed. "Hydrating!"
Alen rubbed his temples. "Look, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I retired to *avoid* divine intervention. Can we dial the holiness back to, say, 'mildly tolerant deity'?"
Rina's smile didn't waver. She handed him a toothbrush carved from angel ivory. "Open wide."
He backed away. "I'm drawing a line. No tooth-brushing with relics."
"Too late." She pointed.
His toothbrush was already floating, bristles glowing, orbiting his head like a tiny, judgmental moon.
Alen sighed. "Fine. One morning. Then we discuss boundaries."
---
**Phase One: The Great Scrubbing**
Rina's cleaning wasn't cleaning. It was *exorcism with elbow grease*.
She started with the outhouse.
Alen watched from a safe distance as she marched outside, robes billowing, mop raised like a battle standard. Gorim followed, muttering about "structural integrity" and carrying a crate of nails "just in case."
The outhouse—a leaning shack held together by hope and spiderwebs—didn't stand a chance.
Rina planted the mop like a flag. "In the name of the Divine Order, I cast out filth!"
Golden light erupted. The shack *lifted off the ground*. Boards straightened. Nails flew into place like iron filings to a magnet. The door swung open to reveal porcelain so white it hurt to look at.
Then the entire structure *ascended*.
Slowly, majestically, the outhouse rose into the sky, trailing sparkles and the faint scent of lavender. It hovered for a moment, spun once, and shot upward like a holy rocket.
Alen's jaw dropped. "You weaponized plumbing."
Rina dusted her hands. "It's in orbit now. The gods were *very* impressed."
Gorim scratched his beard. "That's one way to avoid digging a new latrine."
---
**Phase Two: The Kitchen Incident**
Back inside, Rina turned her attention to the hearth. Soot from a decade of neglect coated the stones like black frosting.
She rolled up her sleeves. "Time for a deep cleanse."
Alen tried to intervene. "That soot's load-bearing. It's structural."
"Nonsense." She waved a hand.
The soot *peeled off the walls* in perfect sheets, folding itself into origami cranes that flapped away through the roof hole. The hearth gleamed. The stones rearranged themselves into a perfect circle. A tiny plaque appeared: *"Blessed Hearth – May Your Stew Never Burn."*
Gorim sniffed. "Smells like a cathedral brothel."
Rina ignored him. She opened the pantry again. The jars of jerky had been replaced with *fresh* jerky, still twitching slightly. A note read: *"Resurrected with love. Expires in 3 days."*
Alen stared. "You brought meat back from the dead."
"Waste not, want not," Rina said. "Also, the basil was lonely."
---
**Phase Three: The Bedding Apocalypse**
Alen's mattress—his one sacred relic of sloth—was next.
Rina lifted it with one finger. "This has seen wars."
"It's seen *me*," Alen protested. "It's molded to my spine. We're practically married."
She tutted. Light poured from her palms. The mattress inflated, fluffed, and sprouted *wings*. It fluttered around the room like a panicked goose before settling gently on a freshly conjured frame of cloud-stuff and moonlight.
Alen poked it. It sighed.
Gorim whistled. "That's fancier than the Queen's four-poster."
Rina clasped her hands. "Now for the final touch!"
She raised her mop. The entire cottage *shimmered*. Dust vanished. Cracks sealed. The dagger in the table unsheathed itself, polished, and re-pinned the note with a flourish.
The air smelled like spring after rain. Somewhere, a bird started singing in four-part harmony.
Alen looked around. His home was perfect. Spotless. *Wrong.*
He grabbed Rina's arm. "Stop. Just… stop."
She blinked. "But it's clean!"
"It's *sterile*," he said. "I retired to a *cottage*, not a museum. I want scuffs. I want the table to wobble. I want my jerky *dead*."
Rina's glow dimmed. "Oh. I… I thought you'd like it."
Gorim clapped her on the back. "Lass, ye did good. But the lad's right. A home's supposed to have *character*. Like a good scar."
Alen nodded. "Character. Like the hole in the roof. Or the outhouse in space."
Rina bit her lip. "I can tone it down. Maybe just… regular cleaning?"
"Deal," Alen said. "But the jerky stays undead. It's a delicacy."
---
**Epilogue: The First Compromise**
That afternoon, they sat at the newly stable table. Rina had toned down the holiness to "mildly luminescent." The hearth glowed softly. The mattress had lost its wings but kept the fluff.
Gorim cracked open a barrel of his *unpurified* ale. It foamed like a angry badger.
"To retirement," he toasted.
"To boundaries," Alen added.
"To *not* sending furniture to the moon," Rina said meekly.
They clinked mugs. The ale tasted like flowers and regret.
Outside, a small figure watched from the bushes. Golden eyes. Tiny horns. A half-eaten fence post.
"Papa's house is shiny," Lulu whispered. "I wanna eat the glowy lady."
She licked her lips. Sparks danced on her tongue.
Tomorrow, the roof would meet its doom.
---
**To be continued…**
*Next chapter: "The Blacksmith Who Rebuilt the Roof" – Gorim fixes one leak. Creates seventeen.*