An Angel in the Laundry

How it begins

Ada Moss found the angel in dryer number eight, between a king-sized duvet and someone's missing blue sock.

'You can't sleep in there,' she said.

The angel opened one eye. He was folded into an arrangement of wings that looked deeply uncomfortable and probably violated the machine's warranty. His feathers were gray at the tips. A small black stain marked the place above his heart.

'I'm not asleep.'

'You still can't be awake in there. I have a queue.'

He unfolded slowly. Ada put out the plastic chair she kept for people whose laundry was the least of their problems. It had supported divorces, bad knees, first dates and one exhausted man who had mistaken the laundrette for a bus station. It accepted an angel without complaint.

'Daniel-of-the-West,' he said.

'Ada-of-the-Spin-Cycle. Tea?'

He nodded. His wings dragged on the floor. Wherever a feather touched the tiles, the grout became spotless. Ada had wanted that floor clean for years. She did not like the way the stain over his heart darkened every time it happened.

'What are you removing?' she asked.

'Dirt.'

'And what is it costing?'

He looked at the chair as though the question had never been included in his instructions. Outside, dawn put a pale shine on the laundrette window. Inside, every washing machine began turning in perfect unison. Number four had not done that since 2009.

A white card appeared on the counter. RECALL FOR RESTORATION OF ACCEPTABLE APPEARANCE.

Ada covered it with a mug. 'That sounds like something written by people who don't do their own washing.'

The angel's laugh was small and startled. A gray feather loosened from his wing. Ada caught it before it reached the floor, and for once the mark it left on her hand did not disappear. She left it there.