Greta blinks at Anne in complete incomprehension for a moment before it comes back to her: the brunch invitation, and what day it was for, and what day it bloody is, for goodness' sake. "Oh, god," she blurts, giving her head a brief shake, as if to jostle something back into place. "After last night, I just—it's still on, then?"

Well, it must be. She wonders if Eliot managed to avoid all of the hubbub last night, or if he's simply refusing to let it get in the way of a planned gathering. She's not sure if the latter is more likely, but it's certainly plausible.

"Well," she starts, canting her head a little as she reconfigures the shape of her day, "I suppose I could. We could get your shirt through the wash and into the dryer — that wouldn't take too long — and then it'd be dry by the time we got back." She looks to Anne, eyebrows raised, to see what she makes of the idea.