She pulls a brush through her damp locks, wincing as it meets another tangle. A hundred strokes each night, per her mother's long-ago advice, doesn't prevent knots -- maybe Mrs. Gracia knows a better remedy ...
Why didn't you ask us?
Winry drops the useless hairbrush, grimacing. She couldn't say You're not rich with Mrs. Gracia backing her gamble, as well as Granny and Ms. Riza. She might've settled for It's just us girls: apart from the bank, she won't owe a man a cen. But ...
None of your business!
It's too painful to admit she never thought to ask them.