Chapter Text
Ding-a-ding-a-ding!
A brass bell chimed from the wall, one of a dozen all attached to strings and bellpulls from around the Phantomhive manor. Chef Baldroy squinted up at the label which read “Servant’s Entrance.”
“Not again. That’s the fourth time this week.”
Bard had rolled up the sleeves of his white chef’s jacket, and his right arm was buried to the elbow inside the cavity of the goose he was stuffing with onion, breadcrumbs, and fresh sage. If he ignored the bell, maybe the blighter would sod off on his own.
Ding-a-ding-a-ding!
“Finny! Mey-Rin! Will one of you fuckin’—will one of you please get that?”
Ding-a-ding-a-ding!
Forget Mr. Sebastian. Bothering him usually involved getting smacked about. Bard would deal with it himself.
He slammed the goose down on the table and hastily wiped his hands on his white apron as he made for the pantry. “Fine,” he muttered. “It’s not my job to answer the door, but I will. I’ll answer it so thoroughly, the neighbor bloke who keeps fobbing sacks of zucchini off on us will never show his bloody face here again.”
Bard considered his implements—rotary eggbeaters, spatula, fillet knife—and opted for his portable No. 2 Drache-model flamethrower. Shouldering the fuel canister, he lit a fresh cigarette from the ignition valve and strode for the door.
Ding-a-ding-a-ding!
“Borrowing sugar is one thing. But zucchini…means war.”
Bard hesitated in front of the servant’s entrance long enough to pull his goggles up over his eyes. Brandishing the flamethrower, he kicked the door open with his boot.
“Listen up, you tosser! Every zucchini, courgette, or marrow on your person is going up in smoke before it gets past m—”
Wham! A sudden, powerful force ripped Bard out of the doorway by the front of his chef’s jacket, then slammed him face-first onto the courtyard. White buttons flew into the air like popped corn, then scattered across the paving stones while the flamethrower and fuel tank skidded off in another direction.
A strong hand grasped his wrist and wrenched his arm nearly out of its socket. A sharp knee dug into his back and kept him face down—not that he’d gotten a look at his attacker with his damn goggles askew and pinching his eyes shut. Bugger this soft civilian life he led.
He would have said it out loud, too, but all he could manage was, “Mmphf.” He tapped out with his free hand.
He heard a gasp. “I’m so sorry!” a soft voice said. “It’s just that I thought I saw a flamethrower and my instincts took over. Here!”
The knee left his back, and the hand gripping his wrist hauled him to his feet.
“With all due respect,” Bard said, wrenching the goggles down off his eyes, “we’re all very sick of mashed zucchini, grilled zucchini, fried zucchini, zucchini gratin, zucchini boats, and that fuckin’ abomination zoodles—ah!”
A girl—well, really, a woman, and he tried not to let his eyes stray down to how “woman” she was—stood there. She wore her hair long and loose, and was dressed in a cropped white corset…thingy, unnecessary suspenders, a versatile utility belt that he’d happily have worn himself, and a too-short leather skirt that seemed to have had the bottom ripped off—maybe in the scuffle—exposing her mile-long legs that ended in formidable boots.
Bard stumbled backwards, kneecapped by the sight of so much exposed female flesh, and would have fallen on his ass if he hadn’t encountered a wall first.
“Zoodles?” the woman asked. She shifted a bulky-looking paper bag in her arms.
“Zoodles, yeah," Bard said. His tongue ran on autopilot, while the rest of him wandered mindlessly between bewilderment, irritation and desire. “Like pasta, except they’re basically shit. No offense.”
The woman tilted her head back to look up at the building. “Well, someone in there doesn’t share your distaste. I was asked to deliver them, after all.” She thrust the bag at his chest and then dug into one of the pockets on her belt for a notepad and pencil. “Phantomhive Manor…check. If you could just sign here?”
Bard glanced inside the bag, grimaced, then rolled up the top. “No,” he said through grit teeth. “I won’t. I don’t care if you’re the Queen of fucking Sheba. See, I am sworn to defend the manor against all enemies: animal, mineral, and vegetable.” He shoved the bag back at her.
Confusion clouded the woman’s face. “What are you doing? I just marked them as ‘delivered.’”
“Well, use your eraser there and change it back to ‘undelivered.’”
“That’s not how this works!” the woman cried. “I was paid to deliver these and that’s what I’ve done. I’m sorry if you don’t like it.” She shoved the bag at his chest.
Bard gripped the rumpled paper sack in one hand. “Well,” he said, “I guess it’s just you then. I’m not sorry at all.” He wound back his arm and launched the sack over the rooftop in a parabolic arc that ended somewhere in the forest beyond.
The woman stared at him in awe. “What kind of lunatic are you?”
“The kind that just cleared the manor roof on the first try!” Bard said with no small amount of pride. “That’s a servant of Phantomhive for ya.”
But his moment of triumph was interrupted by a deafening wail of delight.
“Miss Tifa! You’re here!” The young gardener Finny charged across the courtyard, his straw hat and layers of sandy hair flapping in the breeze. He clasped the woman around the waist in a tight, childish hug.
“Finny.” Bard placed a hand on his hip and barked, “Mind your manners!”
The woman—“Tifa,” apparently—met Bard’s eyes with a cool expression that said, You’re one to talk. “Hello, Finnian. How goes the gardening today?”
“Oh, Miss Tifa! You have to come to the greenhouse. One of my tomatoes just turned orange! Oh! And there’s one plant that’s all covered with caterpillars, and Mr. Sebastian told me to put spray on it, but I didn’t because someday they are going to turn into butterflies, and it will be so pretty to have a plant all covered with butterflies...”
Finny’s voice trailed off as a cold shadow passed over the group.
“What is the meaning behind all this ruckus?” Sebastian, the darkly handsome bastard—er, butler of the manor—stood in the servant’s entrance doorway. “The young master is trying to watch his favorite program and the noise is bothering him. Would anyone care to explain?”
Tifa sprang forward. “Mr. Michaelis, I’m so sorry—”
“I’m not,” Bard interjected.
“—but this gentleman here keeps refusing the courgette delivery.”
“Hey, watch who you’re callin’ a gentleman!”
Sebastian shot Bard a silencing stare, and Bard immediately complied.
“Indeed. Mr. Baldroy has an aversion to big words,” Sebastian said. “Give me the delivery, Ms. Lockhart.”
Tifa wrung her hands. “I can’t.”
Sebastian lifted an elegant eyebrow. “Why not?”
Bard, miffed at being spoken around, piped up. “Because I gave them a what-for to those trees over yonder.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I must say, I didn’t think I had the distance, but they cleared the roof easily with a few yards to spare.”
When Sebastian swung his gaze to Bard, an unnatural fire flickered in his eyes. “Finnian, please show Ms. Lockhart to the rose gardens while I have a chat with Mr. Baldroy. Perhaps she’d like a bouquet to take home for all her troubles.”
“Thank you, Mr. Michaelis!” Tifa said. “I won’t let this happen again.” She shot Bard a wounded look before allowing Finny to drag her off in the direction of the greenhouse.
Sebastian wasted no time launching into a lecture, and Bard, used to being subjected to Sebastian’s favorite pastime, indulged in his own by letting his mind wander. His eyes strayed to Tifa’s retreating form, to the long tail of dark hair between her shoulders, to the hips that swayed with each determined stride, to the legs that, frankly, were an assault on public decorum and his manly nerves.
“—to behave like an ass to the lovely Miss Lockhart. Well? What have you to say for yourself?”
Bard glanced up, pretending he’d tuned in for the whole rant. “I was just defending the Phantomhive estate, Mr. Sebastian.”
“I’d appreciate if next time you sought my approval first. Oh, gracious me, what is wrong with you now?”
Bard followed the butler’s glance, then realized something was trickling from his nose. He raised a hand toward his face just as the butler shook out a pristine white handkerchief and handed it over.
Bard pressed a corner of the handkerchief to his upper lip, only to find it red with blood.
“Look at me, Mr. Baldroy. I was counting on that delivery of fresh courgettes. You see, as young master Ciel insists on having a childish aversion to courgettes, I’m determined to assist him in overcoming it, as befits a gentleman. Apparently, it can take up to twenty-five exposures for a child to accept a new food, and we are just shy of fifteen courgette exposures so far.”
“I’d sooner get punched in the face than cook another zucchini. I’m cooking meat, and I say it’s goose season now.”
“Goose!” The butler heaved a long-suffering sigh. “How many times must I tell you? Goose is holiday fare. A chef worth his salt must be considerate of seasonal ingredients.”
“Well,” said Bard with a shrug, “yesterday you were getting on me about my cooking being bland—”
“That wasn’t exactly the word I used...”
“—so I thought I’d mix it up a bit.”
The butler did not return Bard’s grin. “Overruled. But…” Sebastian’s expression took on an unholy gleam. “Since you’re so keen on mixing it up, I shall let you come up with the remaining ten courgette creations to win over young master Ciel’s palate.”
Ten! Bard almost fell on his ass again. He meekly raised a finger. “Um...excuse me, Mr. Sebastian? How about just one—”
“Ten, Mr. Baldroy. Furthermore, after you’ve cleaned yourself up, I expect you to retrieve those courgettes from the woods and to apologize to Ms. Lockhart—in person.” A thundercloud crossed the butler’s face. “Or else.”
Bard flinched and raised his hands in surrender. “There’s no need for violence, sir. See? I’m sorry. I’ll find ‘em. On second thought, how does the young master feel about zoodles?”