Mortal Comforts || Kuroshitsuji OC

I Would Even Wait All Night

     A late-night quiet descended over the Abrahms estate as Emilynne finished stuffing her pack with dishware.

     Two teacups, two saucers, and some lace doily napkins just for good measure. She wrapped them all gently in cloth, so as not to chip the delicate china, and set them carefully in the bottom of her bag, overtop of which she layered another cloth for added precaution. Then came the canister of tea - Earl Grey - snuggled tightly into the pack's corner. Everything was cushioned properly, no chance of breaking even if she were to run. It was perfect.

     Emilynne had thought this all through. Mother was asleep by this time, and father was in the study, smoking a pipe, flipping through leaflets of paperwork that were due the next morning. He would be too distracted to see Emilynne sneak out, most likely, but the study neighbored the front entrance to the estate and so Emilynne had decided the back exit was her best plan of escape. She slung her pack over her shoulder, looking much like a peddler, and slipped her petite form through the one glass door she cracked open, shutting it gently behind her without so much as a creak.

     In the cemetery, the two sipped tea over a pleasant conversation about work. The tea had gone somewhat lukewarm, but the Undertaker was a good sport about it, saying it still tasted just fine. Emilynne's proud declaration of "good, I brewed it myself, you know" earned her a lighthearted laugh, and her lips drew into a blithe grin. Next time, she thought, she would bring tea biscuits.

    The next evening, Emilynne rehearsed several jokes she had borrowed from gentlemen at her parents' last cocktail party. She performed them with all the expertise of a practiced comedian, and she delighted at the thundering, almost strident guffaws she had elicited. At one joke in particular, he laughed so hard he had begun to cry, and Emilynne too found herself shaking with laughter, ears flushing red at the tips.

     The evening after that, it was pastries and chamomile tea. This time, she had walked to the cemetery fast enough to keep everything warm, and the two swapped stories over the crunching of biscuits. These, she confessed, she did not bake, for she was highly incompetent in the kitchen and could scarcely make even a simple lunch for herself. But next time, she promised, she would bring something homemade - "as long as it doesn't put me in me own grave - oh, come now, I was teasing, Lady Emilynne!"

     Now came the dreaded day of cooking. She had already prepared by tying an apron about her waist and setting out a mishmash of ingredients, but she had little idea of how to prepare them, and she had a half a mind to ask her servants for assistance. No, this had to be done on her own. Her brows creased with focus as she surveyed her layout, eyes flitting from apples to flour to sugar, and oh my, was she ever out of her element. She wanted to make apple fritters but had no idea of how to do so, and settled instead for cooking a simple chicken-stock stew, which she figured would be quite hard to make a mistake out of. She cut onions, garlic, carrots, and celery, cooked them in the stock, and added roast chicken, which she admittedly did not prepare but could pretend, for the sake of the dish, that she did know how to make such a fine roast bird.

     She arrived with a canister of stew, a canister of tea, two teacups, two bowls, two spoons, and some overly thick cookies she had attempted to bake. A plush blanket was tucked over her shoulder, and when asked what she brought it for, she flashed a knowing smile and draped it across the flattest section of ground she could find.

     "I figure this will be more comfortable than standing - or, in your case, sitting atop the tombstones..." she explained, making herself at home on the blanket. She began to rummage through her pack, pulling out dishware, utensils, and the containers of stew and tea. She poured three quarters of a cup for each of them, added a spot of honey to hers, and went to work on pouring the stew, trying to siphon even amounts into each bowl. "If this is dreadful, please do try not to laugh. It has been some time since I cooked."

     The Undertaker merely smiled, sat down across from Emilynne. His long hair draped about his shoulders like ethereal wisps, ghosts dancing in the calm of the night.

     Emilynne sipped her tea in silence, eyes trained deftly upon the Undertaker as he lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth. She watched, breath bated; he pulled a face.

    "Oh, no. It's that bad, is it?" She flushed; her expression fell. "Goodness. How embarrassing, I-"

     "Bahahaha! Oh, Lady Emilynne! Your expression was- hee hee!" he chortled, cheeks going red with the force of his laughter. "I was messing with you. It's quite good. I just wanted to poke some fun at you."

     Emilynne's blush deepened. "Sir! How boorish!" she exclaimed, feigning hurt. "I find that most unfunny. Cruel of you to meddle with my feelings that way." Her face hardened, a sharp edge to her dark eyes - and then the persona fractured, altogether falling away as she laughed. The sound of their tittering filled the night air, and Emilynne just about dropped her teacup as she clutched at her chest, lungs fighting for each breath. They sat there for some time, hiccuping with laughter and jesting at one another about the meal, which only made Emilynne blush - and laugh - harder.

     "My! You are, without a doubt, the most insensitive gentleman I have ever met," she teased once she had calmed down, face still alight with soft crimsons. Her trembling fingers grasped her teacup firmly; she brought it to her lips, though she did not drink. "I quite fancy you."

     Mistake. Why did she say that? She trained her eyes on the sloshing liquid inside her teacup, studying its rippling rings with intensity.

     "What was that, Lady Emilynne? Afraid I didn't quite hear you over me own laughter. I do apologize."

     "Oh, it was nothing. Just remarking on how my tea has gone cold," she explained, dropping a hand to smooth out her dress. It was a fine silk, and it felt chilly underneath her palms, like dragging a hand through stagnant water. "Well, then. I've about had my fill of the cold for one night. Shall we meet again tomorrow then?"

     "Why not come by me shop? I've been busy lately, y'see."

     "Ah. If I can make the time, I will certainly think about it. Perhaps we could chat over lunch."

     "I like the sound of that. Tomorrow, then, m'lady. Do get home safe."

     Emilynne sipped the last of her tea and rose, making to pack up all her items. She collected the empty cups and bowls, wrapped them in cloth, and placed them snugly in her pack.

     "Farewell, then, Undertaker. As always, I have enjoyed myself this evening. Thank you for your company."

     She pursed her lips in a smile, gathered the blanket from the ground, and left, heart beating so loudly in her ears she feared he would hear it.