Mortal Comforts || Kuroshitsuji OC

The Light Behind Your Eyes

     She arrived at 12 o'clock sharp - the picture of punctuality.

     The shop was empty by then, the morning influx of customers gone and dealt with. The Undertaker milled about the caskets, scrawling names on leaflets of paper and checking over his things to do - yes, that body was adequately stitched together, and that one there was prim and proper for a burial the next day. All things looked sharp, and he was quite pleased with himself, rightfully so as he strode to answer the knock at the shop door.

     "Ah, Lady Emilynne. Do come in," he said, ushering her inside the shop with a smile and a flick of his wrist. He had tidied the place up a bit since her last visit; gone were the various stacks of books strewn about the tables and floor, the offending tomes replaced back onto the shelves from whence they came. Additionally, he had done a spot of dusting, cleaning the thick layers from the bookshelves - the ones that made Emilynne sneeze - and he had cleared out some cobwebs that had been spun onto the chandelier, though he had, admittedly, quite liked the way it had looked. Such a shame, but cleaning was long overdue.

     "Undertaker. Always a pleasure," she replied, bending into a small curtsy before shuffling into the parlor. Such formalities were usually done away with, but Emilynne had a public reputation to maintain, and so she found herself rehearsing all the things her mother told her were befitting of a proper lady. Always curtsy, address people by title and name. Smile, but not with teeth; teeth was too overbearing. If you are to laugh, laugh lightly; a lady must remain elegant at all times.

     Such rubbish it was.

     "Have you got any new jokes today, m'lady?" he asked, lacing his fingers together as he canted his head to the side, intrigued.

     "Why, yes. Alright, here's one I particularly like. Have you been to the new restaurant, Karma?" She allowed a timed pause, wiggled her eyebrows as if saying, go on, respond.

     "No."

     "Rather odd, that. There's no menu. You get what you deserve!" And with that, she let out a crack of laughter, moreso at her delivery than the joke itself. Yes, she had begun to find herself quite entertaining, especially with the Undertaker's habit of reminding her how amusing he found her humor to be. It was a dangerous combination, that. It inflated her ego, and the last thing a woman of her stature needed was an ego. To the world, women became dangerous when they got a taste of how powerful they could truly be. She reveled in it.

     The Undertaker giggled, a hysteric sort of sound. "Ehehehe! Not bad, that one! You always surprise me. I do so love that about you."

     Emilynne flushed lightly and distracted herself from the heat rising in her cheeks by studying the engraving on a nearby casket. "Th-this is beautiful. Do you carve these yourself?"

     "Aye. That one was a special request. Must say, I don't try my hand at carving very much, but I do quite like how it turned out. Might do it more often. What do you say?"

     "I think it's lovely. You have a talent," she replied, smiling in earnest. Emilynne traced the etchings with the tips of her fingers, following their smooth curves and loops with the awestruck look of a child discovering a maze. It really was skillful work; very detailed and, daresay, nitpicky, with each edge sanded to a soft bevel. She scarcely knew the Undertaker could take such care in his work - but then, she supposed, suturing wounds was a delicate job as well, and he had clearly proved himself proficient in that regard. Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did.

     "So, Lady Emilynne. The day is yours. Where shall you have us go?"

     The woman smiled sheepishly, revealing a woven basket she had been so carefully hiding behind her back. "We needn't go anywhere unless you wish it. I've brought lunch with me. I will say, this I did not make myself, so do not praise me for how good it is going to be. This was crafted by my estate's servants, and might I say, our chef has quite some skill."

     "Ah, what a treat. Lady Emilynne's estate cooking. I doubt it will topple yours," he said, grinning.

     "Do not tease me so! I know I'm a mediocre chef. You're awfully rude," she jeered, trying in vain to conceal a returned smile as she set the basket down on the closest coffin. With steady hands, she plucked a set of china from the basket's interior, setting two cups and saucers on the coffin alongside two plates and each a set of silverware. Then came the napkins, followed suit by bundled portions of food that she had retained - in secret - from her servants. In the bundles were lamb samosas, inspired by the recent curry competition hosted for the Queen.

     "My, you certainly came prepared. Such a proper little date this is." 

     "Date?" Emilynne coughed the word rather than spoke it. Was this meant to be a date? She loathed to think it would be anything else, so with as straight a face she could muster, she said, "yes, I suppose so. I do try my best to be prepared for all things."

     Inside, her heart had begun to beat faster, signaling the adrenaline that would soon surge throughout her body like wildfire. She felt her ears grow hot; her hands began to sweat. She was nervous, and she feigned indifference to it, though in the back of her mind she knew exactly why.

     Yes, without a doubt, she fancied this man.

     "My, my. I've never seen food like this before. What is this, exactly?" Undertaker asked as he inspected a samosa, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. He turned it from side to side, as if examining it.

     "I believe they're meant to be with inspiration from the curry competition. After the huge success of the curry buns, mother demanded as close a recreation as our chef could get."

     "Were you there at the festival, then?"

     "No. Mother went, but I stayed. I had lessons to tend to."

     "I heard it was quite the event, hee hee. Some trouble with a bad spice," he trilled, biting the corner off his samosa. The dough was thick, but not uncomfortably so, and the filling inside seemed to melt away into his tongue. All in all, it was quite delicious, and the grin on his face reflected his satisfaction.

     "You were right, m'lady. Your chef is indeed a talented one."

     Emilynne nodded in agreement, chewing a mouthful of her own samosa. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, swallowed her food. "Yes, he truly is. I only wish some of that talent could rub off on me."

      "Everyone has their own talent, Lady Emilynne."

     "And what's mine, then?" she inquired, curious. Her eyes twinkled as she stared across at the Undertaker.

     "Making people smile," he replied without missing a beat. The simper on his face had turned softer somehow, more intimate. Coquettish, even. Emilynne averted her gaze, turning her head to the side so he could not glean the fresh blush spreading across her cheeks.

     "How ridiculous," Emilynne huffed, folding her arms across her chest in a defensive manner. Yes, it was ridiculous. She didn't make people smile. Her mother nearly always wore a stern expression, that terribly obsequious woman, and her father rarely smiled either, always so absorbed in his work that he could barely exchange words with her. She had made Willis smile only when she picked fresh flowers for him; aside from that, he seemed awfully melancholy, always stuck reflecting on his condition and the frailty of his life. The people close to her never smiled. Only he did.

     And then it happened. A tumble of words.

     "I fancy you."