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Gilded	By : tinkerheck Category: > Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji ???) Views: 3151 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji, aka Black Butler. I make no money from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
+++++++ Please see disclaimer & story notes in chapter one ++++++++

++++++++ chapter notes ++++++++

I fly beta-less. Please forgive the typos.

As always, thanks for reading!

 

+

Gilded

Chapter 5

+

Gilda had been home with just me for company for about a week and a half now. Most of the arguing seemed to be behind us, thankfully. She was working diligently on bringing her leg back up to snuff because she was anxious about getting back to school. This was her last year; she was set to graduate the following Spring. Her attack had taken place a little over a month into the fall term, so at least she was not yet in the thick of preparing for finals. From the way she spoke about them, I had a feeling the coming Spring was going to be a fairly chaotic for her.

No matter. She had me now, and I would ‘sweat the small stuff’ for her, as she’d put it.

She was eating her breakfast in bed, so I busied myself organizing her shoe rack. There were so many lovely pairs to choose from in her closet now! Some of them not so lovely in my opinion, but well-loved, at least.

She wasn’t up to wearing shoes yet. I was still carrying her everywhere, so it hardly mattered. She was finally comfortable with me doing that, which was nice, especially towards the day’s end when she was drowsy and seemed to enjoy being held. I have a feeling there hadn’t been much of that sort of thing in her life before I came along. Which is a pity, because she’s quite nice to hold when she isn’t being defensive.

“Alexander?”

“Yes, Miss?” I asked. I turned to face her as she finished her breakfast, and for once, she’d eaten at all of it. “Can I bring you more?”

“No, but it was delicious.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” I said bowing slightly.

“I just had a question. Or a comment, actually.”

“Yes?”

“You still haven’t asked me anything about my father’s business – I know, I know,” she cut me off when I tried to respond, “You want us to get used to each other. You want me to get back to school first. But Alex, I’m not sure you realize how complicated the stock market is. Plus I’m not sure he’s entirely, um, legit, you know? If you don’t know much about how it works, you’re going to need help.”

“All right, Miss,” I started, removing the tray from her lap. I refilled her cup from the carafe next to her bed, and handed her a fresh cup of coffee. Sitting down next to her on the bed, I asked, “Why don’t you start by telling me something about your relationship with him?”

“How is that going to help?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

“Hm. Okay, well, sorry to say there is no relationship with him. He left before I was born. As soon as he found out my mom was pregnant with me, he booked. Said we ‘weren’t what he wanted’ or something. Or so I was told.”

“You have reason to believe you were lied to about that?”

“No, not really. Let’s just say that Veronica, my mom, couldn’t tell me a single thing about him without slathering it with her anger.”

“How long were your parents married?”

“They never were married. Franks is my mother’s last name. My father’s name is Norman Anthony Bellows. Say, Alex – what’s your last name, anyway? You’ve never said.”

“The only name I have is the one you’ve given me, Miss.”

“Well, we’ll need a last name when people ask. Unless you want to do the Cher–slash–Madonna thing?”

I had a vague idea of what she was referring to, and she was right, I needed a last name. Sighing, I gave her the same one I always used. “Michaelis. Alexander Michaelis.”

At least it sounded nice paired with Alexander, like Sebastian did. I cannot tell you how mortified I’d been introducing myself as Diddums Michaelis when I was with Linda Smith.

She seemed to like the name, and smiled up at me as she continued. “They were three years together, I think. He took up with another woman after that. Did the same damn thing to her as well – never married her, knocked her up, and left her with a bun in the oven. I have a little half-sibling.”

“Splendid, you have more family. Would you like me to locate them?”

Gilda froze midway to a sip, and looked at me strangely for a moment. Then she simply said, “No.”

“What did your mother do after your father abandoned the two of you?”

“Bitched, cried and drank. A lot of drinking. That’s how she died, she drank herself to liver failure.”

“Ah. Cirrhosis?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s usually slower. She was way more bingy with her liquor than that. She got alcoholic hepatitis, and then that became liver failure, like, overnight. It was gross and it was hard, I mean I was only fifteen… but we had no insurance, so I took care of her. In fact, I ended up playing nursemaid the last several months of her life… not that she took much care of me before that.

There. You see? I told you. Gilda had been starved for affection. Well, she was going to get plenty of that from me. Just as soon as I got her used to the idea.

“You had no relationship with your father, and a bad relationship with your mother?”

She sighed. “She blamed me. For him leaving, I mean. And she told me so on a regular basis.”

“Yet you still looked after her.”

“She was my mom, so yeah. Stupid, I know.”

“Not stupid. I’d say that was respectful. In any case, you were still a child. I don’t suppose she came to her senses before she died and thanked you for caring for her on her deathbed?”

Gilda rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee.

“Yes, I didn’t think so. So you were burdened with a destitute living environment, raised by a psychology abusive mother who eventually drank herself to death, and you began to work, early in life, to try and improve your situation. I know you don’t care to hear this,” I said, fluffing her pillows behind her back, “but it’s that kind of behavior that stems from a pure soul.”

She shrugged. “I only did what needed to be done.”

“Exactly.”

She eyed me for a moment, then shrugged her little shoulders. “I was doing pretty good for myself before the conservatory and its massive tuition bills came calling. Mom was already gone, and it was obvious I was gonna graduate from high school early, so a friend hired a lawyer and got me emancipated.”

“Friend?” I inquired, skeptically.

“My piano tutor, at the time. I had a job waitressing already, and I was prepared to look for work in nightclubs as a piano player. My piano tutor and my teachers at school weren’t exactly happy about that, but still, I really was prepared make it on my own.”

“Well, money is no longer an issue, I will see to that. Not to worry, Mistress, I will get help if I require it. But, I am confused – you mean to tell me you learned your musicianship in a public school setting?”

“Mostly. One of my teachers in elementary school saw how intrigued I was by the piano in class, so she was giving me lessons for free, but I surpassed her abilities really fast. That’s when people started calling me a ‘prodigy’. Whatever,” she rolled her eyes again. “She got one of her professional musician friends to give me lessons for free after that. That’s the guy that hired a lawyer and got me emancipated after mom died. He’s a really good tutor, and I stuck with him until I entered the conservatory. In fact, he went behind my back and got me an audition for the conservatory.”

“I am glad he did. You are not suited to a life of dingy nightclubs and piano bar music, Miss.”

The corners of her mouth curled up in an embarrassed smile. “Yeah… I was mad at first, but he was right to do it. Pretty much all my music stuff was accomplished through the kindness of strangers who seemed to think I had a gift.”

“You do have a gift, Mistress. You should not be afraid to admit that. Speaking of your musical talent, I assume that comes from your mother?”

“God, no! That’s from my loving father, good ole’ Norm.”

“Not your mother? How can you be so sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure all right. I have living proof.” For some reason, she changed the subject abruptly. “Say, Alex, about the skirt you picked out for today…”

Oh, here we go.

+

“Hello?”

I watched with narrowed eyes on the closed-circuit TV screen in the foyer as a young man spoke into the microphone very politely. “I’m Fortune, here to see Gilda. Is this…” he looked around and up, smiling nervously when he found the camera and then swallowing hard. “Do I have the right house?”

The security system I had gotten installed went off again, alerting me to a visitor at the front gate, and I thought it may have been another delivery as I was still waiting for some furniture.

“This is the Frank’s residence. Gilda Franks is the Mistress of the manor,” I said into the intercom. “To whom am I speaking, again?”

“Fortune – Sorry. Fortunado Fernandez. I’m a conservatory student originally from Chile, here on scholarship. Oh – and on Uncle Rafael’s money, heh.” The boy was smiling nervously into the camera as he spoke entirely too much. “Um… I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, his accent just barely coming through. He had obviously been well tutored as a youth. “But, that is to say… Well, who are you, exactly?”

“Young man, I am the Franks family butler.” I was trying not to intimidate him too much. He was being polite, after all. “Let me check with the Mistress about your visit. I shall return momentarily. Do wait there a moment,” I said, flipping off the intercom and eyeing him a bit further on the screen in the foyer.

As you know, I still despised that such technology was now found in law enforcement facilities. But to have it here… what an advantage it gave me over callers! I could see them, but they could not see me. So easy to strike fear.

The visit had indeed been planned – by Gilda. “Do try and tell me about these things ahead of time, Mistress. I can prepare for your callers,” I said to her, settling her into a chair in the salon. “Even if they are young men.”

She looked very good that day, a big improvement over when I had first brought her home. Her long, light brown hair was finally responding to the various treatments I was using on it, and was now wavy instead of frizzy. Fresh and clean, it felt like strands of silk when I combed it. I had pulled it back into a loose ribbon where it trailed lovingly down her back.

The split lip was almost completely gone, and Gilda’s pale skin was dotted with adorable patches of light freckles that had blossomed nicely since I’d begun overseeing her skin care regimen. There was a cluster of them up high on each cheek right below her eyes that I was particularly fond of as they darkened when she blushed for me.

I’d forced her into a matched set of lacy, dark red intimates that morning. The brassiere (a ‘C’ cup, in case you are wondering) and panties had looked great enough on her, and covering them up had been a shame, but the outfit looked just as nice. Her height and weight was completely average for a woman her age, five-foot-five and one hundred twenty-nine pounds. She had strong legs and a fantastic backside, which I chose to show off in a fitted, forest green worsted wool skirt. I picked a maroon button-down for her shirt, which went so well with her dark green eyes, and I left the top two buttons undone, providing the most miniscule of teases.

The short maroon socks with little satin bows on them, along with a touch of mascara and some sheer pink candy-flavored lip-gloss added a flair of Lolita to the whole ensemble. I was exceedingly pleased with myself when I’d finished with her that morning.

But now I was beginning to regret how attractive she looked. If I caught this Fortunado Fernandez person with so much as an uninvited finger on my precious Mistress –

“Relax, Heathcliff. Fortune’s my best friend.”

I stood up, fisting my hands on my hips and giving her a disappointed frown. “The only thing a young man his age is interested in is a subject I cannot bring myself to discuss with you at present.”

She laughed. “Then you’d better gird your loins, Alex.”

“Pardon me, Miss?”

She tilted her head, giving me a sympathetic smile. “Fortune digs men, and you are a hottie.”

“Ah.”

More modern vernacular. How I loathe it.

“Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky, huh?” she smiled, a little too wide. “Now go let him in already, it’s chilly out today and he’s from a South American climate.”

I watched as the young man got back into his expensive British car, then I entered the code that opened the gate for him. He drove up to the front door, got out without slamming his car door, and patiently waited on the front stoop for me to let him in.

Nearly all of my hesitation was relieved when he entered the manor, immediately handed me his coat, and introduced himself properly. He was a well-groomed boy; very attractive with long black hair held neatly in a ponytail, smooth, brown skin, beautiful dark brown eyes, and fairly tall. He even possessed the decency to have picked up a stray package left by the gate and brought it in with him, so I added ‘accommodating’ to my assessment. He also knew not to try and shake my hand – I am the help after all – and he followed my lead into the parlor.

The boy was obviously the very best sort that came from money. Perhaps he’d give Gilda a few lessons in the proper behavior of a person of status. I could only hope.

I was eavesdropping from the kitchen, just in case the handsome lad suddenly decided he was no longer a homosexual and tried to coerce my Young Miss into something untoward. With you humans, one just never knows! In the end, there was nothing for me to be concerned about.

He was a delightful young man. They spent the afternoon giggling, drinking iced tea and eating some savory hors d'oeuvres I’d thrown together. Fortune seemed very concerned about Gilda’s health, and told her that all her instructors and friends at school were anxiously awaiting her return. Much to his delight, she let him play her new piano – he was very good, but I had my suspicions that Gilda was better. I also learned that he played gaucho-style guitar.

As they spoke, I put two-and-two together, and learned that all of the conservatory students who were in their final year had similar graduation requirements: you had to prove you could play an instrument as part of an orchestra, which differed from techniques used as a soloist; you had to compose a final piece of music specifically for your chosen instrument; and you had to master the basics on how to conduct a symphony. Young Mr. Fernandez’s intent at school was to become a conductor, not a composer, like my Mistress.

They got along splendidly, and I could see why they were such good friends. Although Fortunado came from wealth, and Gilda had been poor, their money wasn’t actually providing them with any sort of fulfillment. It was a means to a more comfortable end, and nothing more. They were both extremely talented students with a burning desire to succeed in their musical endeavors; their money, or lack of it, did not concern them.

I also listened intently when Fortunado asked Gilda just what had happened that lead to her new life of luxury.

“This place is a lot bigger than Uncle Rafe’s house! What didja do, Gillie? Rob a bank?”

She proceeded to tell him the tale, exactly as I had instructed, and he accepted it without a lot of fuss – thankfully. I made a mental note to reward her for that.

“So, you’re loaded now, huh? That must feel nice.”

“It would, but I’m not used to it. Alex has been a lot of help.”

Sweet child.

“That’s the butler? Yeah, he seems like he’s been around the feather duster a time or two before.” I heard her snort rudely. She’ll probably demand I walk around with a pink feather duster sticking out of my back pocket from here on out. “I like him,” the boy continued, “He’s totally professional but he isn’t a cold fish, either. You should lean on him more, Gillie, that’s what he’s here for and he obviously cares about you.”

Oh, if you only knew.

Gilda cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Well, it’s just… all the money, Forch. It’s a little overwhelming. I mean, I went from a one-room hovel on Federal Offense Avenue to… this,” I heard her say, and she was probably waving her hands around, indicating everything.

“The money making you nervous?” he asked gently, and I heard him shift.

“Yeah. It’s weird. It shouldn’t right? But it does.” Her voice had grown very quiet.

Time to make another entrance.

Walking in with more iced tea and a sweet, I glanced down to see he had taken her hands in his. I didn’t smell anything indecent coming off of him, so I tried to ignore it. I heard him say to her, “Uncle Rafael can help, maybe. He’s a stock trader and he knows people.”

“I thought… I thought your uncle was…” she started, but whatever it was she was going to say, it died on her lips as I got closer.

Fortune glanced up at me as I hovered with another tray, and released her hands. I smiled politely. “I’ve made something sweet to finish,” I announced. “Raspberry crème petits fours.”

Gilda was indifferent. She took one and placed it on her dessert dish, but did not actually eat it. Fortunado, however, took three, and his eyes lit up with the first bite.

“Oh, man, can I take him home with me? These are so good!”

“You flatter me, sir. But I’m afraid I am spoken for. I belong to Miss Gilda, and will for some time.” She smiled up at me softly. “If I may be so bold as to inquire, what was that you were saying to my Mistress as I entered the salon?”

The boy nodded, then finished chewing and swallowed, and wiped his mouth before speaking.

Oh, I liked him.

Gilda shook her head for him to stop, but he waved her off. “It’s all right, Gillie. I was telling her about my Uncle Rafe. He has a lot of connections in the financial world.” He looked back at my Mistress, who became uneasy. “She’s just apprehensive to talk about it because some of the people in my family are not exactly known for being completely above board. Apparently she doesn’t realize yet that Butlers are sworn to confidence.”

“Indeed. Yes we are, Sworn to secrecy,” I said to him happily. He understood. His soul was not particularly potent, but he was an intelligent, concerned person.

Hmm… So this Uncle Rafael was a not-so-legitimate stock trader, was he? That gave me pause. I still had to figure out how to take down Norman Bellow’s shady firm, and fighting fire with fire was always a good place to start.

Gilda leaned over and groaned as she put her face in her hands. Fortunado pat her shoulder affectionately. “Gillie, it’s okay. For heaven’s sake! No one’s going to get in trouble just from talking about it!”

“Mistress, perhaps you should listen to what Mr. Fernandez has to offer. There are still some issue with your finances that I am unqualified to deal with.” Those issues being, of course, taking over her father’s firm and then destroying his personal wealth. The modern financial world was ever so complicated. She was right, I was going to need help, much as I needed the help of Master Ciel’s ‘staff’. Her friend didn’t need to know the details yet, but Gilda knew exactly what I was referring to. “It may put your heart at ease should you employ the services of someone you know, rather than a stranger. I could stay and listen, or even handle it all for you… if you’d like.”

Fortunado Fernandez stayed on for a couple more hours. I learned that he was from a wealthy Chilean family with a pure ancestry, a pre-columbian genetic heritage that made him an honest-to-goodness Native South American. His was an exceedingly conservative lot, and his Uncle Rafael had taken the boy in when his parents disowned him after he came ‘out’ about being homosexual.

Honestly, this business of humiliating, shunning and murdering your fellow humans for all the various insipid reasons you come up with – real or imagined - just what is wrong with you people? I will never understand it. The important part of being human – your soul, in case you are still confused on that one – has very little to do with what gender you are (or aren’t), what your personal beliefs are (or aren’t), your appearance, how much money you have, or whom or how often you want to ‘fuck’. So silly.

Luckily for Fortunado, being taken in by his Uncle included a move to the United States, where he eventually won admittance into the conservatory. He and my Mistress had met in their very first class of their first year. They had a five-year age difference – remember that Gilda had graduated ahead of schedule from her American secondary education, but after Fortunado moved to the US, his education was stalled due to the business of obtaining citizenship status. Despite the differences in their ages and financial status, they had taken to each other instantly. It is no wonder to me that Gilda’s protective nature for her friend came out the moment he kissed her goodbye and drove away.

“Listen, Demon. If you involve Fortune in something that gets him hurt, I will be livid with you. Got it?”

I assured her that she had nothing to worry about. I had no plans to involve Fortunado Fernandez in anything Machiavellian. Unless, of course, the young man expressed a desire to engage in sex with me. He was pretty enough that I might not be able to resist. Olé!

As to his uncle Rafael’s involvement, however, Gilda failed to mention any restrictions. So he was an entirely different matter.

As Fortune would have it, pun intended, I arranged with Gilda’s pretty friend to bring Uncle Rafael Fernandez to the manor the following day. I found that he had a soft spot for most everyone that needed help, but yes, he was quite shady. This was exactly what my Mistress and I needed. It was my good luck that he also adored Gilda like a daughter, so I was very confident that he wouldn’t refuse our offer. He nearly fell over himself hugging her and expressing his desire to rip her attacker to shreds.

Too late! Ha ha ha.

The surprise came, though, when he found out whom her father actually was. In an auspicious turn of events, I wasn’t going to have to apply much seduction at all to obtain Uncle Rafael’s services, since he hated Gilda’s father.

“That’s your daddy? Norm Bellows?”

“Yep. The name Franks is from my mom. He never married her, so yeah, I’m a bastard.”

“Nothin’ of the sort, Gillie. Yer a perfect little girl!” She smiled up at him. “But I fuckin’ hate that guy. Oh, pardon my French, Gillie.”

That word. Is not. French. I sighed.

“No problem, Uncle Rafe. I fucking hate him, too.”

“Mistress! Language,” I scolded.

The two of them snickered together, and Fortunado rolled his eyes in embarrassment.

+

The offer was discussed and an agreement quickly solidified. After Uncle Rafael was on board, and yes, even I had to call him that, my struggle to find more help came to an end. Aside from his position as a stock broker (which we were referring to as ‘the chef’) he also had valuable connections to the underworld. This made Gilda a bit antsy, but after I told her that I’d had extensive experience dealing with such types in the past, she relaxed enough to just ‘let me handle it’. I didn’t go into detail regarding Ciel’s position as guard dog to the Queen, as I had no desire to bring that up, and fortunately she did not press things.

Along with Uncle Rafael, we now had resources for information to illegal activity in the financial world, and together we could get a better handle on how to approach Bellows’ firm.

Rafael said we needed an accountant and a lawyer, and he found us both. The accountant’s name was Michael Jacobs. I assigned him as our ‘gardener’, and he would be in charge of laundering the money. I got a bit excited when he used that term, ‘laundering’, but that died soon after I got a brief education in what that actually meant. Jacobs was an average looking black man in his late twenties. Young, but already very good at his job. He was private and quiet, polite. Dependable.

Our ‘maid’, Evelyn Shapiro, was a tax lawyer that knew how to clean up the loose ends. She was a tiny, dark-haired woman, a confirmed bachelorette with a good sense of humor and impeccable taste in business attire. She also had a slight mothering instinct that had helped gain her an instant rapport with Gilda, which I appreciated.

“Of course you go and make the only woman among them the maid. Jeez, Alex… that’s totally sexist even if it is all a big ruse,” she said to me later.

“I apologize Mistress. I’m afraid I’m a bit old fashioned in that way. You should be comforted by the fact that at first Miss Shapiro also balked at the idea for the very same reasons, but when she learned what her cut was, she didn’t seem to mind as much.”

They were all to get a very generous cut for their work, which I informed them was to look as legitimate as they could make it.

They were not the manor’s actual gardener, maid and chef, of course – same as before, I did all that – but they were also expected to show up and play their parts if needed, should any officials come calling. They were to report to me two days a week at the manor, to confer on their plans and to provide progress reports.

Uncle Rafael already had a few things in mind when it came to Bellows’ firm, and decided to start with buying out the less-important board members that held shares. He was fairly certain that Gilda’s father had been forced to open up the shares to his board in order to expand the business, and while he still held a generous portion, it was no longer the magic number: fifty-one percent.

I felt confident and happy with this staff. Shapiro and Jacobs reported to Uncle Rafael, who reported to me. These folks were reliable thieves, and yes, there is such a thing. They knew their trades back and forth, and were more than satisfied with their cuts. They were aware they didn’t have to make things happen overnight, so it was likely they would come up with a very solid plan.

I could relax a bit regarding the revenge portion of the contract, and concentrate on the things I could control, like getting closer to my Mistress.

+

Earlier I mentioned that Gilda is a perfectionist with her music. But one of the more frustrating things for me was that she wasn’t such a stickler when it came to everything else. She may have been particular about me not having complete control over her wardrobe, but she also wasn’t overly-adamant that any of the clothes she wore – either the ones I bought, or her own – looked one hundred percent correct when she wore them. If you had asked her, she would just tell you that regardless of the style, she was a slob with her appearance.

Well, I apologize to the universe, but there is only so much a butler such as myself can take. And that attitude had to go. I may have hated the various styles she enjoyed, but she was not going to wear those clothes with stains and wrinkles, or if it was ill fitting and needed alteration. I could at least control that part.

It was fine. She could pair up her hideous black army boots with the lovely watercolor patterned silk dress I’d gotten, and then put an old wool Peruvian poncho over it if she absolutely had to. However, the boots would be polished, and the holes in the poncho would be repaired. I was not budging on that sort of thing. Fortunately, she liked the improvements I came up with, so that adjustment went well.

However, I have to tell you that she finally succeeded in hurting my demonic feelings.

I told you what a difficult learning process making edible human food had been for me, but I don’t think I mentioned to you what a spectacular cook I became because of it. That is a particularly monumental achievement for me when you realize that I do not eat human food, and therefore I cannot tell whether it has been made correctly or not simply by tasting it. I had to learn through trial and error; for instance, when Ciel would throw something at me, I had a pretty good idea that it was horrible.

In time, I became a very good chef, and in I was particularly excellent at creating sweets. Ciel adored sweets, so I happily put in the extra effort getting better at them. It was thrilling to feel his mood change because I had served him something he loved. Even though he never openly expressed his delight, I could smell the change in him.

But, as to my feelings. Yes, I do have them. Many of them are not the same ones that you have, yet some of them are. Pride being one.

I am good at making sweets, and not just a little good. Were it not for the fact that I am a demon, I could compete with the world’s greatest pâtissier, and would likely win.

One night, after she was up to moving about on her own, with the exception of the stairs, of course, Gilda was in the salon at the piano. Playing. Composing. Talking to herself. Writing, cursing. I tell you, once that girl started working, there was no stopping her.

I’d decided to reward her with a sweet snack.

Mini lemon tarts with toasted marshmallow crème. Not exactly a sock-puller, but it can be difficult to create them properly. After the tarts are baked, and you must not over-bake them, you apply the marshmallow crème with a large pastry tip. You then have to put the tarts under a broiler to achieve just the right amount of browning on the scalloped edges of the crème points. They do not taste or look right, otherwise. However, at this stage, the delicate pastry shells of the tart are susceptible to burning and the lemon custard to liquefying whilst they are under the broiler. One must be diligent, as I always am.

They came out beautiful. I made a pot of decaf vanilla-flavored coffee to go with them, grimacing as I did, and presented it all to her with a flourish.

She didn’t even know I was in the room. That damn pencil was in and out of her mouth six times, as she pecked away at the piano keys and scribbled furiously on her staff paper in tandem.

“Miss Gilda?” nothing. “Miss, I have brought you a sweet,” I started, attempting a compromise. “It may help you to think while you compose?”

“Uh,” she started, half looking at me and half looking at her sheets of staff paper. “just set it there on the…” she almost finished, then wrote something down in a rage and plunked it out on the piano.

I sulked back to the kitchen to clean everything up. When I came back into the salon later, she had gone. The coffee was half gone, but the tarts had gone untouched. Defeated, I put them in the icebox. The next day, I served them to the fake staff, and between Evelyn Shapiro and Michael Jacobs, they were gone in fifteen minutes. At least someone appreciated my hard work.

I tried again a few days later, with an Italian almond-anise sponge cake, covered in a dark chocolate ganache, with a touch of smooth raspberry purée drizzled on top in a pretty zig-zag pattern. A very fetching dessert, and full of complex flavors. My ganache is especially nice, having perfected it over many decades, and I know exactly how to balance just the right amount of anise with my almond.

This time, she had the gall to wave me away.

Fortune Fernandez’s Uncle Rafael was a big fan of Italian cuisine, to the point where he made lunch for all of us occasionally when the entire staff was assembled. He specialized in pasta dishes, which was something I had very little interest in. He was insistent when the mood struck, and all I could do was get out of his way and clean up the disaster he left in the kitchen when he was done. He loved Italian desserts especially, but had no clue how to create a sweet. So when he smelled the anise of the sponge cake, he followed the scent into the kitchen. After he found the cake in its glass storage container, he ate half of it with a large spoon while still standing at the counter.

Rafael Fernandez is a shrewd and reliable person regarding what I need him for, and he loves Gilda like a surrogate father, but the man has slightly unpleasant table manners.

In any case, I gave her one last chance, hoping the aroma of a warm dessert would pull her attention away from that damn piano and back on to me. Yes, I know I was being silly. It’d come to that; I was jealous of a damn musical instrument.

Warm sweetbread blueberry cobbler drenched with cold, fresh cream sweetened with just the right amount of vanilla and sugar. This dish must be served promptly. You spoon a generous serving of warm cobbler into a bowl and pour the cold, sweetened cream over it in front of the recipient, and voilà! Instant orgasm in their mouths – that is, if the plebeians have at least an iota of good taste.

But no, I was dashed, yet again.

“Alex, I’m working here. Please. I’ll eat something later.”

I didn’t bother saving it for the fake staff to devour. That particular dish simply isn’t right as a common leftover. It must be served fresh. I dumped the cobbler in the trash and almost felt like crying at the loss, except, you see, I do not cry.

After that, I became slightly depressed. I stopped making her sweets and didn’t interrupt her while she was working. What was the point?

A few days later, Gilda was at work in the salon again, when I found a lovely cut of beef in the back of the icebox that needed to be dealt with. I was nearly done preparing a batch of boeuf bourguignon which I was planning to serve for supper in a few hours, when the music and the cursing and the mumbling came to a sudden halt. I was just about to go into the salon to check on her, but the swinging door to the kitchen opened and there stood my Mistress with stars in her dark eyes.

“My God, what are you making?”

“Why?” I asked impolitely, and a little bit suspicious. I admit that I was also still quite hurt.

“It smells so good! What is it? Jesus, is that bacon?!”

She limped up to the stove and inhaled deeply. Before she came in, I had just competed the last step of adding the wine and other liquids to the beef, and had brought it to a simmer on the stovetop. The casserole dish was now in the oven for the long haul.

“It is Boeuf Bourguignon, Mistress.”

“Holy cow. No, I mean really. Is it done?” she asked, full of hope.

“No, Miss; one hour and forty-nine minutes more to go,” I said, feeling hopeful again. She whined slightly, but said she could hardly wait to taste it.

Unable to go back to her composing, she planted herself at the kitchen table and chatted with me while I worked until the dish was done. I was fairly sure she had done it just to stay close to the aroma with which she was so enamored, but to be honest, she was very charming and she reminded me that the Gilda Franks I had met those years previous was still with us. I admit it was nice to just talk with her, and I learned a few more things about her past.

It turns out that Gilda had been raised on ‘TV’ dinners and fast food. Her mother, as I should have expected, had not been much into preparing meals for her daughter. When it came to her nourishment, the little girl had learned to fend for herself. But with so much of her energy being poured into her one passion, the piano, she never had the time to learn how to cook properly. Hence the atrocious pre-made dinners, and even those had not been steady. Some days there had been no food at all.

Later, during dinner, I was treated to so many moans of pleasure as she chewed, I wasn’t entirely sure if she hadn’t had an orgasm at the dining room table. It was simple: my new Mistress simply didn’t care for sweets.

Although I’d prepared all of her meals for her since we’d contracted, she hadn’t gotten so worked up over anything I’d made, not like that, not until celebrated Chef Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon hit her plate. The next morning I tried Hash Brown Potatoes with onions and garlic, Eggs Benedict, and a fresh bagel with light cream cheese and kiwi slices. Lo and behold, she was on her way down to the dining room before I could make it up the stairs with the tray.

I insisted she get back in bed and was never to do that again. Breakfast (unless eaten with guests) was a dish that she’d eat in her comfy bed if it was the last thing I got her to do. I pointed to the traditions of the wealthy as my argument, but the fact is… Well, I adore my mornings. Waking the prey up, watching their sweet struggle to abandon the world of dreams, informing them of their daily schedule, and feeding them something delicious and lovingly prepared by yours truly, all before getting down to the business of bathing and dressing.

My morning routine is just as important to me as yours is to you. And I get very cranky when that particular aspect of my buttling is messed with.

Two days later we discovered, together, what remained her favorite supper until the end of our association: Pot Roast with Creamy Mashed Potatoes, Harvest Vegetables, and a green salad. Her reaction to the meat was – oh, my goodness. Let’s just say that after the clinging hug, I thought for sure she was going to request a dessert that night. How shall I describe this - the sort of sweet that is consumed on one’s knees? Heh.

She really does have a delightful way of saying thank you when she means it. Bear in mind, I did not give her such rustic and hearty dishes with every meal, most especially lunch, but she quickly came to know the merit of skipping the meat and potatoes and eating the fish and greens in their stead for at least half of the time. She also came to appreciate the fact that I loved to cook, and the more complicated a dish, the more I enjoyed making it. Some were hits, some were misses, but she capitulated and tried each and every plate set before her.

I also wasn’t going to stop making sweets, and to my great delight, she occasionally sampled my wares in that regard. What she did not consume, our new staff eagerly gobbled up. It was an arrangement I could most certainly live with.

She was starved for both affection and a savory, nourishing meal, both of which I could happily provide. Yet another difference between Gilda Franks and Ciel Phantomhive that I probably should have anticipated.

+

“Ah! Dammit!”

I was in the kitchen before Gilda could take another breath. “What did you do?”

“Shit, sorry. I was trying to reassemble these pages. I was gonna cut and paste them into the order I wanted.” She pointed to some staff paper with various musical passages written all over them in her hasty, messy script. “But I stabbed myself with the damn x-acto knife.”

She held up her left hand. It was just a small cut, but it was fairly deep. Glistening red drops of her blood were running down her hand and a few had fallen on the kitchen sink. I stepped forward, unable to stop myself.

Taking her hand in mine, I examined the cut. It would not need stitches, but it was going to bleed for a while. A couple red drops got onto my skin as I held her hand. Instinctively, I lifted my fingers to my nose, inhaled deeply, and closed my eyes.

So wonderful. Rich, bright and pure.

When I realized I was getting carried away with myself, I opened my eyes only to find Gilda was staring up at me. Her eyes looked wide, but then she smiled sarcastically.

“Well, at least now I know what to get you for Christmas. Maybe if I find a willing donor–”

“Blood from a stranger will not work. Your blood is…”

When I did not finish, she said “What? My blood is what?”

“Let us stop discussing this, Mistress. It’s unseemly.” I grabbed a clean terrycloth hand towel and wrapped her hand in it, then I turned away from her and began cleaning up the sink. “Keep pressure on it. The bleeding will stop momentarily. Then I will dress it for you.”

“Alex, you know… You can drink it if you want to.”

I froze, dropping the x-acto knife into the sink.

“I mean, what’s already leaked out isn’t gonna crawl back in, right? Do you drink blood? I’ve never seen you eating food, so I just assumed as a demon–”

“Mistress. Do not tempt me.”

She grinned at me. “So… what? This not a big enough portion for you?” she asked, holding up the hand wrapped in the towel.

I closed my eyes.

“You’re telling me you haven’t got enough self-control to stop before you drain me dry?”

“Certainly not! It’s not the amount, it’s the...” I stopped. Why was I supposed to make her understand something I didn’t want her to know about in the first place? “Just believe me when I tell you that I am positively riddled with self-control. But that is not the point.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“The point is, Mistress,” I said with a little venom, “It isn’t polite. I am your butler. I do not depend on you, you depend on me. I shouldn’t cross that line.”

“All right, I get it. But, you should know,” she said, her voice flirty, “I’m clumsy. I hurt myself. I bleed. A lot.”

“Then kindly do so where I cannot see.” I turned the hot water on in the sink and squirted some dishwashing liquid into the stream.

“Okay…” she said, perplexed. “Think I’ll go upstairs and take care of this myself.” She hobbled away, and I did not follow her.

Her blood was not her soul, of course. It was reminiscent of it. The actual flavor of it is meaningless; blood is to your soul the same way aromas are to foods. Tastier foods give off better aromas. The potency of this is also affected by your moods the same way food can go cold or stale and the aroma becomes non-existent. Blood tasted during heightened emotional states, such as sex, or pain, is more reminiscent of the soul than otherwise. For a demon that can control their urges, and most of us cannot, blood becomes a way to sample a soul without actually eating it. But this takes enormous amounts self-control when dealing with a rare soul.

Believe me, I can control myself. But as her butler, it would be disgraceful to even ask for such a thing.

It was a dangerous game, being that close to her blood, especially given how long I’d denied myself such pleasures. Gilda had no idea just how hungry I was, and if I had anything to say about it, she would never know until the moment I fed on her.

+

One day, she did not compose. She just played. And I was treated to some of the most wonderful live piano performances I have ever heard.

There was, of course, the ‘holy trinity’ as she liked to call them (which made me chuckle) – that being Beethoven, Mozart and Chopin. Beyond that, Ravel set the tone as I worked and cleaned in the kitchen, Bach accompanied me as I dusted and polished, I used Tchaikovsky and Wagner to time myself as I cleaned the bathrooms in between loads of laundry. I already loved to clean; this just made it all the more enjoyable.

When I got to the salon, she turned to Grieg and Debussy, which were rather more emotional pieces, and I couldn’t help but wonder why she chose those when I was in her sight. Whether or not she intended it, I felt complimented.

While in the salon, I noticed something and managed to get a question in before she began another set.

“Mistress?”

“Hmm?” she asked, sounding dreamy and pleased with herself.

“Where on earth is your sheet music?” The top front panel of her grand piano where the staff paper to her composition normally sits was empty. I expected to see pre-printed sheets there right then, for the famous compositions she was playing. But when I thought about it, I hadn’t seen or heard her shuffling though any sheet music at all that day.

She turned on her polished piano seat to face me. “I don’t always need it.”

“Do you mean to tell me, you have all those marvelous pieces you just played memorized?”

“Uh… Well, basically. Yeah.”

“Astounding,” I said, under my breath. Although I am sure she heard me because she giggled.

After a few hours of this amazing treat, I was straightening the upstairs guest rooms (no one had ever used them as of yet, I just did this on routine principle) and I noticed that she’d begun picking out notes, not playing, as though she were working things out. At first I assumed that she had gone back to composing, but something in me was struggling to recognize bits of the tune. Finally it dawned on me! It was not a piano piece at all. It was Felix Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor, Opus 64, a difficult and exciting composition. And the clever girl was trying to mold and adapt it for playing on the piano.

I knew this piece. I often played this piece.

“Perhaps I can help you with that,” I said, standing before her with my violin in my hands.

She looked up, startled at my sudden appearance, then became even more so – making her adorable “o” face – when she saw I held not just a violin, but a Stradivarius.

Yes. I have one. I believe the expression is ‘nanee-nanee boo-boo’? Telling the tale as to how I came to possess one would make you even more jealous.

“Good gravy, is that…?”

“Yes, Miss. It is.” She swallowed hard, gazing at the violin. I smirked, and my voice became playful. “Would you like to touch my instrument?”

She flushed, but got over it quickly. “Ha, ha. Very funny. You’re telling me that’s been in the house all this time?”

“Indeed. It is spelled to travel with me to each contract.”

She nodded. “And you can play a bit?”

I smirked again. “A bit, yes.”

“All right then, Alex. I assume you know this piece, and what I’m trying to do with it?”

Positioning myself askew of the piano so that we could watch each other easier, I proceeded to play the first few measures of the piece. She sat in silence when I was done. Without another word, she played a different section, then cocked an eyebrow, expecting me to repeat it. I did so.

She played it again, this time trying to emulate the nuances of my violin within the restrictions of her piano’s. Three, four times we repeated this process, and with each time she became more confident until she would move on to another part of the piece, and we’d tackled it again.

Not a word was spoken between us, but there were a lot of heated stares. On both our parts.

By the time we got to playing out the entire piece simultaneously, I felt as though she was undressing me with her eyes, which was very pleasant. It appears Gilda was just as aroused by my talent as I was with hers. We continued on like that for a bit, and she began challenging me by altering the piece to be more piano-like, or less violin-like, however you want to put it, and for me to follow her lead instead of the other way around. One thing after another she changed, creating more and better arrangements on the fly as it were, and I had to struggle to keep up.

No wonder she was so obsessed with music. She was a genius. When we finally stopped, she took her hands from the keys and placed them on her thighs. I strode around behind the piano and set my expensive violin down, very carefully, on an oak lamp table. Gilda swung her legs over the highly polished surface of the stationary bench to face me.

“Wow. That was fun. You can play a bit.”

I put a gloved finger to my lips and smiled. “Would you like to do something else that is fun, Miss?” She blushed and looked down. I approached her. She smiled up at me seductively as I got closer, as though she knew what was coming. “You are irresistible when you compete with me like that, Mistress.”

“Well, you’re pretty damn good on that fiddle, Alex,” she smirked. “But how irresistible am I?”

Joy. It was time to kiss my prey again!

I removed my gloves with my teeth and tossed them aside, old habits dying hard, you see. She had watched this very carefully, and her eyes grew dark with interest.

Gently, I placed my bare hands on her upper arms and lifted her to her feet, pulling her a few steps away from the piano bench. I was not planning some little peck on her forehead. I wanted her away from her beloved instrument so that she could concentrate on me.

I leaned in close. Taking her face in my hands, I captured her lips in mine. There was no resistance on her part, for once, and I took advantage of that. I didn’t get all ‘grabby’, if that’s what you are assuming. I don’t work that way. There is an art to everything, and seduction is certainly no exception.

I pushed my hands back further into her hair and tilted her head to get better access. Ever so slowly I coaxed her lips into dancing with mine. I opened my mouth, just slightly, and she followed willingly.

Everything felt so slick and alive. Goodness gracious, how I love kissing!

Our tongues touched briefly, and the kiss grew more erotic. It had been a very long time since I had kissed anyone like that; not since Louis DeBrena. But even with him it hadn’t been this good, because he did not have Gilda’s soul.

My tongue slid softly against Gilda’s and I felt her shiver. I grew hard yet again, but at last I had the satisfaction of sensing her own desires rising alongside mine.

I broke the kiss, then tilted my head again to get at her delicious mouth from another angle, and I kissed her just as thoroughly a second time. She breathed with me as our mouths tangled. When I finally released her lips, we were both smiling, and she sighed, long and satisfied.

I hadn’t expected to have sex with her this soon, but if she was ready for me, I was not going to disappoint. If my Pot Roast had been any indication, she was receptive to the idea, at least. But once again I should have realized which of my many attractive features trumped the other; in this case, music won out over food.

No matter, I thought, looking down into her dark eyes, because she wants me now. I slid one hand to her lower back and looked down at her with a lust in my eyes that I could no longer conceal, then I pushed my hips against hers – just a light brush. Never overbearing. Just enough to let her know that I was as eager to play with her body as she was with mine.

“Oh dear…” Gilda said, smiling as she leaned against me, looking up at me with such beautiful want on her face, sliding her palms down my shirt to the belt of my trousers.

And away we go!

Ah…

You know, it still pains me to think about this. It’s quite embarrassing. Simply put, I do not like being had. Not by another demon, or a damn Reaper, and especially not by some human. Not even one who smells as sweet as she does.

To my horror, Gilda’s right hand dipped lower and… pat the front of my bulging trousers like it was the top of a child’s head. One that had misbehaved.

She tsk-tsked, shaking her head back and forth. “Why don’t you get a hold of yourself, Demon,” she scolded. “I mean, like, literally, ‘cause I’m not gonna do it for you.”

She smiled sarcastically. Abruptly extracting herself from my arms, she turned away. HHHHumming a pleasant tune and limping off on her bad leg, she left me standing alone in the salon, hands full of air and pants full of want.

I clenched my teeth, intentionally holding my temper in check. Walking towards the French doors of the salon that led to the outside, I let myself out. I strode towards the heavily shaded sunken garden, found the dark, shallow wishing pool in the middle, and sat down in it.

By the time I cooled off and climbed out, there was steam curling off the black surface of the water. All the lovely Koi – hand picked by yours truly to go with her precious goddamn Japanese Maples – were dead. They were cooked through I tell you, and had floated to the top.

Damn it all. Yet another thing I had to clean up and replace. I had half a mind to toss some of their prettier corpses onto a platter and serve them for dinner – as is.

+

tbc

+

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