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The neo-Victorian style kitchen was lavish. Bright white contrasted with dark wood, complemented by polished brass. The smell of lime cleaning solution wafted from the surfaces and mixed with the aroma of cinnamon scrolls that were currently in the oven. A large window only encouraged the impression of grandeur as the light of the summer day bounced off the shiny white surfaces and made the whole place positively sparkle. It also gave a marvellous view into the rolling grounds with their perfectly manicured lawns, and lush rose bushes as far as the eye could see. The kitchen was always buzzing. At a bare minimum, there were a couple chefs were prepping lunch or dinner for the family’s next meal, while on more important occasions and parties it would fill to the brim with extra hired help trying desperately to keep things running smoothly. Sometimes the Nanny came down with demands from the young child. This was one such occasion.
“Good afternoon, Gentlemen,” she said as she stepped through the kitchen doorway. “Master Warlock is insisting on a cheese toastie, if you would -“
It was only then that she noticed the men’s expressions. Ashtoreth’s heels announced her arrival several minutes before she reached the kitchen, and yet the two buffoons didn’t have the sense to look convincingly innocent by the time she was in front of them. Stephan Rosaire and Peter Morel; tweedle dum and tweedle dumber if she ever saw them. Unfortunately, Aziraphale enjoyed the five star slop they served, so she tolerated them. Barely.
“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” she asked. She had the manner of a teacher demanding the attention of two students who had dared interrupt her lecture.
Judging by their deer-in-the-headlights look, they had clearly been gossiping about her seconds before she walked in. She saw Stephan nudge Peter, in a look-who-just-walked-in kind of way. Peter looked like he wanted to be left out of it. He put his head down and focussed on rolling the biscuit dough he was working on. At least he had some sense. After a moment’s hesitation, Stephan had obviously decided he was a bad actor and it would be better to just lean into the truth.
“Speak of the devil,” said Stephan, “’was just talking about you Ms Ashtoreth.”
“Really,” said Ashtoreth, bored. “You astonish me. Make sure you put mustard on it.”
Stephan started moving and Ashtoreth assumed he was about to start pulling things out of cupboards to get the cheese sandwich going. To her bemusement, however, he just walked around the kitchen island and leant on the counter next to her.
“We’ve been wondering. Where do you go?”
She saw Peter dip his head lower when he realised he was being included in this confession. Suddenly that biscuit dough required all the concentration of decoding the Rosetta stone and he worked on rolling and cutting out shapes like his life depended on it. He wasn’t entirely certain that it didn’t; Ashtoreth looked like the sort of woman who carried one of those lipsticks that turned out to be a knife when you took off the lid. Either way, the man’s biceps were getting an anxiety-induced workout.
“Excuse me?”
“You get Tuesdays off. Where do you disappear to?” Stephan asked.
Ashtoreth felt a small pang in her chest but kept her face stern. They weren’t wrong. Ashtoreth did disappear on Tuesdays. Anyone watching the Bentley approach the intersection could have sworn that the driver was a dominating school mam with an outdated hairstyle, while any onlooker watching it drive around the corner would have argued resolutely that the driver was a tall, slender man with pointed features. This argument had, in fact, happened once when a pedestrian has selfishly failed to get out of the way of the Bentley’s warpath through a pedestrian crossing, and witnesses had conflicting reports of who was actually driving the vehicle in question.
“Now, I don’t really see how that is your business, Rosaire,” said Ashtoreth curtly.
“Just making conversation,” he smiled, waving the spoon he was still holding in a vague gesture. She swore she almost saw a wink too, but it might have just been a twitch.
She was not only getting irritated with the smarmy bastard-of-a-head-chef, but acutely aware there was a grumpy 5 year old upstairs only growing more potent with tantrum energy with every minute she wasted on this fool. “If you have any mozzarella, you know Master Warlock prefers it to cheddar. Peter, dear, I know it isn’t your job, but if Stephan isn’t going to do it,” she glared, “those melting moments you’re working on may have to wait.”
“Cheese toastie comin’ right up, Ms Ashtoreth.” Peter said with an apologetic expression. He looked somewhat relieved to remove himself from Stephan’s presence as he busied himself melting butter in a skillet.
“Y’know,” said Stephan, ignoring the fact she clearly had no desire to continue this conversation, “I have heard rumour that you’re an art lover. I mean of course you are, refined woman like yourself. I bet you know your art history.”
“You might say I’m acquainted with Da Vinci,” said Ashtoreth. Or was.
“Fascinating bloke. You know, they say he invented planes back in the Renaissance.”
“It wasn’t a plane. Planes are a testament to humans’ capacity to face God and decide that the abilities they were given weren’t enough. But brilliant feats of engineering weren’t enough for them either, they then decide they are going to make the experience as excruciating as possible.” Ashtoreth couldn’t help but sound a bit proud. Airports were always such a wonderful hive of low level evil, and humans just kept building more of them. She continued, “Da Vinci’s “flying machine” lacked a pretty fundamental part of that concept in that it would have taken a miracle for that thing to get off the ground, frankly, but it seems the miracle makers were off blessing Shakespeare’s bloody boring tragedies instead.” Or were we in Venice? Doesn’t matter. “Didn’t stop the man from talking the ears off of everyone around him. Day after day, just drawing bloody flying contraption after contraption. How many times can you pretend to be impressed by a drawing of a rocking chair with bat wings on it?”
Stephan looked disgustingly delighted with himself for discovering something that got her talking. She was angry. Asthoreth had slipped for a moment and Crowley had taken over.
“This is what I mean! I mean, I like to think I know more than the average Bobby and Betty Beercan when it comes to art, but you! You could teach me so much,” he said touching her arm.
“I definitely think I could teach you a lesson, I’ll give you that” said Ashtoreth, twitching her arm away.
“Listen. I’ll take Tuesday off this week. Let’s go to that Masters exhibition that’s on at the moment, my treat.”
*
Tired from a big day of doing not much at all, Brother Frances walked across the freshly mowed lawn towards the house. As he traipsed, he thought about how the humidity, though not helping his languid corporation, carried the smell of the garden so beautifully through the warm air. He’d been growing his own little pot of violets and another pot of roses that he had tucked away near the back porch of the house. They were particularly special to him. The grounds were marvellous, sure. Anyone would have thought that they were tended to by a skilled gardener and that a measly little pot plant would be at the bottom of his list of accomplishments since he had arrived at the residence. The estate boasted the most vibrant, beautiful smelling roses in England, and the languid humidity only served to draw out their scent and carry it around the property. The trees were lush and vibrant, and the wisteria and jasmine he had planted managed to grow more rapidly than anyone could explain, and burst into bloom out-of-season on their trellises and filled the air with rich perfume.
But things just seemed to happen around Brother Frances. The lawns never seemed to grow or need manual labour. They just seemed to cut themselves overnight. The staff never saw him so much as glance sideways at a pair of secateurs, and yet anyone would think he was a master topiary artist, given the hedge art that appeared now and then. The flowers never wilted, and the trees always were the perfect colours for the season. The only thing he was ever really seen doing was poking at those two little pot plants, which were pretty enough, but decidedly less superb than everything else that surrounded them.
He was a nice man, which made it easy for the staff to take advantage of him at every turn. They currently had taken to pinching roses off his potted rose bush, which made him angry. The staff complained to one another, spitting comments like “why should Ashtoreth of all people be the only one allowed roses from that bush? What’s so great about her? Why does he care? It’s not even like they’re the good roses.”
Brother Frances felt the afternoon sun relax its burning grip on his skin as the looming house cast its shadow over him. He knelt down and picked up a watering can that was tucked next to his violets and started to give them their daily drink. He could hear the usual commotion drifting out the kitchen window a few metres away from where he stood: voices of two men, clattering of pots and pans, shuffling about. The voices he caught, however, weren’t the usual two voices he was used to.
“You might say I’m acquainted with Da Vinci…” said a familiar voice and his heart dropped.
They hadn’t talked about – argued about - Leonardo for a couple hundred years, which was for the best, really. Lost in petty thought, Brother Francis slopped water down the front of his pants. The sun’s radiation must have been feeling particularly efficient today, since the pants dried themselves off as he edged a bit closer to the window.
“..Didn’t stop the man from talking the ears off of everyone around him. Day after day, just drawing bloody flying contraption after contraption. How many times can you pretend to be impressed by a drawing of a rocking chair…”
Here we go, thought Brother Frances, flaring, the amazing Leonardo Da Vinci, God amongst men. More intelligent than anyone you’ve ever met. Rumours about his lovers didn’t go unnoticed-
“This is what I mean,” came Rosaire’s voice.
It hasn’t escaped Brother Frances that the man was good looking. Aside from their love for food, he wasn’t like Brother Frances in any way. Wasn’t even like Azirpahale in any way. Square jaw, dark hair, olive skin, in shape. He looked like a model, and Brother Frances looked like a garden gnome that had an allergic reaction to a bee sting. Then came the proposition.
“Listen. I’ll take Tuesday off this week. Let’s go to that Masters exhibition that’s on at the moment, my treat.”
“Of course, and we can dine at the Ritz…“
Brother Frances felt sick as he wandered back over to his beloved pot plants, his thoughts now drowning out the increasingly distant voices from the kitchen. How he ever expected anything else was beyond him.
*
Ashtoreth stared at Stephan in disbelief. He really was trying it.
“Of course!” said Ashtoreth, “And then we can dine at the Ritz and waltz in the park by the light of the milky bloody way as cherubs serenade us with their celestial harmonies.”
He smirked at her.
“Answer is no,” she clarified, “I have things I’d rather do on Tuesdays. Like drown myself in a bathtub of holy water,” she said, then turned around to the man behind her. “Peter John Morel, where is that damn cheese sandwich, are you milking the cow and stretching the curd by hand? Ageing your own cheddar?”
“I burnt the first one,” said Peter, pathetically.
“You what? Tell me, is there a way to get Michelin stars rescinded? Because currently I haven’t much faith in that little restaurant business of yours. Frankly I’m not sure you’re safe here as sous chef.”
“This one is nearly done, Ms Ashtoreth.”
Stephan continued. He touched her arm again, and produced from his apron a slightly squashed, medium-quality rose to present to her. “Listen, I know you have a thing for the gardener but face it. You can do so much better than him. Go out with me.”
She felt her stomach boil. Her eyes flashed a bright yellow, her teeth gritted, her nostrils flared. She snapped her fingers, and suddenly there was a stillness in the air. Pete was frozen in place against the stove, just plating up the cheese sandwich that, in retrospect, was far more trouble than it was worth. Ashtoreth grabbed Stephen by his neck and pushed him against one of the units. Her face was twisted into a snarl.
“What have you been saying behind my back?” she growled.
He looked terrified and struggled to cough up words through her grip. “I- uh,”
“WHO?”
“The- all of them. Everyone…. says it.”
“’Everyone’ had better shut their mouths, underssstand? Better than him? Look at you.”
Stephan either had a brief tremor, or he was nodding. Either way, she took that as a ‘Yes’. Time recommenced and Ashtoreth let him go.
“Don’t let me catch you picking those potted roses.”
She walked out of the room after snatching the plate from Peter’s hands, but not before she caught the words Stephan spat under his breath.
*
Peter held out the plate to Ashtoreth, and she snatched it from his hands. He did sympathise; the poor woman just wanted to do her job without interference, and Peter just wanted to get back to finishing tonight’s dessert platter. Though he could have sworn she and Stephan teleported in the blink of an eye because suddenly she was next to him, and then again she was gone.
“Fucking bitch,” Stephan muttered, “they’re not even good roses.”
Peter watched from his spot back at the island as Stephan pulled out a cleaver to start prepping dinner when he let out an excruciated gasp. Peter thought Stephan had slipped and cut himself, but there was no blood.
*
A little time had passed since the shock had first hit and he was beginning to accept it. Or trying to, at least. Brother Francis, his heart heavy, leant over and picked a rose from his pot plant. If Ashtoreth was really going to give this guy a go, the best thing he could do was to support the union and show that his friendship was unconditional. It’s not like the Tuesday gallery trips were dates – or at least they had never said the word “date”. They had been such lovely days though, the days they got to just be themselves in beautiful places, alone in the anonymity of the public eye. Chatting about how their efforts were going with young Warlock, balancing scripture and blessings with evil and temptations in order to perfectly balance the child to be as mediocre as possible.
As if on cue, Ashtoreth was walking over to him from the direction of the kitchen. He noticed she was carrying something under her arm, but he was trying not to look at her. He pretended to fuss over his plants.
“Look, I heard you… you and Stephan….” he exhaled, struggling to piece together a sentence. “The window is right there.” He pointed.
Ashtoreth raised her eyebrows. “What did-“
“I know he isn’t necessarily your usual type but I just want you to be happy. Here.” Brother Francis turned and offered up the rose, “as my sort of… blessing.”
“You know very well blessings don’t work on me. I don’t need it.”
“No need to fret, the blessing is metaphorical of course; a show of good grace. Now I can’t say I understand what-“
“Angel.”
“-you would see in someone who behaves the way he-“
“I didn’t say yes, you fool.”
“But I heard you!”
“I was being sarcastic,“ she sighed. “Look. I brought you this.” She held out a pot plant. It had the most luscious foliage he had ever seen in his life. “It’s mine from back home. I can help you with the ones you’re trying to grow without the old…” she made a noise and a kind of sweeping gesture that suggested magic.
Brother Francis felt a smile creeping onto his face as she passed him the pot plant. Suddenly it felt like there wasn’t enough room in this human body for the emotions he had to try and contain within it. As he gripped the pot in his two hands, he nudged his hand up just enough to brush his fingertips against Ashtoreth’s. Her hand trembled in response, and he suspected she felt the same little jolt that he did. He admired it for a second then carefully put it down next to the other two. He picked a bunch of roses and handed them to her. She took her glasses off to inspect them. Her yellow eyes burned into him.
“As a thank you, then,” said Brother Frances, “for helping me.”
“Don’t say that, I didn’t help you. I’m infecting your plants with Hellish influence. They need an example to teach them to show you some respect. Or else.” She glared at his violet to let it know that it could be making better life choices. “Anyway, What are you doing Tuesday? I hear there’s an exhibition of the old Masters on.”
“Sounds interesting,” replied Brother Frances. “And what do you say to the Ritz?”
*
Daily Mail, Monday
MAN BITTEN BY EXOTIC SNAKE
A local man has been rushed to hospital and is currently in a stable condition after reportedly being bitten by a red belly black snake. The breed is native to Australia, and while there are no recorded deaths from these types of snakes to date, experts warn that if bites go untreated, they can cause serious illness. It is alleged to have escaped from an individual in the local area keeping it as a pet, although no such persons have yet been identified or reported a snake missing. Peter Morel, who was working alongside victim Stephan Rosaire, says that he “didn’t see where it came from, all I heard was Stephan yell then it was going out the window into the garden”. Residents in the local area are being warned to proceed with caution, and to ensure that proper precautions are taken in the keeping of potentially dangerous exotic pets. While members of the public are reminded to contact the appropriate authorities when encountering snakes and other dangerous wildlife, it is best to leave them alone if possible, as it should be noted that snakes often only strike when they have been provoked.