Chapter Text
It was not a rare sight to see the uninvited guests that would throw themselves against the iron gates of Wuthering Heights, some in despair, others in anger, and most in a fit of both. What was rare, was to see these uninvited guests quickly incapacitate the butlers that had promptly arrived to commence housekeeping.
The gaunt thorns around the estate and the ashen sky above cast its apathetic gaze on the carnage outside the gates. Dancing around the butlers that had first arrived to the scene, the uninvited guest dodged the barrage of knives and the knives they could not dodge were caught and flung back onto the ground, as if to taunt them. All the while, they seemed to be reaching into their suit jacket, though they had to prioritize defeating the butlers first.
Ishmael made sure her Butler Dimensional Attache case was strapped on as she awaited Chief Butler Ryōshū’s orders, watching as a particular blow of their leg knocked out yet another butler. They started waving their hands, as if in surrender. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop her grinning. Perhaps they finally realized what they were up against.
“Tch,” Ryōshū tightened her ponytail and glared bitterly at the gates. She nodded towards Ishmael and a few other butlers that had gathered near the window to watch. “Follow me. No attacking until I give the order.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Ishmael replied in tandem with the rest of the butlers.
The butlers followed Ryōshū towards the main gate, the tall iron bars slowly opening as Ryōshū stood squarely in the center, preventing the uninvited guest from charging towards the manor and causing another problem for Master. As Ryōshū arrived, the two butlers that were most likely taking a leisurely walk around the estate were in bad shape. One was lying on the ground and the other was wrestling with the intruder, who managed to get the butler into a chokehold. It didn’t take long before the intruder looked up. Seeing that they were surrounded, Ishmael looked forward to them running off in a panic, as most of their kind were wont to do.
To their credit, they seemed more embarrassed than anything.
“You.” Ryōshū crossed her arms and gave them a scolding look, that, to their credit, they did not so much as wince at. Before Ryōshū could continue the guest made their move to explain themselves.
“Ahem,” the uninvited guest coughed into their fist as they removed their foot from one of their fellow butler’s back, “Pray, pardon mine intrusion, my lady.” They did a short bow, reaching into their suit jacket and taking out a familiar pocketwatch. “I am from T Corp’s Collections Agency, thou must be aware of the reason for my visit, indeed?” They tucked their watch back into their suit jacket and gestured to the butler scrawled by their foot, a harsh glint in their carefree expression.
Ishmael’s eyes widened and so too, did Ryōshū’s. There was a saying in T Corp that the only eternal things in life were death and taxes. For the Collections Agency, such a saying was their motto and they were more than happy to collect, whether it was time, money, or someone’s life. To have a member of the Collections Agency at their door meant that someone had failed to abide by the rules and were to be fined. And to obstruct a member of the Collections Agency only brought heavier fines upon the person.
A few butlers behind Ishmael gasped.
The Time Collector noticed and offered a sheepish smile, “Ah, fear not, my business has nothing to do with thee. Not yet, at least, though time shall only tell.” She took a step away from the unconscious butlers on the ground.
Ryōshū frowned, a concerned eye looking over her fallen men. “Their time is intact.”
Their cheerful demeanor dropped for a second, their gaze growing cold. “I took nary a second.”
With a huff, Ryōshū stepped forward and held out a hand to shake. “Chief Butler Ryōshū. What is the name of our guest?”
“I am Don Quixote,” they took Ryōshū’s hand in their own and gently brushed their lips against it in a courteous kiss. They grinned amicably as they rose from their deep bow.
“Well met,” Ryōshū said, motioning with her head for the butlers behind her to retrieve and tend to their wounded. “Apologies. We are on edge preparing for a dangerous hunt. I hope you can forgive their obtrusion. They shall be disciplined accordingly.”
Don Quixote laughed and waved their hand, “No need. Haha! Thou surely jests. One could hardly call that performance an obtrusion! Why, I only tore a sleeve, and that was from my own flexing arm than any blade of yours.”
As if to prove the point, they flexed their sleeves and indeed, the tear seemed more like a strained rip that finally gave up than a precise cut from a butler’s knife. Ishmael’s breath hitched, she had underestimated them. It was a terrible disadvantage, to underestimate someone. She took a deep breath and strove to do better next time.
The Collections Officer seemed to notice, and closed her right eye harshly. It looked like she was trying to get something out of her eyes. Ishmael half wondered if she wanted a handkerchief at first before realizing she was winking at her for all the wrong reasons.
Shrubs of roses bloomed on her cheeks, embarrassment burning on her neck. Still, Ishmael bit her tongue and stared back with the most apathetic look she could muster, trying hard and yet failing to hide the disdain in her expression. The Collections Officer seemed to notice, for the corner of her lips faltered ever so slightly.
“Ishmael,” Ryōshū commanded and Ishmael readily took a step forward with her head bowed at the call of her name, “take the guest with you to the sitting room. I shall—” Ryōshū smiled wickedly, “—alert Master of their guest’s arrival.”
There was no doubt about it. Master was about to get an earful.
“Understood,” Ishmael said, giving Ryōshū a curt nod as the other butlers hurried over to tend to their unconscious and wounded fellows.
She turned to Don Quixote, pointing her hands towards the manor. “If you would follow me, dear guest.”
Don Quixote grinned, straightening out her suit jacket. “Ahem!” she cleared her throat as she adjusted her monocle, “Verily, my fair lady.”
Ishmael led the way into the manor. She made sure to avoid the corridors that were due for some extra cleaning. Guests were only allowed to see the manor in its finest state, after all. Ishmael guided the guest through the labyrinth-like estate, pausing at certain moments to let them admire the expensive paintings and decor with every dust of color on plain display. The longer it took them to get to the sitting room the better, for Ishmael doubted Master had so much as glanced at their tax forms.
These nights, it seemed that Master Gregor seemed much too haunted by the ‘Wolf’ in the upcoming hunt to do anything but train until his limbs fell off, and nothing short than a bottle of their finest whiskey could grant him the dreamless slumber he so needed. Between training and cursing and training yet again, there was little need or time to do something as grueling as taxes.
Nonetheless, taxes were essential in T Corp and despite the wealth inherent in these two houses, they were not exempt from this. Harsher fates were given to those who did not pay their dues in a timely manner, like having their time taken away, the rest of your life lost as you lose sense of what you did today, what you did yesterday, and what you will do tomorrow. To know that the person standing next to her, cooing over the small ducks drawn swimming on the pond in the painting, had the ability to take time away, made her uneasy. Sure, her contract meant that she was given some allowance as a butler hired from off the streets, but the might of the entirety of T Corp was not something the Edgar Family could weather for long.
Soon enough, Ishmael lead the guest to the sitting room. Plush sofas lined the space, velvet and gold was bright in its color that made it especially vibrant to match the electrifying purple wisps of heath growing outside. Everything in this sitting room revealed the excess of the Edgar family and the cleanliness revealed the loyalty and ability of their butlers for not so much as a speck of dust could be found here.
Now, as their colors had returned to them, Ishmael spied the stains on her guest’s suit jacket and shirt. Blood, no doubt, unless her guest was a messy eater. It wouldn’t do to have such a barbaric appearance when meeting Master, who had not been in the best headspace for blood in a while. Master was not a soul that thrived in bloodshed, and he was all better for it, despite how blood had to be spilt to pave the way for the Edgar family’s future.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Ishmael said. “Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?”
“Yes, please!” Don Quixote chirped happily, sitting on the sofa and looking around the place.
The sight of it nearly takes Ishmael’s breath away—not just because she’s smiling, but because her gaze was sharp and gleaming gold like the sparks flying off glowing metal at the beat of a hammer. That same gaze flits around the place, too quick to be admiring the furniture, darting from window to door to every nook and cranny as if searching for a reason to fight.
Ishmael turned to leave, perhaps she needed to relax first. Any warrior would feel unsettled after being attacked at the gates and then led to the very heart of the place. Perhaps in her absence, she could settle down.
Not even a few steps from the passageway, she saw Faust with a feather duster in her hand and a disgruntled look on her face as the butler saw her. “There you are, Ishmael. The laundry needs to be done today.”
“Faust!” Ishmael called out, hurrying over to her side, leaning over to whisper into her ear, “We’ve a guest.”
Faust jerked her head back, not a fan of Ishmael’s breath tickling her ears. Ishmael thought she caught some red markings slightly poking out of the collared shirt. “Faust knows.”
“Oh,” Ishmael said, disappointed. One day she’d know something that Faust didn’t. One day. “Well, I’m off to get tea for them. Would you mind making sure they don’t leave the room?”
“Yes, Faust would mind,” Faust said, crossing her arms. “But I was going to dust the window ledges along this hall anyways.” She gave Ishmael a dirty look before glancing at the passageway of the sitting room, a hand rubbing at the side of her neck as she took a step back.
“You alright?” Ishmael asked, “You usually dust the window ledges in the morning.”
Faust glanced away, “I woke up at a rather untimely hour this morning.”
Another suspicious thing. That and the red marks Ishmael thought she saw was painting a rather scandalous picture. Ishmael nodded, “Preparations for the hunt, I assume?” then smirked, “Chief Butler Outis is certainly rigorous.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Faust said slowly, not revealing anything before gesturing for Ishmael to leave. “Now, it’s rather impolite to keep a guest waiting.”
“Trust me, they’re going to be here for a while,” Ishmael said with a small sigh, letting the matter go. “I think Master forgot to do the taxes or something.”
“Impossible, that can’t be the case.” Faust said hurriedly, the furrow of her brow the first sign that something was not adding up in whatever equation she was thinking of. Even standing a bit away, Ishmael could feel the metal cogs in Faust’s head whirling around. “Given that we have not been forced to live four-hour days yet, I presume the matter must be something other than missing taxes. T Corp always collects its dues.”
“Well,” Ishmael started, taking note of more information, “they haven’t taken any time yet.”
“Then the duty falls upon you to entertain them and buy time until the taxes are done,” Faust replied with a glare. “Do remember to take an assortment of fruit along with the tray of tea.”
Her senses sharpened at the snobby reminder. Just because Ishmael wasn’t much of a people person didn’t mean that she didn’t know the polite steps of etiquette when entertaining guests. “Yes, yes, I know,” Ishmael said, rolling her eyes.
“And though you do a subpar job with the shirts, remember to do the laundry.”
Ishmael whirled back with a retort, but Faust was already walking away. Fucking Faust, always getting the last word.
She greeted the butlers preparing snacks and meals for the household, taking a teapot, some tea cups, some milk, and a bowl of sugar cubes before placing it on a cart.
“Ishmael, is that for the guest?” a tentative voice called, barely rising above the sound of sizzling meats and laughing chefs.
Ishmael turned around, seeing Sinclair. He was a young man, yet he was more experienced in the household chores having been training to be a butler all his life.
“Yes.”
“I-is the T Corp Collector really able to take time away?” He asked, “I’ve heard they can take thousands of hours out of you.”
Ishmael frowned, “I don’t know about that, but they can’t do anything to us when we’re in the manor. Besides, Master will have the paperwork sorted out promptly.”
“Right,” Sinclair agreed, though he still seemed a bit unnerved. “Um, but if they do anything, you’ll yell for help, right?”
“Of course,” Ishmael said, walking over and ruffling his hair a bit. “What are you all worried about?”
“I just finished delivering bandages and ice packs,” Sinclair said, ducking his head out of Ishmael’s awkward ruffling. “And the hunt is soon, so I guess I’m on the edge.”
“Aren’t we all,” Ishmael mused, grabbing the handles of the cart and pushing off. “Well, I must get going.”
Sinclair nodded, “See you at dinner.”
Ishmael didn’t like thinking about the hunt anymore than she needed to. Those were dark times and sometimes there was this feeling in her chest, as if something wasn’t quite complete, like Ishmael had finished her chores and yet forgot to do something important. There was no substance to it, just a feeling that wracked her heart at the oddest of times like looking at an old, dusty room in the corridor that had never been used and the purple heaths that sprung up incessantly.
Taking a deep breath, Ishmael turned away from her reminiscing, reminding herself that she had a guest to attend to.
The moment Ishmael walked through the passageway, Don Quixote’s eyes flew toward her so fast it left her breathless. Her gaze was like the rust that ate its way onto iron. It made Ishmael’s fingers itch for the hilts of her knives, made her palm ache for the enhanced wood of her broom, and made her heart race. In that moment, they both saw each other as threats.
But then Don Quixote smiled and the warm gleam of gold returned to her eyes, “My fair lady, I was afraid thou had left me.” She laughed, the sound tearing through the tense air between them.
“My apologies if the tea took too long,” Ishmael said, relying heavily on the etiquette of conversation, her heart still thundering in her chest.
“No worries, I know now thou taketh it quite serious- tea ,” Don Quixote said, a triumphant grin on her face.
Ishmael…
Ishmael didn’t know what to say at that, or at least anything that was polite for a guest to hear. So, unable to sneer and make a wry comment, she simply ignored it with her usual straight face and started pouring her guest their tea.
By the time the teacup was adequately full, the triumphant grin had turned into a faltering one.
Ishmael exhaled very deeply as it was impolite to exasperatedly sigh in the presence of a guest. “Your tea, Officer Don Quixote,” she said, sliding the tea cup and saucer over. Then she set an assortment of fruit onto the table, the slices of fruit expertly splayed across the dish like an art piece. Having set everything onto the table, Ishmael took a step back and stood at attention.
“Oh, wow!” Don Quixote marveled, pressing her face really close to the steaming cup of tea. “It smells divine! Pray tell, what kind of tea is this?”
Ishmael folded her hands over each other, “Earl Grey, I believe.”
Grabbing the tea cup with a hand, Don Quixote took a hearty sip before spitting the hot liquid out with a wince and pained yelp. “Hot!”
Ishmael stepped forward, a washcloth at the ready as she held it out for Don Quixote to take. “My apologies, I should have warned you of the temperature. It is quite hot.” She had not said anything, assuming that the officer would realize the tea was hot from the steam or from when they picked it up.
Tax Collector or not, Ishmael was wondering how she managed to survive so long. The invincible foe at the gates and the vigilant soldier waiting in the sitting room seemed very different from this sputtering officer wiping her mouth and ducking her head in embarrassment.
“V-verily, the tea is hot indeed.” Don Quixote folded the washcloth and set it aside. “Ahem, I shall take more care next time.” She eyed the white cubes curiously, “Art these salt blocks for a steed?”
“Have you had tea before?” Ishmael asked, trying to figure out what she was working with.
“I have! Though it was a cold, milk tea with rather delicious boba that were quite chewy.” Don Quixote grinned, “And oft, I would partake in sweet iced tea and all sorts of beverages with my fellow colega !”
“I see,” Ishmael said before gesturing to the sugar cubes and milk on the table. “Here are sugar cubes and milk to be added into your tea to make it best fit your preferences. While you wait for the tea to cool, you can have some of the fruits we’ve prepared.”
Coughing into her fist, Don Quixote picked up a sugar cube with her hand and plopped it into what remained of her tea. Then, she filled it to the brim with milk. She turned to Ishmael, “Like this?”
“Yes,” Ishmael answered promptly.
Satisfied with her tea, Don Quixote plopped another sugar cube into the tea, humming a tune under her breath.
Ishmael watched on silently, wondering if she knew what she was doing. Probably not.
After playing around with her tea, Don Quixote turned to the fruits, grabbing a couple of berries in her hand before shoving them in her mouth unceremoniously. “Mmm! Yum!” Don Quixote cheered between chews, “Theese sho good!”
Ishmael looked on as more of the fruits and berries were jammed into Don Quixote’s mouth. It seemed like the berries were a favorite. As a dutiful butler, Ishmael took note of such things.
She bowed lightly, “I’m glad they were to your taste.”
Don Quixote swallowed a mouthful of fruit before turning to her again. “Thank you, my fair lady,” she said.
“Don’t mention it,” Ishmael said, avoiding looking into her eyes. She settled for the blazer instead, noting how there seemed to be several dark patches. Stains of some sort, most likely blood from the scuffle.
Oblivious to the state of her attire, Don Quixote reached into her coat jacket, feeling around for her pocket watch. “Erm, how long has it been?”
Ishmael’s eyes widened. She had to buy more time.
“May I take your blazer?” Ishmael blurted out, saying the first thing that caught her eye, the lightly bloodstained suit jacket. “And your shirt, if you do not mind. They are quite bloodstained. We are deeply sorry for the inconvenience we have caused, as such, on behalf of my fellow butlers, I shall wash the suit jacket and shirt.”
“My shirt?” the officer echoed. Don Quixote’s eyes widened like saucers and Ishmael could practically see the gears in her head as she processed the information. “Oh! Thank you,” Don Quixote tugged at her suit jacket, frowning slightly at the unseemly blood splatters. “Ah, but I’m afraid to trouble you, my lady. All is forgiven, truly. In my line of work there are hardly enough hours in the day to scrub my shirts clean.” She reached into suit jacket and pulled out her watch as if to check the time. “And, today is meant to be a short visit, so I shan’t impose any further than I must.”
“I insist, dear guest,” Ishmael said.
Washing the suit jacket and the shirt would hopefully buy enough time for Master to finish the forms. All he needed to do was sign off on a few contracts and forms, surely it would not take the entire day? Especially with the Chief Butler on the case, there was no way he could delay.
The officer floundered a bit, their cheek turning darker as they slowly slid the suit jacket off of their shoulders. A part of Ishmael bemoaned the loss of eye candy, ladies did look more fetching in uniform. “Then, I would not mind the help if thou insists,” Don Quixote said, taking out the pocket watch and hooking it onto her belt.
She undid the badge with her rank and ID on it, pinning that to her belt as well before handing her suit jacket to Ishmael.
Ishmael nodded, folding the suit jacket into a more presentable state than a wad of fabric. “We have a knack for removing tough stains.”
Don Quixote slowly undid the buttons on her dress shirt, revealing her slightly tan skin and an array of scars. As a part of the Collections Agency, there was no doubt that she had the ability to take time away by force. Don Quixote wriggled out of her shirt as Ishmael noted the chiseled arms and torso—it was not hard to see why the first few butlers had failed to subdue this threat. (She also noted that Don Quixote was also hot without the uniform.)
“Prithee, could I borrow a shirt while thou art washing mine?” Don Quixote’s question brought Ishmael back from her musings, her shirt lumped into a small ball in her hands.
“Sure,” Ishmael said, caught off guard. She started saying stuff without thinking about it first. “You could borrow one of mine.”
“A thousand thanks, my lady,” Don Quixote said, taking her hand and repeating the gesture she had done with Ryōshū at the gates, ghosting her lips over the back of Ishmael’s hand, so close she could feel it. “Might I ask thy name so that I may thank thee properly?”
“Ah well,” Ishmael stared determinedly at the side, not wanting to stare at her bowed posture and upturned head. She’s pretty cute… “Call me Ishmael.”
“Ishmael, thank you,” Don Quixote thanked again, smiling as she said it.
Feeling her cheeks flush, Ishmael turned away. “Then, if you could wait but a moment.”
“Of course!” Don Quixote chirped up, poking at her tea cup. “In the mean time, I shall partake in the Grey Earl’s tea!”
Bowing, Ishmael dismissed herself only to find herself face to face with the Chief Butler.
“Why do you have their shirt.” Ryōshū pulled no punches, her words as blunt and straight to the point as ever.
“I offered to wash them in order to buy time,” Ishmael said.
Ryōshū raised an eyebrow, “Tea.”
“I’ve offered tea already,” Ishmael said.
Ryōshū blinked. “Talk.” She said it as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.
“About what?” Ishmael asked. She hardly ever talked to her friends, how was she going to strike up easy conversation with a stranger that thought sugar cubes were a horse’s salt block?
“Heh,” Ryōshū chuckled, and Ishmael stilled, realizing she thought that last part out loud. “So you took her shirt off without a word?”
Ishmael flushed, just now realizing that in her panicked excuse, she had toed the line of etiquette and politeness. Stupid Faust for bringing up the laundry!
Ryōshū took the clothes, “I’ll get Sinclair to do the laundry. You keep our guest entertained.” She smirked, “With conversation . Or not.” The Chief Butler shrugged, finding amusement in the way Ishmael’s cheeks blazed red.
Ishmael turned on her heel and walked back into the sitting area, taking out one of her spare shirts from the Butler Dimensional Attache case. She offered it to Don Quixote, who took it thankfully, draping it over her shoulders and worming her arms through the sleeves. They were a size too big, but she rolled the sleeves up. She didn’t bother doing the buttons, letting it be as she finished her last few sips of tea, which had cooled down considerably.
Don Quixote looked up at her curiously, “Ah, fair Ishmael?”
“Yes?” Ishmael responded, quickly averting her eyes and willing the red to disappear from her face. If she kept her face impassive, perhaps everything would be alright.
“Thou art awfully red, dost thou have a fever of some sort?”
Ishmael just needed to take deep breaths and— Why the fuck was Don Quixote getting closer?
Don Quixote took another step forward, regardless of Ishmael’s inner struggles, taking her hands and leading her to the sofa. “Sit, my fair lady, catch thy breath and be well!”
After making sure Ishmael was sitting down, she plopped down right next to her, reaching over to grab the teapot and poured some into an unused cup. “Having liquids is very important!” Don Quixote lifted the steaming cup of tea up to her mouth, blowing out it rather roughly before handing it over to Ishmael.
Taking the cup of tea, Ishmael wondered how it came to this. She lifted the cup to her mouth, taking dainty sips as Don Quixote looked on in confusion.
“Ahck! Dost thou not want the sugar or the milk add-ons?”
Ishmael turned her head, seeing Don Quixote holding up the small pitcher of milk and the sugar cubes. She shook her head, “No, I like tea as it is.” Or, to be more precise, Ishmael couldn’t usually be bothered to look around for sugar cubes or milk to add to it. Over time she just got used to it. It tasted just fine on its own, anyways, and if it tasted differently, she wouldn’t like it just because it was unfamiliar.
Don Quixote grinned, resting a cheek on her fist as she gazed at Ishmael.
After taking a few sips, Ishmael turned to stare back. “What?”
“Ah, ‘tis just my thoughts.” She pointed at the teapot. “I hath oft heard of tea parties , and this, my fair lady, could be one! We art only missing but a few key ingredients!” The way she emphasized the word ‘parties’ made Ishmael hesitate.
“What are we missing?” Ishmael wondered out loud.
Don Quixote wiggled her eyebrows mischievously, “I’m quite glad thou asked, my fair lady! I happen to be quite the expert!” Ishmael doubted this. “While consuming tea, the fair maids at the table would first talk of the weather, then of any recent news, and finally, they will ‘spill the tea’ as it were, which is to say: divulge in a plethora of scandalous gossip!”
Butlers were given relentless education at a very young age, and though Ishmael was not born a butler serving the family, she was given a relentless education when she was first welcomed into the household. Part of this education was learning how to put on events when the master deemed fit. One of these events was a tea party and Ishmael was certain that what Don Quixote described was not a guaranteed tea party at all.
Some elements were true, like the tea party. But Ishmael did not think talking about the weather, then the news, and then gossip was absolutely necessary in a tea party.
“Let us start!” Don Quixote said, bulldozing forward faster than Ishmael could ruminate on it herself. “The weather is, er–quite lovely?”
Even without looking out the window, Ishmael knew the sky was overcast with grey, mournful clouds. It only ever changed to get worse. “Overcast skies and slightly chilly,” Ishmael said, if only to say something.
Don Quixote nodded furiously, as if Ishmael made a new breakthrough. “Indeed! On to the next, I did read this morn on the paper that the stock for U. NEED. Umbrellas has increased by .04 percent!”
Ishmael raised an eyebrow. All of that bullshit talk about not letting the cover of the book represent it aside, Don Quixote did not look like someone who read the morning paper—she didn’t even look like someone who read . Anything.
And not just the morning paper, but the stocks?
“Alas, I was rooting for B.A.D. Ass. Umbrellas, but their stocks have plummeted by 6 percent!” Don Quixote sighed, “Their one-use umbrellas are quite pretty.”
Ishmael didn’t want to unpack that. She really didn’t want to. So, she thought about what she read on the news today. “I uh–read something like…” She scrambled to think of what she’d glanced at before doing her duties.
E.W.W. Company massive layoff of over ten thousand employees. (E.W.W. CEO wonders why no one is applying for a job?)
Breakfast made and eaten by one Ishmael.
Bloody War with the Liu Association!
“Some big layoff?” Ishmael started, surely there was a big layoff that day or at least, on a recent enough day.
“Indeed!” Don Quixote said, “My colega did frown most revoltingly at the mention. There were quite a lot more citizens wandering the streets with less time than they had before.”
“Less time?” Ishmael repeated, wondering what that quite meant. “A T Corp thing, right?”
“Thou dost not know?” Don Quixote cocked her head. “Time is money, to be bereft of a job is to be with a shortage of time per day.”
“I’m from U Corp,” Ishmael said. “And everyone has ample time in the Edgar Family.”
“The beach!!!!” Don Quixote gasped, “Oh, how marvelous! I did think of going there on vacation should I have the time for it.”
Ishmael thought back to the gunk on the beaches, how the very sand was turned to a slush of trash and scum. “It’s not that pretty of a place.”
“How could it not be if thou art from there?” Don Quixote waved her hand as if shooing the absurd thought away. “I’ve heard the Great Lakes are every color imaginable. Mine subordinate does talk of color every now and then, having come from another nest like thou has. Perhaps ‘tis good fortune thou works here in such a manor, for the flaxen ray of T Corp’s sun would do thy hair a great disservice. It is very beautiful.”
Ishmael ducked her head, staring at the few strands of bright orange that had inevitably drifted into her line of sight. Beautiful? She fought hard to hide her shock. Her shoulders were wide, with freckles dotting over her face, and the beautiful women in the news and the silver screens did not look a sliver like her. Still, though Ishmael cared little for her looks, to hear a genuine compliment praising a part of her pleased her greatly.
Don Quixote seemed to notice her pause, “Ishmael?”
She could deal with so-called womanizers armed in easy grins and saccharine charm, snobbish hypocrites mocking those next to them just to feel tall, plain ol’ assholes in need of a good beating if it weren’t for their own right hook, but in U Corp and T Corp, she had hardly come across genuine grins and compliments born out of an ugly beating heart than hung on their sleeves.
Sincerity was not something Ishmael knew how to deal with.
“Your hair’s bright,” Ishmael tried.
Don Quixote nearly went cross-eeyd trying to catch a glimpse of her short locks.
She looked like she was having so much trouble that Ishmael instinctively reached forward to help, carding two fingers through a short tuft of blonde hair from behind her ear and tugging it forward. Don Quixote looked from her hair, to Ishmael’s hand and the up her arm before locking gazes with the butler, her lips in a lopsided grin.
“So it is! My, I hardly see it like so, it almost feels like a stranger.”
A heartbeat. Then two.
Don Quixote turned, pulling away to grab at her tea cup and pour the rest of its contents into her gaping jaw. “Now! Time for the sharing of gossip! I shall go first.” She leaned in close to Ishmael’s ear, a hand cupping over her mouth, “My colega and dear friend, hast an ex in well, a criminal organization!”
Ishmael blinked. She supposed it was scandalous enough for a tax collector, who beat the shit out of people for messing up their fractions. But if she were to tally up everyone who’s ever had an ex in a ‘criminal organization’ it would at least be every one out of three people. Hell, even she had an ex that was in a criminal organization.
“That it?” Ishmael asked, disappointed.
“Aye,” Don Quixote said after a moment of thinking. “I do not know of any other such rumors. Unless thou art interested in the rumored invention that allows one to go an hour back in time?”
“Can’t say I am,” Ishmael said, “Then, it’s my turn.”
She took a while to think. There are some rumors that needed to be kept hush due to preserving Master’s reputation, but there were quite a few that Ishmael had heard from the other butlers discussing it when they thought no one was around. While Ishmael stayed out of the drama and seldom had anything more than a brief but pleasant conversation with the other butlers, there were some things you were bound to pick up on.
Ishmael grinned, leaning closer, so close her breath tickled the few strands of blond hair around the officer’s ears. “One of my friends—” Ishmael would swear up and down that Faust wasn’t her friend till her last breath, but that didn’t make it true “—is definitely fucking her boss.”
She wanted to get back at Faust for all of her snippy comments. Spite motivating her enough to murmur this into a stranger’s ear. It didn’t matter, Ishmael figured, since their paths would hardly ever cross again.
Don Quixote gasped, her eyes widening almost comically. “TRULY?”
Ishmael winced, the word was shouted into her own ear. “Be quiet!”
“My apologies,” Don Quixote ducked her head, genuinely sorry. Her crestfallen expression reminded her of a wet dog that she had accidentally knocked over by her broom.
“Haaa, it’s fine,” Ishmael sighed, “Just don’t be so loud, even if you are our guest.”
Don Quixote nodded, as if she didn’t trust her voice quite yet.
Time passed quietly as the two of them talked about everything, nothing, and all that was in between. The conversation wasn’t unbearable. Ishmael didn’t feel the urge to say anything nor did she feel the urge to be silent. Whenever she thought of a point, Don Quixote stopped mid-sentence to listen to what she had to say. Despite how much the other one talked, she never talked over Ishmael and paused an appropriate moments to check if Ishmael wanted to provide any comment.
It was very considerate of her.
And Ishmael didn’t mind talking longer than she usually would, in fact, time seemed to fly by.
Don Quixote stopped in the middle of one of her recounts before Ishmael heard the soft yet vigilant pace of footsteps walking down the corridor. The officer angled their posture accordingly, as if physically walling Ishmael apart from this newcomer.
Gregor briskly walked into the sitting room, his silver rapier attached to his belt. “Officer Don Quixote, my sincerest apologies for taking up your time.”
Don Quixote shifted, standing up to meet Gregor in the middle of the room, holding her hand out in good-faith. “Ah, Ser Edgar, thy lovely hospitality more than makes up for it.” She glanced back at Ishmael, flashing her a grin.
“Please, call me Gregor,” Gregor said a grimace, as he usually did when someone called him by his last name. He took her hand and shook it in a slow yet firm motion, his gaze darting behind her to see Ishmael there too. He nodded, “Yes, Ishmael is great help.”
Don Quixote adjusted her monocle and cleared her throat, her upbeat demeanor waning some as she proceeded to talk business. “Is Ser Earnshaw not here? These are more his matters than yours.”
Gregor’s gaze darkened, “Unfortunately not, but once the paperwork goes through, we–I will be the Master of this Manor.” The slip of his tongue felt right, and yet, it didn’t make sense. “It’s a work in progress and negotiations are still underway.” He shook his head, and sensing that this matter would take some time, he turned to leave. “Let us continue this in my office. I’ve the necessary paperwork there.”
Don Quixote nodded and followed Master out of the sitting room, Ryōshū bowing her head as they passed from her post by the door. She stopped Don Quixote for a second, holding out her jacket and shirt, washed, pressed, and folded neatly.
“I mended the tear,” Ryōshū said with a slight nod of her head, “Do let us know if there’s anything unsatisfactory.”
Don Quixote took her clothes back gently, giving Ryōshū a deep bow in return. “My thanks for thy expert handiwork!” She shrugged out of her borrowed shirt and hurriedly put her own back on before following Gregor towards the makeshift office.
Ryōshū turned to Ishmael with a sly glint in her eyes, tossing the shirt over to Ishmael. “Catch.”
Ishmael reached out to catch her shirt, ruffling it in her hands and smoothing out the wrinkles. “May I ask why a T Corp Collections Agent appeared at the manor?”
“N.Y.B. Get back to work.” Ryōshū turned to leave and so too, did Ishmael turn to start her chores again.
Ishmael was putting out the laundry when she overheard a few butlers talk amongst themselves, as if whispering words meant they couldn’t be heard by anyone else.
“You know how that servant’s staircase by the East Wing has that rickety step, right? It gave way under my feet today and some T Corp stud caught me!”
There was some high pitched squeals as the butler’s friends gasped. “No way!”
Can’t they find somewhere else to talk? Ishmael straightened out a pillowcase a tad more harsher than she usually would. Some of us are doing work here!
“And she smiled at me and asked if I was alright!”
That does it.
Pissed off that other butlers were slacking while Ishmael was trying to hurry enough to get her chores done, Ishmael walked up to the blanket they were talking next to and yanked it off the clothesline. She glared down at them, “Are you still using this line?”
“Ah! Ishmael! W-we were just leaving!” The butlers grab at each other’s arms before hurrying off. Likely running before Ishmael could ask for their help with the laundry.
Ishmael huffed, continuing to put up the laundry.
It hadn’t even been that long, and yet it still felt like a long day, especially since she was behind on her chores. After laundry, she was to help prepare the vegetables for tonight’s dinner, set the table, wash the silverware, and then secretly bring Master a glass to drink before night. She sighed into the bedsheets skirting in the breeze as her mind wandered.
Like an ever looming storm, the hunt approached even if snowy bedsheets waved in the wind like flags of surrender.