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Croft Manor doesn't feel right when things are quiet. With Lady Croft in charge of the Manor, Hillary has gotten used to a certain level of activity. Be it watching Lady Croft drag Simon through the manor while Bryce complains about how long it'll take him to fix it, sparring with Lady Croft, or consulting the books and records to discover information that Lady Croft needs, Hillary is usually kept busy. Or if he isn't, the Manor itself feels busy.
Alas, two nights ago, Lady Croft announced her intentions of flying to Nepal for an undisclosed length of time, and has sent only a single line of an email to assure them that she had arrived safely. If Hillary was among the gossipy fraternity of butlers - which he was not, working for Lady Croft necessitated a certain level of discretion - he might think that Lady Croft's trip had been caused by the phone call she received from that bothersome American Alex West. But Hillary has no strong opinions on such matters.
This unusual state of affairs means that Hillary is at something of a loose end. Yes, there is a small voice in the back of his head worrying about the only other person in his proximity. Not that he worries over his physical safety, rather the chaos Bryce is getting up to unsupervised. Only this morning, Hillary had wandered into the morning room and found Bryce sprawled on the couch with three packets of prawn cocktail crisps open, getting crumbs everywhere while he yelled at a pair of fighting robots on the TV.
If this were Bryce's caravan that crisp dust got everywhere in, Hillary wouldn't mind. Yet, a prickle of responsibility niggles at him.
Hillary shudders to imagine what Bryce subsisted on in that caravan (probably baked beans, crisps, Pepsi, and microwave meals for one), but he is living under the roof of Croft Manor now - at least for the time being, until his caravan is rendered habitable again - and that means he falls under Hillary's purview. Broadly speaking anyway. Hillary is the butler and that means it is his responsibility, his duty and his privilege (in varying degrees) to care for those living in the manor.
So, he trudges his way towards the library where he knows the resident technical expert is busy doing whatever it is he does with his computers, and fixes the man with a hard stare.
“Get up.”
Bryce doesn't look up from his coding. “What are you on about?”
“Lady Croft has entrusted you to my care. She will be displeased if she returns to find you have succumbed to scurvy because of your despicable diet.” Hillary nods, assured he sounds as bored as possible. They're British, it doesn't do to show you might care. “I shall teach you to cook.”
“I don't want to learn to cook,” Bryce predictably protests. “That's why smart people invented the microwave and the microwave meal.”
“The microwave is a tool for the lazy and the unimaginative,” Hillary snarks, looming over the genius. “It is the 'copy-paste' of the culinary world.” And tastes like cardboard in Hillary's experience. “I am offering you a, to use your vocabulary, manual override.”
Bryce finally looks up, fingers stilling on the keyboard. “Manual override, eh? Does it involve fire? Or sharp objects?”
Hillary should have known, well he can work with this. “It involves a rolling pin and a pre-heated oven. And if you survive the experience without burning the Manor down, I might be persuaded into a quid pro quo situation.”
“Quid pro…” A gleeful grin overtakes Bryce's face. “You saying you'll watch Robot Wars with me? Without complaining?”
Hillary would rather stab a large fork into his eye, but needs must. For Lady Croft. “If that is what it takes, then yes.”
Bryce's celebration is cut short, Hillary feels good about it. Bursting his bubble is, dare he think it, fun.
“Provided you prove to be an adequate pupil.”
Hillary can see Bryce weighing his options. An afternoon of listening to Hillary “nag” at him for the payoff of making Hillary suffer watching that ridiculous mechanical gladiator program, or risk Hillary continuing to nag at him about cooking until Lady Croft either returns or has need of them from Nepal.
Bryce nods decisively. “You're on, mate.”
Because he would rather his kitchen not turn into a disaster area sooner than absolutely necessary, Hillary sets about gathering all the ingredients while Bryce digs through the organised tea tin. After the bowls and utensils for both of them to attempt the mixture, Hillary sends a plain apron tumbling through the air towards Bryce's unkempt hair.
“Steady on,” Bryce protests, muffled by the fabric.
Hillary allows himself a small, fleeting smile, and smooths a wrinkle from his own apron. “Let us begin.” He waits until Bryce has wrangled his apron on, then points at all the ingredients in turn. “Self raising flour. Baking powder. Caster sugar. Salt.” Then nods at the refrigerator. “Milk and butter, but those can wait.”
Bryce peeks into the fridge, withdrawing with a Pepsi. Hillary confiscates it, returning to the matter at hand.
“This is the oven, a higher tech version of the microwave you are so fond of. We preheat it to 220 degrees Celsius. If the oven is not hot enough your scones will not rise adequately before they are cooked.”
“Hot oven, check.” Bryce makes a ticking motion in the air.
Hillary sighs through his nose and reminds himself that he brought this on himself. “To start, we must sift our dry ingredients.”
This step naturally is a disaster waiting to happen. Hillary has perfected the art of sifting accurately from the necessary height - to aerate the mixture as his dear mother said - without causing a blizzard of flour over the counter. Bryce, while talented in the art of robot making and all things cyber, has not yet mastered the fine touch required for the culinary arts.
More flour dusts the counter and Bryce's head than falls into the mixing bowl, Bryce turning a frustrated glower on him. “This is impossible!”
Hillary sighs and replaces the bowl with another, simply telling Bryce to try again. Perseverance is key in this as all endeavours.
It takes a few tries - and some muttered curse words that Hillary primly pretends he doesn't hear - but Bryce manages to get all his dry ingredients sifted into his bowl. Hillary looks over both their bowls and nods in satisfaction.
“What next?” Bryce asks, not eager but not entirely sounding like a man standing before his own firing squad. “Milk?”
“Butter,” Hillary tsks, removing two blocks from the refrigerator. “Cube the butter, but try not to let the heat from your hands melt it too much.”
Bryce makes a face, one that says he knows how to cut up butter and he isn't a child, Hillary just arches an eyebrow and cubes his own butter.
“Now we rub the butter into the dry ingredients,” Hillary lectures, depositing the golden cubes gently into his mixture. Quick as a snake, he grabs hold of Bryce's wrist. “Use only your fingertips, else your butter will melt prematurely and ruin your mixture, which is an unforgivable waste of ingredients.”
Bryce looks at him like he worries him on a deep and personal level, or possibly that his worry over wasting ingredients when they live in a manner is nothing short of barmy, but nods. “Only fingertips, got it.”
Hillary nods back. “Watch me. I shall demonstrate the correct procedure.”
Gently, carefully, with the ease of endless repetition, Hillary lifts the dry ingredients, rubbing through the butter with his fingertips.
“Lift it up. Let the air in.” He demonstrates, his hands lifting the mixture high before letting it drift back into the bowl. “We want the texture of fine breadcrumbs. If you use your palms, the butter will melt, the chemistry will fail, and we will be left with something more akin to a deflated rugby ball than a scone."
“No rugby balls,” Bryce confirmed, only slightly sounding like he thought Hillary has lost his marbles. “Never liked rugby anyway.”
Hillary rolls his eyes, rubbing the last bit of butter through the flour, content with the consistency of the crumb. “Now it is your turn.”
Bryce squared his shoulders, tipping the cubed butter into his bowl. “Fingertips, fingertips,” he mutters, plunging his hands into the mixture.
Hillary winces, visions of melted butter and leathery scones before his eyes. He steps behind the computer boffin, gently guiding his hands to move the correct way.
Bryce's elbow bumps into his in unspoken and unacknowledged thanks, his fingers finally rubbing the butter in the right manner.
“This feels weird.”
“Of course it feels weird, you are baking for the first time in your life.”
Bryce sends a sour look over his shoulder, but continues lifting and rubbing the mixture. “How's this then?”
Hillary peers into the bowl, humming once. “Adequate, I suppose.”
Nodding because he's British too and understands the praise, Bryce grins. “What next?”
Hillary shows him how to add the milk and combine the mixture into a dough. There's a companionable silence as they both roll out their dough into the correct one inch thickness. He is quite proud of Bryce for making it this far. Part of him imagined he would have feigned hearing his computer chirp and fled.
Hillary produces two circular metal cutters, placing one in front of Bryce. "Now, the final flourish. Press the cutter straight down into the dough. Do not under any circumstances twist it."
Bryce’s hand hovers over the metal ring. "No twisting? Not even a little rotation to ensure a clean break?"
"If you twist, you seal the edges," Hillary warns, his voice as grave as if he were discussing a life or death matter. "The scone will be trapped; it will not rise. It will become an unappetising lump of your failure. Straight down. Straight up. No twisting."
“No twisting.” Bryce taps two floury fingers off his temple, pressing straight down with his cutter.
Hillary nods approval and returns to pressing out his own scones. This isn't a contest, but it won't do to make a bad showing of himself. Each scone goes onto the tray, delivered into the oven and sealed away to bake.
While the scones bake, Hillary sets about making tea. The pot and cups go on a silver tray, jam and clotted cream waiting to garnish the scones. Bryce bustles around, humming the Robot Wars theme and gushing about Sir Killalot and Mathilda, excited as he only was when preparing Simon for another training session for Lady Croft.
Hillary sends him away to the morning room, plating them each a scone from their respective batches. He's not usually one to eat in the morning room, but Lady Croft insists she doesn't mind and he can let his rules slide this once.
Once seated, Hillary takes his time spreading first jam then cream over the scone Bryce made, sinking his teeth into the pastry. He chews thoughtfully, aware Bryce's gaze is on the TV but his attention is on Hillary. It's not as airy as it could be, but the scone is very good for a first attempt.
“Well?” Bryce asks when he can handle the silence no more.
Hillary nods once, taking a sip of his tea. “Acceptable. Really very acceptable.”
“Aces!” Bryce cheers, reaching for his plate at last. Cream before jam, Hillary's jaw twitches, but he can let it go. For the sake of quid pro quo.
Later, when the tea is cooling and seconds for scones have been devoured, Bryce looks away from the carnage Sir Killalot wrought. “There’s another episode on tomorrow.”
Hillary hides a smile, quid pro quo. “I might have another recipe I can demonstrate.”
“Right.” Bryce grins at the TV, settling in for the show.
Hillary primly sips on his tea, perhaps he can see why Bryce likes this show. “Excellent.”