sneakybellybutton - Tumblr blog

The Midford's Maid

TL;DR: A young woman working for the Midfords refuses to fall for the charms of a certain demon butler.

Author's Note: I'm very new here, and I don't believe this fic requires any trigger warnings. However, if I'm wrong, please let me know which ones to add and I'll edit accordingly.

Critiques are welcome!

Some information may be historically inaccurate.

Thank you!

______________________________________________________________

Never trust a handsome man.

My mother always told me this, and she had the irrefutable logic to prove it.

"Handsome men aren't faithful. They have hundreds of women constantly throwing themselves at their feet. The world has always been handed to them on a silver platter; they can have anything they want without even asking for it, and they know this. So never trust a handsome man. He'll just break your heart and walk away without remembering your name."

This sage advice didn't actually come in handy. How often do you meet a handsome man? Certainly, there are plenty of nice-looking men walking the streets—a few relatively attractive ones—quite a lot of perfectly average ones—but handsome? Only in picture books. I thought I was safe from the evils of nonexistent masculine beauty.

Until Lady Elizabeth's fiancé came over to stay a month as our guest. The Marchioness said that he needed to get more fresh air or exercise or something, and so she ordered insisted that he join the family at the summer estate.

The Earl wasn't the problem. He was a very cute boy, short and scowling, like one of those tiny fluffy dogs that genuinely believes it's a Doberman. I rarely interacted with him. The most we had ever "conversed" was him nodding in acknowledgement whenever I brought him tea. Oh, and that one time when he asked where he left his book and thanked me when I got it. That's all.

But his butler—

Some of the maids had seen him before, and were desperate to get another glimpse. There was rather a commotion about it. The girls had drawn lots to see which lucky ones would get to accompany the family to the summer home. The losers then proceeded to accuse the winners of cheating, and the winners said that the losers weren't pretty enough anyway, and then a general kerfuffle exploded. Plates were broken, feelings were hurt, and someone got a black eye.

Eventually the Marchioness had to come down herself to restore order. She then handpicked the maids and said that if there would be any more arguing about it, no women would be going to the summer home at all. That shut everyone up.

I was chosen to go. That didn't surprise me. I was an ordinary housemaid, but in a pinch, I could be called upon to personally serve Lady Elizabeth. She liked me, and, if need be, I could be trusted to dress her in a party gown without tearing anything.

The maids were all in a flutter on the morning of the Earl's arrival. Makeup, normally carefully hidden from the Marchioness, appeared and was applied. Those who had it even charged those who didn't to borrow it—a shilling for ten minutes, which was absolutely ridiculous. Pristine white aprons with the most impractical frills were put on. Some girls even shoved rags down their corsets and asked if it looked realistic enough. I helped with some of their corseting. They demanded tightlacing, which I pretended to do. The last thing I needed were a bunch of maids clutching at their stomachs and fainting on the job.

"More! I don't feel anything!"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," I said, pulling the strings with the least effort possible.

"I have to look perfect! Make it as tight as possible."

"Of course," said I, giving another feeble tug.

Frankly, I thought that they were all exaggerating. When they were excitedly talking about the Earl's extremely handsome butler, I thought they just meant a tall man with a good nose and maybe a full set of teeth. They fawned over his black hair, which was probably dyed, and his glistening amber eyes, which seemed excessively dramatic. He probably just had normal brown eyes which occasionally caught the light nicely—that or he had urine-yellow eyes, and the good nose inspired a more complimentary description. I had met butlers before, and they were all the same—creaky old men who always smelled vaguely of brandy. I imagined the younger version of that.

And then he showed up.

And my God, the rumors were true.

All of them.

All.

Of.

Them.

I'll admit, my heart pounded when I first saw him. My face turned red—not delicately blushing, like the heroines in the novels, but that ugly, blotchy, bright red which one tries to pretend is a temporary sunburn. As the Midford butler introduced everyone, he nodded and smiled at me, and for a few moments, I envisioned exactly the same thing that all of the other girls were…

He looks at her, and his heart immediately skips a beat. He has never seen anyone so beautiful, so elegant, so graceful, and so lovely, in all of his life. He bows to her and tries to speak, but he's so taken aback that the words choke and die in his throat. She looks up at him and smiles, delicately blushing just like a heroine in a novel, and he knows instinctively that this is the One True Love of his Life, and he has never met, nor will he ever meet, anyone so perfect. He immediately swears eternal loyalty and adoration to the goddess before him.

They get married, and all of the other women are so jealous of the happy couple—"How did she do it? How could she have gotten such a handsome man?" they ask themselves. And she smiles and tosses her head, with him on her arm, smiling at her with devoted respect and admiration, never once noticing the other women around him—and why should he, when he's already achieved domestic bliss and wifely superiority?

And oh, that sweet, sweet butler's salary! And with him already being an earl's butler, promotion is inevitable. Next he'll be serving a duke—then a prince—then maybe, if the Queen ever dies (long live Her Majesty), then maybe even a king! Perhaps not even an English king, but something far more romantic, like the king of some tiny foreign country that no one has ever heard of or cares about.

And then the king dies without an heir, and to reward all of his steadfast loyalty, he makes him the next monarch, and suddenly she's a Queen, and runs the whole country because of course her husband is smart enough to grant all of her wishes and requests, and then she does such a good job of ruling the country that she then proceeds to rule the whole world—with a nonviolent takeover, of course—and when she dies, her brokenhearted husband throws himself over her corpse and says that life has no meaning if he has to spend a day without her, and so dies of a broken heart, and they're buried together, and legends are written of their eternal love…

And of course he's a great cook and an amazing father and he always does the dishes without being asked and he just loves her mother and—

—and then he moved on to the next maid, another introduction, another nod, another smile, exactly as dispassionately polite as mine had been, and Reason immediately returned.

I blushed again, this time at myself. I had almost fallen for it. But my mother's wise words rose up in my head, and I swore to myself that I would never forget them again.

'Besides,' Reason told me as I watched him enter the manor, 'a handsome man like that would never, ever consider giving someone like me a second glance, let alone falling in love with me.'

I sighed, shook the remainder of my fantasies off, and returned to work.

The first week was awkward. It seemed that our formerly formidable army of maids had degenerated overnight into a bunch of idiots in stupid frilly aprons.

Everything would be fine. I would be cleaning a room with a girl, changing the bedsheets, dusting the shelves, but then that butler would pass and she'd suddenly drop the vase she was holding.

"Oopsie! My hands slipped!"

And then he would come in with that eerily perfect smile and pick up the pieces, all with her giggling and lightly tapping his arm.

"Oh, dear! I'm such a little klutz! Whatever would I do without you, Mr. Michaelis?"

It was uncanny.

"You just don't understand the fashions of the time," Clara said when I asked her about it. Clara was another maid, and one which I was relatively close to. "The clumsy maid is just all the rage these days. Men go crazy for it."

"Really? Why?"

She examined her reflection in one of the pans. She had just run out of shillings, so she was experimenting with her borrowed lipstick, seeing how it looked as a blush.

"I don't know. Probably because men like pretending that we're stupider than them."

I nodded. That made sense.

"But I don't think Mr. Michaelis likes it much." I thought about it for a minute. "Actually, I don't think he likes anything much. Have you noticed how he smiles?"

She sighed dreamily.

"I've noticed everything about him."

"Well, yes, but his smile is always the same. And it's always so bland and so…I don't know…emotionless."

"It's a smile. It's the epitome of emotion."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. And if you had any sense, you'd start tripping over nothing and 'accidentally' falling into his arms, just like the rest of us. That's how you really grab a man's attention."

Her ten minutes were up and the lipstick was snatched away again.

"You'd think he'd get tired of catching falling women all day."

"Nonsense. He loves it. Who wouldn't?"

And she corrected her dress.

Clare was one of the more voracious butler-hunters. Wherever Mr. Michaelis was, there she would be, pressing herself against him, giggling at everything he said, even if it wasn't that funny, or probably not a joke. She had switched corsets, and now wore one which only cinched around the waist. It was extremely impractical, but my goodness was it effective in showing off her chest.

"Mr. Michaelis," she said once, sighing dramatically as she leaned against the kitchen table, "I must confess something to you."

"Oh?" he said, not even looking up from the lunch dishes.

"Yes. But you're so smart, I'm sure you realized it yourself."

He didn't comment on this. She continued.

"Oh, yes, you've known right from the moment you've laid eyes on me, that I'm just not like the other girls. You knew right away that I was special."

I had been eavesdropping cleaning the hallway, and it was at this point that I had to press my hand against my mouth to keep from laughing.

"Do tell," he said.

His tone seemed a bit ironic to me, but Clare bravely kept it up.

"You see, I have a very dark and dramatic secret. I—I am an orphan."

Now I knew that Clare's parents were very much alive and well. Just last month they had sent her a present of some delicious homemade jam.

"How tragic," Mr. Michaelis said.

I wished that he would at least look up from the sink. Poor Clare was really giving it her all.

"Not only that," she said, "but they died in that very house fire which killed Lord Ciel's parents."

This is where I intervened. I consider myself a patient person, but I drew the line at bringing in a poor child's very real tragedy into one's own fake sob story.

"Clare," I said, "the Marchioness needs you."

She gave me a look that very clearly said, 'Can't you see I'm busy?'

I gave her one back: 'Can't you see I don't care?'

She glanced at Mr. Michaelis's back and pouted.

"Can't you go yourself?" she whined. "I'm a little busy at the moment. I'm having a very important conversation with Mr. Michaelis right now."

And she leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his stomach and pressing her chest against his back.

"I'm sorry, but she requested you personally."

She hesitated, then decided that an existing maid's salary takes higher priority than a hypothetical butler's pension. Smart woman.

She flounced away, leaving me awkwardly standing in the kitchen.

There were a lot of dishes. I silently started drying them and putting them away.

Mr. Michaelis didn't say anything, didn't look at me, didn't even acknowledge my presence until everything was cleaned up and the other servants started streaming in to help with the dinner preparations.

Then, I thought I heard him say, very quietly, just under his breath,

"Thank you."

But I'm sure I imagined it.

The Earl's month-long visit got extended to two months. The maids were overjoyed. However, as the butler's presence became less exciting and more commonplace, a lot of the maids dropped the clumsy act and resumed work as usual. Clare and a few others still doggedly pursued him, but things were, more-or-less, back to normal.

I was relieved at first, but then I noticed that the butler had started acting…strange.

Of course, he had always been strange. The weird smile. How quickly he got everything done—a three-hour task would be impeccably finished in a half-hour. The fact that he never, ever made a mistake, not even a small one, like getting water splashed on him when cleaning a spoon, or dropping something when his hands were full.

My mother had been right, as always: never, ever trust a handsome man. He's probably going to be really, really creepy.

I had tried to stay away from him during his first month at the manor. No man that beautiful could have a good personality, and no one with such a blank personality could have a good agenda.

Once you noticed it, it was impossible to stop seeing it, and it just became more and more terrifying. The man was absolutely flawless. In front of the nobles, he was the perfect butler—softspoken, subservient. In front of the maids, he was charming and gentlemanly. With the male staff, he was friendly and witty.

And yet, despite being Mr. Popularity, no one knew a single thing about him.

Where did he work before the Earl? Did he have any hilarious work stories? Did he prefer coffee or tea? Did he even eat? No one knew the answer to even these most basic of questions. Whenever someone asked, he would simply laugh that pleasant, polite laugh, and then effortlessly change the subject.

It was weird and unpleasant, and so I steered clear of him. Initially, I stayed out of his way to not capture his attention. I did not want to be another number on his body count. But then, I started to avoid him from fear.

It sounds odd—to be so afraid of a mere butler! But every time he came close, I felt like a rabbit in front of a wolf who's still deciding if it's hungry or not.

And that was the oddest thing about him—he was close a lot of the time.

If I saw him in a room, I would back away and start cleaning another. But then, whenever I'd look up, he would be right across the hall, seemingly absorbed in polishing a knickknack I had just dusted.

If I was cleaning the floor, he'd choose that room to start setting up the afternoon tea. And then, once I had left, the tea would be magically relocated to the drawing room.

If I was outside, pulling up weeds, he'd somehow end up right behind me, discussing with the gardener the best flowers to plant for the season.

I thought it was a coincidence. So much so that I even joked about it with the other maids.

"Isn't it odd how Mr. Michaelis is always just right there? It's almost like having a cat that insists on constantly being underfoot!"

They stared at me blankly.

"What do you mean?" Clare said. "I spend all day looking for him and for the life of me, I can never find him!"

I didn't bring it up again.

I came to the next logical conclusion: he was being a big jerk.

I had no idea what I had done to offend him, but whatever it was, he was taking his slow, sweet vengeance on me. If I had just finished sweeping the floor, what better time for him to stomp in some mud? If I had spent all day organizing the library, why wouldn't he swoop in and start checking the books for dust? That passive-aggressive git! If he had an issue with me, why didn't he just come right up and tell me straight to my face? He had had no problems at all lecturing one of the footmen when he had poured the wrong wine at dinner.

But then something terrible happened.

I was in the kitchen, helping with dinner, as usual. Mr. Michaelis was doing his usual super-human act—ordering the servants, stirring the pots, choosing the table settings, all effortlessly and all at the same time.

I was in the corner, peeling the potatoes. I wasn't really paying attention to anything around me, mostly because I was busy singing "The Potato Song" in my mind. It went a little something like this:

III am peeling the po-tay-toes!

III am peeling the po-tah-toes.

III am peeling the po-tay-toes!

III am peeling the po-tah-toes.

Catchy, isn't it?

I was right in the middle of composing the second verse ('What rhymes with "potatoes?" "Tomatoes?" No, that wouldn't work; there are no tomatoes in this recipe…') when the knife slipped and slashed my finger.

"Oh!"

I dropped both knife and potato. Already there was blood.

And already there was Mr. Michaelis, right behind me.

"What happened?"

"Oh, it's nothing sir; just a little cut…"

"Let me see."

And he gently took my hand and examined my finger.

"Let's get this cleaned up."

He walked me over to the sink and stuck my finger under the cold water.

"Thank you, sir, but really, I'm fine; there's no need—"

But he had whipped out a first-aid kit, seemingly from nowhere, and was already cleaning my finger and carefully bandaging it.

"There," he said, placing both of his hands around my injured one. "Is that better?"

"Oh. Yes. Much. Thank you."

He smiled.

"Good."

I forced a smile back and awkwardly pulled my hand out of his grip. He seemed reluctant to let it go.

"Thank you, Mr. Michaelis," I said again. "I'll just get back to work."

"You shouldn't work with that injury," he said, suddenly snapping back into his Professional Butler personality, the kind he used for hall boys sleeping on the job. "I'll take care of the rest. Why don't you go and relax for a bit."

It seemed to be a suggestion, but he made it sound like an order. And he put his hand on my lower back to escort me out of the kitchen and towards the stairs to the maids' rooms.

I walked up them, not even knowing what else to do. When I looked behind me, he was still there in the threshold, smiling at me.

It wasn't his usual smile. It actually seemed…kind.

I ran up the rest of the stairs and made sure not to stand next to him during dinner.

At least, that had been my intention. But halfway through the service, I realized that he had somehow ended up right next to me.

Of course I knew exactly what he was doing.

He had realized that I wasn't falling for his Mr. Nice Guy act, and his masculine pride wouldn't leave him in peace until he had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. So that was why he always stood close to me during mealtimes. And that was why, when the dancing instructor asked him to demonstrate the waltz, he called specifically me over to dance with him. And that was why, afterwards, he gave me a red rose and told me that I was the best partner he had ever had the honor of dancing with.

"I stepped on your feet, Mr. Michaelis," I mumbled. "Several times."

"I didn't notice it at all. I believe I was too entranced by your eyes."

"You're lying."

"Miss, I never lie."

I knew he was fibbing, because I had intentionally stared down at the floor the entire time we had danced. And to prove this, when he asked me the next day to dance with him again, this time to demonstrate the schottische, I made a point of looking up into his face and smiling—right during the turn.

He fumbled.

THE Sebastian Michaelis fumbled a dance step.

This was so unnerving that I pretended that I had turned my ankle and couldn't dance anymore, so I would excuse myself and go and call Clare in my stead.

Mr. Michaelis immediately refused and said that it was time for him to start preparing the afternoon tea anyway. And then, outside the room, he asked me if I needed help walking.

"Oh—no. Why?"

"Because of your ankle, miss," he said, smiling.

"Oh. Right. No, thank you; it's feeling much better, now."

"Really? Shall we go in and continue then?"

"Ah—no, thank you. Wouldn't want to risk another injury."

"Of course. Are you certain that you're all right?"

"I am, yes, thank you."

"Perhaps you'd like me to carry you?"

"Oh—WHAT?"

"Just to the kitchen," he said calmly, as if he had just stated that the sky was blue. "If your ankle really is injured, you shouldn't be walking on it. And there, I can take a better look at it—"

'You are not getting anywhere NEAR my ankle, you absolute pervert!' I almost shouted, but I restrained myself.

"I'm really okay; thank you, Mr. Michaelis."

"Are you sure?" and he gave me the most angelic pout I had ever seen in my life. "I'm worried about you."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Michaelis." And, in a desperate attempt to not repeat myself again, and because it seemed like he was still waiting for more, I added, "You're very sweet."

He stopped walking. I stopped too, and glanced up at him.

"Is…everything all right?" I asked. "Your face has gone a bit red."

"Hm? Ah—yes. I'm fine."

"Are you feverish?"

I stretched my hand up and pressed my hand against his forehead. I had to stand on my tippy-toes to do so.

His face turned even redder.

"Oh! You must be ill! That explains the misstep!"

"I assure you, miss; I'm really quite all right—"

"Nonsense! You must be coming down with something. You had better go and lie down right now."

I instinctively slung my arm through his, as if he was going to collapse at any second.

"Look at you! You're burning up! Let me get you to your room, and then I'll go and make you some tea…"

"Miss, really—"

"Now who's worried about who?" I smiled to myself. "Now, come on. Let's get you to bed before you get any worse."

"Bed—"

He yanked himself away from me, his cheeks a bright, almost sunburned, red.

"Excuse me, miss; I'd really—I'd like to—The Young Master—"

He was stumbling over his words, as if he was trying to say something, but physically couldn't. In the end, he simply bowed and sped-walked away.

It was a very odd interaction, especially for someone who was always so in-control. I wondered what had changed. Everything was allowed when he was "worried" about me, but when I start fretting over him, he immediately runs away? Perhaps it was another instance of the pitfalls of masculine pride. I went downstairs, where our own butler was polishing the silver.

"Is there something going around?"

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"Like a cold or something. I think Mr. Michaelis isn't feeling well."

He shrugged.

"Haven't heard of anything like that."

That evening, Mr. Michaelis was back to normal. Better yet, he stood far, far away from me at dinner.

All was calm for a few days until Clare got another brilliant idea. We were in the backyard, hanging up the laundry to dry. I had just finished adjusting a sheet when I heard the fakest scream in existence.

"Kyaaaaa!!!"

A scream was a scream, no matter how stupid it sounded. I ran to check, and I found Clare sitting on the ground, covered in soapy water.

"It was too heavy," she said, pointing to a fallen laundry bucket, "and I tripped, and it spilled all over me!"

I decided not to comment that, as we were drying the laundry, we had no more need for soapy water, so there had been no reason for her to get some in the first place. I also decided not to ask her why the supposed-laundry water was pristine, instead of the usual disgusting grey. There were more important things to worry about.

I mentioned before that Clare had gotten into the habit of wearing a corset that only went around the waist, without properly securing and obscuring the chest. She was also, at the time of the soaking, wearing a white dress.

To put it less discreetly, she was drawing quite a lot of attention from the male staff members who were wondering what all the commotion was about. Her feminine modesty was at stake.

"Here, grab my hand; let me help you—" I said.

Regrettably, the water had created quite a lot of mud. And, more regrettable still, I slipped on it. And I did not make a maidenly shriek.

"OW!"

I landed face-first in the dirt. Through the haze of my embarrassment, I thought I heard a few chuckles and one guffaw.

I tried to stand up, slipped once more, and again got a sticky, muddy facial. This time there were more guffaws and even some chortles.

I just sort of collapsed onto my side at this point. It was the only thing I could think to do to spare me some humiliation. A bit of me wished that I was dead, and a lot of me wished that I could kill Clare for putting me in this situation.

Suddenly something fell on top of me. It was a tailcoat—huge, made for someone much larger than me—and it smelled of pine forests and bergamot.

It was wrapped around me, and then I was picked up like a child. Mr. Michaelis gazed down at me with something that looked very much like concern.

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked.

I turned away from him. My face was again horribly, blotchily blushing, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was about to burst into tears.

"Let's get you inside," he said gently, and turned to go.

"Wait, Mr. Michaelis!" I heard Clare shout behind us. "What about me? I can't get up, either!"

Oh, right. Clare's womanly mystique was at risk! I jumped down from Mr. Michaelis's arms (or at least I tried to; it was more of a "squirming out" because, once again, he seemed reluctant to let me go), and I threw his tailcoat over her.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Michaelis," I mumbled, bobbing a curtsey after I dragged Clare to her feet. "We'll be going now—thank you—we'll wash the coat for you—goodbye."

"Miss—"

I practically ran back into the manor, yanking Clare behind me like a doll. Then we talked about it in the bath while we washed the mud off.

"That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen you do," I told her.

She gave me a dirty, superior look.

"At least it worked! Did you see the way he looked at me?"

I hadn't.

"You should have seen how he ran over! He was so worried about me!"

"Then why did he give me the coat, first?"

"You silly! Obviously it was to make me jealous! Pretend that he cared about you to make me want him more!"

That made sense. I grabbed the tailcoat to rinse it off, but Clare yanked it away from me with a gasp.

"What are you doing?!"

"Washing it! We got the hot water here and we're already hanging up the laundry; we might as well do it now."

"Are you insane? I just got Mr. Michaelis's coat! And I'm not giving it back so easily!"

And she brought it to her nose and huffed it as if it was more vital to her existence than air.

"He's going to want his coat back eventually."

"Well, we have to do the laundry again next week. He can wait until then."

I thought that was the end of my affair with the coat, but I was wrong. Apparently, Clare started charging the girls twenty shillings to get a sniff of it, and then some of them got grabby, and one of the sleeves tore. I was considered the best seamstress of the lot, so they handed it over to me to fix.

Mr. Michaelis walked in while I was in the process of doing so.

"Ah. I wondered what had happened to it," he said mildly. "You’ve kept it all this time?"

I briefly thought about explaining the black-market sniff ring going on upstairs, and decided that it would take too much time and make everyone involved lose quite a bit of respect.

"…Yes."

He smiled. I almost missed his creepy fake one. Somehow, the soft, quietly pleased smile he kept giving me was worse.

As he passed behind me, one of his hands grazed my shoulder—just a bit.

I threw the coat into the laundry bin that night.

And then there was the onion incident.

It sounds infinitely more dramatic than what it actually was. I was, once again, helping out with the dinner preparations, this time by cutting some onions. And once again, I was distracted by something—I forget what; I have too many thoughts to keep track of all of them—and I cut myself again.

Fortunately, I had just grazed the skin, creating a little flap. No blood, no real harm done. Unfortunately, I still managed to draw the attention of Mr. Michaelis.

"Are you injured?" he asked, again appearing next to me as if he had been there the whole time, even though I could have sworn that he had been across the room, instructing the maids on proper shoe-shining techniques.

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

And I held up my finger to show him that he could safely ignore me. But he didn't, the gorgeous fathead.

"How are you cutting the onion?"

"Like this."

"You'll hurt yourself again if you do it like that," he said firmly. And he glided behind me, covering both of my hands with his own. "Hold the knife like this, and hold the onion like this…"

He instructed me for several minutes, first adjusting my fingers, then guiding my hands, and then finally letting me resume my work, his hands still resting on top of mine.

"I see. Thank you," I said.

"Of course," he murmured, right into my ear.

"Mr. Michaaaaelis!" Clare sang from across the room. "I also need your help! I don't want to cut myself. Could you please show me how it's done, pleeease?"

He sighed, almost imperceptibly, and moved away from me to go assist Clare.

"Hold the knife like this, and hold the onion like that—"

"What? I don't understand. Can you show me again, pleeease?"

After a few minutes of hearing this, I looked over my shoulder at them. He was standing to the side, with a knife and onion of his own, demonstrating the proper technique without actually touching Clare. She kept nudging him and sneaking closer to him, trying to get him to instruct her from behind, the way he did with me.

He looked up, slightly annoyed, and we made eye contact. He smiled, winked, and shook his head, as if we were both silently laughing at the same joke.

I immediately turned around again and got back to my onion.

It was absolutely impossible—I know for a fact that it was my imagination—but…while he had been behind me, I could have sworn on my dear mother's life that he had taken the opportunity to smell my hair.

The Earl was returning to London. Poor Lady Elizabeth was distraught, as if he was going off to war and she wouldn't see him for five years, if ever again.

The servants were a bit down as well. I certainly knew that I would miss the little Earl. He had been a good guest, so quiet and politely grumpy.

But I secretly celebrated the departure of the butler. I couldn't wait to never see him again. I even sang and danced to myself as I cleaned up the kitchen. The other servants had been allowed a night off, so they had all gone down to the local tavern to toast Mr. Michaelis goodbye. I had stayed behind with a headache for an excuse. This was a lie—I couldn't remember the last time I felt so good.

"My, you're in a good mood tonight."

I gasped and whirled around.

"Mr. Michaelis! I thought you were with the others!"

He shrugged and came closer.

"The tavern scene…is not for me. And I wanted to give you a little something."

'My god, he's going to be murder me,' I thought. 'And, like the insufferable genius that he is, he waited for this night to do so, knowing that there would be no one around to hear me scream!'

He was holding something behind his back. I opened my mouth to shriek, regardless of who could hear me or not, when he pulled it out and showed me.

"O-oh!" I faltered.

It was a container of hand cream, and, based on the design of the box, an expensive one, too.

"Oh, Mr. Michaelis! You really didn't have to!"

"I know," he said, opening it up, "but I wanted to. You've been…such a good maid. I shall dearly miss working alongside someone so competent."

I wanted to ask about the Earl's other servants—weren't they just as amazing as he was?—but he had removed one of his gloves, took a smear of cream, and held out his other hand.

"May I?"

"Oh—yes. Certainly."

He beamed and gently took my hand into his own.

It was just the two of us. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the kitchen clock and the soft noise of the cream being massaged into my hand.

"Perhaps you'd like to come and work with us," he suddenly said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know the Young Master likes you. And I can offer you a higher salary. It's true that you don't have the usual," he thought for a minute, "requirements needed to be a Phantomhive servant, but that shouldn't be a problem. I'll take care of you, if anything should happen."

I didn't like that "if anything should happen." It was a maid job at a mansion, serving a little baby Earl. What was the worst that could happen?

But the thought of a higher salary was tantalizing. I imagined it—first an earl's maid, then, after a glowing recommendation, a duchess's lady's maid, and then perhaps the governess to a princess or something—

—but then he took my other hand, still smiling that eerie, genuine smile, and my stomach dropped with that "scared rabbit" feeling. In the dim light of the kitchen, his eyes seemed exceptionally sparkling. And there was something off about the pupils…

He raised my hand to his face and kissed one of my fingertips, the one which he had bandaged for me all those weeks ago. Then he moved to the back of my hand, his lips lightly tracing over my skin.

He closed his eyes to kiss my palm, and this snapped me back to my senses. But it was only when he kissed and licked my wrist that I finally achieved the presence of mind to yank my hand away.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!"

I backed away from him, clutching my hand as if he had wounded it. He looked confused—adorably so, like a kicked puppy—but I was too furious to fall prey to his charms. Not now. Not when he was leaving tomorrow.

Thousands of words and insults sprang into my mind. Everything that I had thought of him these past two months were burning the back of my throat, edging towards my tongue, but I suffocated on my own righteous anger and couldn't say anything for a few seconds. All I could manage was an outraged,

"HOW COULD YOU?!"

"Miss, whatever do you mean?" he asked, taking a few steps forward, arms spread out in a plea for innocence.

"Stay back! Don't touch me! How could you do this to me?! How do you even live with yourself? How could you pretend to love me—How dare you—The absolute audacity—What did I ever do to you to deserve such treatment?!"

I spun around, pressing my hand against my mouth, as if that could magically stop the tears from flowing. I knew he was behind me—he always was.

"I don't understand how you could possibly gain any semblance of enjoyment by making girls fall in love with you," I said in a low voice, "especially when you don't mean it—any of it. Was Clare not enough for you? Could you not leave this house without bedding every single one of us?"

His hands went around my shoulders and he pulled me against him. I continued staring down at the floor, choking on suppressed sobs.

"My dear," he said quietly, "I've never once pretended with you, nor have I encouraged the advances of any other woman in this household. My eyes have always and only ever been on you."

"Liar," I whispered. "You liar."

He gently turned me around and lifted my head up with his finger, forcing me to look at him.

"My darling," he said silkily, "I never lie."

Again those eyes—there was definitely something wrong with them. The color—the pupils—they burned.

And it was only then that I noticed his hand, the one whose glove he had removed to apply the hand cream, and I saw it.

The nails were black. And there was some kind of horrible, demonic tattoo—

He kissed me.

He tasted of chocolate and whipped cream. He tasted of paradise and nightmares. His lips were cold as ice. The kiss was hotter than fire. I was in Heaven. I was in Hell. I was dying. I had never felt more alive.

He pulled away from me, licking his lips. His teeth briefly flashed—were those fangs?

I didn't know. I didn't have the nerve or the time to ask.

I blinked. I was alone in the kitchen.

The hand cream was still on the table, right where he had left it. The kiss was still scorching my lips.

I silently went to the sink and washed my hands. I scrubbed my face raw, but the kiss refused to disappear.

I went upstairs without looking at his gift. I went into my room, locked the door, shoved a chair under the knob, and lay down on the bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

There were a lot of obscenities going through my mind, all of the words which would make my mother disown me and the Marchioness fire me on the spot. They were rolling through my brain, like rocks tumbling in a wheel.

I don't know how much time passed with me in such a state of just lying on the bed. It might've been fifteen minutes or two hours.

But eventually, I opened my mouth to whisper up at the ceiling,

"Oh…no."