17
Jase
He wasn’t there after my breakfast and I found myself sitting in a loincloth in that oddly homey kitchen peeling spuds. The spuds were bright orange inside while the peels were a mottled orange and red, but Keeper assured me they were otherwise ordinary potatoes. When she passed me purple and red carrots, I didn’t bat an eye, I’d seen those at Whole Foods before so while exotic, they still fell within what I could consider normal.
She pulled out a roast of some kind from that magic fridge of hers and sat it on the counter.
“Have you had buffalo before?” Keeper asked me, opening one of the lower cabinets. I stared as she pulled out a very retro-looking Crockpot, one of those 70s ones. Only it wasn’t. It had the look down pat, if they came in a soft sage green to match the cabinets, no controls, and lacked a plug of any kind. I watched as she took the lid off of the round pot and placed the pound of peeled and quartered potatoes, the carrots, and then the roast inside. The roast alone should have been too large for the pot, but it went in like it had been placed in Mary Poppins’ bag. Then she re-opened the fridge and brought out a covered bowl, which proved to be filled with just the right amount of pre-diced red onion to go into the pot.
“I had a buffalo burger once,” I admitted. “It was pretty good.”
“Good, good. Then you’ll probably like this.”
I probably would, at that. It was a kind of beef, pretty much, and I loved my red meat.
Next, she took out a jug from the fridge and poured it over. “I make all my own stock,” she confided. “None of that prepackaged stuff. Give me some fresh bones, wine, and herbs, and I can make a broth to be proud of.” She poured it over the contents of the pot. How it worked was answered when she placed the lid on, tapped the knob on the top, and said, “Hello, pot. High heat for two hours, please, then four more on medium.” Glowing numbers and letters appeared in the air above the pot, reading 2:00 H 4:00 M. A minute later, I discovered it was a count down as the 2:00 became 1:59.
“Ready for lunch?” she asked me.
I was ready for a stiff drink, if I was honest.
“Can you fit two more of us in to eat?” rumbled a voice. I turned to look at the speaker. Two High Fae stood in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed as if they had come from a battle scene in a Lord of the Rings movie. Only without all the blood, gore, and sweat, thankfully.
Keeper bowed her head respectfully, reaching a hand out to tap me on the arm, obviously wanting me to do the same. Right, the rules at work again. Not wanting to be fed to a dragon or something for offending these two, I dipped my chin.
“I can, but surely you’d be more comfortable out of all that armor?” she replied.
This earned her a chuckle. “Yes, we would, eh, Ash?” the pale blond one asked his dark-haired companion.
“Probably,” Ash agreed. “So, this is the human we’ve heard so much about.”
Keeper threw me a warning glance. “Yes, he’s waiting for the master to return. He hasn’t been through orientation yet.”
Orientation, huh? She made it sound so normal, as if I’d taken a regular job at some ordinary company.
“I see, well, in that case, I’ll overlook his insolence.”
Cold gripped my heart. What had I done this time? I’d bowed my head and hadn’t said anything rude. Jiminy Cricket on a pogo stick, this was going to be more dangerous than the sandbox I’d taken up freelancing to get away from. When Willow, I refused to call him master or lord, showed up, I hoped he provided me with a printed booklet listing all of these gods damned rules. I rather fancied keeping my head and not being turned into a toad or something.
The other behemoth inclined his head. “Come on, Ash, let’s go drop our armor in the guard room and get cleaned up to eat.” He gave me a lazy wave as he left. “See you in a bit, Ghost.”
Great, they knew my name, but I didn’t know theirs. “Who was that?” I asked in a low voice once they were gone.
Keeper pursed her lips at me. “That was Captain Glade and Lieutenant Ash, head of our master’s private guard.”
“They seemed annoyed with me.”
“You were supposed to get down off your seat and bow, then keep your head and eyes down until given permission to look up,” she told me.
“But you didn’t,” I pointed out.
“I gave a bow suitable to my station,” she said primly. “They are in my domain and as housekeeper, I am equal in rank when it comes to domestic matters.”
And I was the bottom rung, I heard loud and clear. Shit, that meant I should have bowed to Keeper, then, too, didn’t it?
“You don’t have to bow to me unless anyone else is present,” she said as if reading my mind. “I’ve got better things to do than have the help bowing and scraping at me all the time.” She opened a metal box on the counter, pulling out a fresh loaf. “You had the last of the sliced bread with your breakfast. You can slice this up.” She took out a bread knife and a wooden chopping board and cut off two slices, demonstrating. “Keep the slices the same size,” she said, standing aside so I could take her place.
“Slice the whole thing?” I asked her, feeling dizzy. As she’d stepped away from the counter, the top of her head once more was barely level with the countertop. I’d looked. Her feet had been on the floor the whole time, too.
“Yes. They’ll want to take some sandwiches down for the men watching the doors.”
This was news to me. The first day, Willow didn’t have any guards that I could see. “I didn’t know he had any guards,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know,” was all she said.
