A faint metallic scent of old paper and dust filled her nose as she held her breath. The docket dragged heavy across the desk blotter. She gripped the twine, pulling at the knot with trembling fingers. The wax seal, crude as it was, held firm. “Cinder!” The roar from the doorway made her jump, sending a plume of dust into the afternoon light. Dash Vossen stood there, impeccably dressed in a charcoal vest and pin-striped trousers, looking as though he’d been carved from a block of ice. His hair, usually slicked back, had a few strands escaping, giving him a wild, untamed edge. He looked tired, his eyes shadowed, but the intensity was still there, like two chips of polished obsidian. “Mr. Vossen!” Mabli clapped her hands together, a practiced, cheerful bounce in her voice, hoping to mask the dossier she’d just shoved under a stack of ledgers. “Couldn’t sleep, could we? All that anticipation for my culinary delights, I imagine.” Dash ignored the cheek, striding further into the study. “Breakfast. Now. I require sustenance.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the desk. Mabli held her breath. He frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he peered at the ledger, then seemed to dismiss it. “And ensure it’s not… delicate. I feel as though a team of Clydesdales has trampled through my skull.” Mabli grinned, relieved. “A Clydesdale special, you say? Coming right up. Perhaps a grease-laden feast to scare off the demons?” She curtsied, a clumsy, exaggerated dip that made a faint rustling sound in her apron. “Your wish is my command, sir. Though I’d rather command a full battalion of chefs with actual proper ingredients.” Dash made a frustrated sound. “Just… cook. In the dining room. I wish to avoid the indignity of the kitchen this morning. And bring that… that contraption. The one that makes the delightful sizzling noise.” “The frying pan, sir?” Mabli stifled a laugh. “Right away, your highness of hunger.” In the grand, cavernous dining room, Mabli found herself setting up an impromptu cooking station on a polished mahogany side table. The Vossen Estate kitchen was a world away, a gleaming, copper-lined marvel, but Dash had insisted she cook *here*, under his watchful, slightly bloodshot gaze. He sat at the head of the impossibly long table, slumped in his chair, tapping a finger against the pristine white tablecloth. His butler, a gaunt man named Finch with a perpetually disapproving expression, stood stiffly by the door, occasionally twitching at the sound of sizzling fat. Mabli cracked a half-dozen eggs into her sizzling pan. The scent of rendering bacon and garlic butter filled the room, momentarily overpowering the faint, sterile smell of the estate. “Rough night, sir?” she chirped, flipping a perfect omelette with a flourish. “Perhaps a nice, strong mug of… I don’t know, arsenic? For a quick pick-me-up?” Dash’s head snapped up, his eyes suddenly sharp. “Cinder. Do not jest about such things.” “Oh, come now, Master Vossen,” Mabli retorted, sliding the omelette onto a plate. “A bit of dark humor never hurt anyone. Besides, it’s not like I’d actually *poison* you. I’d be out of a job. Who’d feed poor Kip?” She froze, realizing her slip. She had never mentioned Kip to Dash, not directly. His name was a sacred, dangerous secret. Dash, however, seemed to miss the implication entirely. He merely scowled. “Who is Kip?” Mabli recovered quickly, plastering on her most disarming smile. “Oh, just my imaginary pet badger. He gets quite peckish. Needs feeding, you see. Can’t risk losing my meal ticket.” She winked, piling thick-cut bacon onto a plate, the grease glistening. “Now, eat. You look like you’ve been fighting a particularly stubborn ghost.” Dash stared at the plate, a mountain of eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and a thick, grilled sausage. He picked up his fork, hesitated, then took a bite. A slow, almost imperceptible change came over his face. The rigid angle of his cheek slackened. He took another bite, then another, eating with an almost desperate hunger. The silence was broken only by the clinking of his fork and the gentle sizzle of Mabli’s cooking. “Better?” she asked, a genuine softness in her voice. She watched him, a strange, warm feeling spreading through her chest. It wasn’t just about Kip. There was something about seeing this man, so guarded and cold, find a sliver of comfort in her food that tugged at something deep inside her. Dash grunted, but it was less a dismissal and more a sound of contented chewing. “Passable,” he mumbled around a mouthful of potato. “For a scullery maid, that is.” Mabli laughed, a bright, uninhibited sound that echoed in the vast room. “High praise indeed! I’ll add it to my resume: ‘Mabli Cinder: Makes the world’s most miserable man slightly less miserable with bacon.’” A low sound, rough and unfamiliar, escaped Dash’s throat. It started as a rumble, then grew into a rusty, short burst of air. A laugh. A genuine, unguarded laugh. It was quickly stifled, replaced by his usual austere expression, but Mabli had heard it. A sharp burst of satisfaction sparked in her chest alongside an unbidden warmth. Just then, a footman entered, pushing a small, silver trolley. Mabli recognized him as one of the newer recruits, a scrawny young man with darting eyes named Elian. He approached Dash, carefully pouring steaming tea into a delicate porcelain cup. As he set the cup on the table, Mabli’s eyes caught on something small and dark on the silver tray, nestled beside the sugar tongs. A black iron feather. The emblem of the Iron Rookery. Her mind didn’t register. Her body moved. The scent of bitter almond, faint but undeniable, hit her. The world slowed. The footman, Elian, was subtly tilting the cup, the liquid swirling. The feather. The Rookery. Poison. Dash. Kip. Her past. A whirring sound like a forgotten engine ignited in her skull. Before Dash’s fingers could even brush the cup, before Elian could fully withdraw his hand, Mabli snatched the heavy meat cleaver from her makeshift cooking station. It felt natural, a perfect extension of her arm. Without a moment’s thought, without an ounce of hesitation, she hurled it. The cleaver spun end over end, a glinting arc of steel in the morning light. *THWACK!* It hit the wall beside Elian’s head with brutal force, pinning his sleeve, mere inches from his ear. The boy's pupils shrank to pinpricks as he stared at the vibrating blade. The porcelain cup of tea, untouched, trembled on the table. “Guards!” Finch, the butler, finally found his voice, a strangled shriek. “Assassin!” Two heavily armed guards, who seemed to materialize from the shadows, slammed into Elian, wrestling him to the ground. He struggled, a small, poisoned vial clattering from his hand and rolling across the polished floor. Dash, now fully alert, stared from the pinned footman to the untouched tea, his face a mask of shocked comprehension. Before anyone could speak, before Mabli could even process the sudden return of her lethal instincts, the grand double doors of the dining room burst open. Lady Arabella Prynne swept in, her face a mask of outrage, her silk gown rustling like an angry hornet’s nest. Behind her, jostling awkwardly, were two stern-faced officers of the Morvan City Watch. Arabella pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Mabli, her voice shrill and cutting. “There she is! The common harlot! It was her, Captain! She orchestrated this whole affair, I tell you! To get close to dear Dash and steal his fortune!”

The Garlic Butter Bodyguard