Ah the kitchen, a place of silver, cast iron, and such lovely aromas. Bacon sizzled, toast roasted, eggs sputtered… Oh, but sweet joy! That was not all. There was beef, there was chicken crisp or dry, there was ham… Oh and we didn’t forget salads, carrots, green beans. No sir ma’am or other, we didn’t forget a thing!<br/><br/>She spun a pancake into the air, while turning to crack another egg upon the edge of cast iron. Beautiful in motion, a dancer in play not in routine, and every motion expressive, exact, trained. Music, spun upon the edge of memory only, and the humming voice offered a delicacy only matched by the percolation of coffee.<br/><br/>This was not Snow White, the items did not sing for her as if she was Belle, but instead it was the woman who was intune with them. A sausage rolled only to hiss at a new side, a salad chopped with the deadly knowledge of knife work, and the oven tipped open with a ghastly heated breath to allow her a brief graceful bow to check on rolls.<br/><br/>Potatoes were mashed, gravy was stirred, and every moment every step was without flaw.<br/><br/>The woman’s face turned, only a flash of edges of her expression or features. A hooked nose that looked royal and hawkish. Hair a delicate gold that was spun long, and hid away the finer details of her face. A single eye, one that glinted a color that was not… right… turned towards her in that ballet step with one leg stretched out. Only now noticing the audience.<br/><br/>A leap, a bound, a half slide of slippered feet that did indeed hold the footwear to which such a display should be. Ballet slippers, pink, the tips worn and flat. Though never mind that, the lady now was before the newcomer, her head bowed so long strands of golden hair hide away all features. The woman was there just to serve, and with a voice to match such a task. It was meek, mouse-like, and quiet against the rattling orchestra that was now left attending behind her.<br/><br/>“My lady? What may we… I.. make for you?”<br/><br/>Not a movement, not a tick, or breath. Like a clockwork toy who had run out of steam, the image of the bowed woman was almost set in a mold. Not even a strand of her hair moved where a normal person breathing would have betrayed her.<br/><br/>There was simply nothing, nothing but that voice from lips that the woman hid below that mop of gold hair.<br/><br/>“Oi! Is that her? Daaarrrlllinnnggg…”<br/><br/>A voice from outside that was sweet as a bouquet of fresh cut roses, and one which had the softened kiss of a lover. The man strolled in, his lithe fashionable limbs draped in all the finest fabrics. Oh, it wasn’t blue, no.. It was purple, it was garish, it was fabulous and he damn well knew he dressed the part.<br/><br/>Black shoes clicked against the kitchen floor as with a flourish Mr Weaver entered the room. The smile on his face said he was in a good mood, and the half wink that seemed to be the cute little squint of his eye, made him look like he was up for anything.<br/><br/>“William didn’t do you justice!”<br/><br/>The tone sounded praising, a slight little wiggle of his fingers towards her as lips pursed in sour look.<br/><br/>“Or maybe he did… We<u><i>need</i></u>to fix that hair though.”<br/><br/>“Mistress Vivan is currently thinking about what food she wishes for Mr Weaver. Perhaps you could come back another time?”<br/><br/>The almost mechanical woman who had yet to breath spoke with the first time an alteration to her voice. Annoyance, clear dislike for the man of silks and fabrics. So much was the power there, there was a twitch, her right arm spasming in that still bowed position. A ticking sound in her throat, like that of a cog caught by another, and suddenly the strange woman was off in a swirl of her maids dress.<br/><br/>Like a whirlwind, she spun out across the kitchen, tending to everything in the elegant dance of strange madness. Pancakes flipped, waffles flopped onto plates, bacon, meats, cheeses, set into serving place. It was only a moment as she passed through, until at last again out of steam the girl bowed with precion before Mistress Vivian.<br/><br/>Arms had been crossed over his attire, and perhaps Vivian thought for sure it had been purple. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but at the moment it was trimmed silver, a black underlay. The colors of shielded displeasure.<br/><br/>“When you’re done dealing with this…” The man looked the other servant up and down before turning his nose up and away while speaking to the woman. “.. come see me. We… well… we will fix… all of this…” Little index finger wagging along the entire outline of the woman.<br/><br/>Yesterday, activity happened the moment the doors opened, today it was the same. Large lumbering brutes moving things, putting things up, taking things away. Conversations mixed with clatter of dishes. Mr Weaver who now took up a violin from possibly a table, or had it laying near by? Surely he did not just reach into his jacket and pluck it. Weavers are things of strings, yes, but only Spiders can produce such silks.<br/><br/>Like the woman of pots pans and clock work motions, it was not fighting to overpower the noise, but rather it stepped up beside it. It used the bangs of hammers as drums and heartbeats. It used the conversations and tenor and bass. Mr Weaver played in tune, among and within them. It was a soft melody, nothing rowdy to raise workers at this time. It was gentle, accepting, and warm.<br/><br/>Yes, it all happened in a moment, all of this. William was clearly a man who did things his way, and his way wasn’t waiting around. Workers bustled, woman danced, Weaver played, and suddenly Vivian was a part of it.<br/><br/>Her wrist was grabbed suddenly, and the man knew she would tense. So he curled his arm around her, to pull her to his pace. His strength was to easily move her, without crushing such a delicate bird to his breast. Without consent, knowledge or understanding… Vivan had become part of the dance inside of his arms.<br/><br/>Hair was pulled back a bit, dark, well maintained, but the length of it seemed to annoy the man as with free hand he brushed it back over his ear. Eyes that didn’t know if they wanted to be stormy or calm moved with only the image of her in their reflection, gentle smiles on his gentle lips.<br/><br/>The lips that lowered themselves beside her ear, so they could brush ever near, and the heat of his breath could be felt.<br/><br/>“And how are you today Dear Pet?”<br/><br/>Reaching out suddenly, spinning her like a top upon the thread of his own arm, and before where he had been behind her, now they were face to face. There was no<br/>Click Click Tap<br/>No bargaining.<br/>No threat.<br/>Merely his plans in action, and this morning meals dance.