Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, drumming his fingers together. He'd just sat through a series of tedious interviews with potential replacements for his P.A. All had seemed eager to please and able-minded enough, passing the tests and simulations he'd put them through with varying degrees of competence. It wasn't until this last one that he'd found someone that really stuck out. He'd just dismissed the girl, remarking he had a fair number left to see when she'd given him the most sincere look of pity, rolling her eyes and snarling, "Ugh, humans!" That certainly got his attention. An evil smirk crept across his face and his eyes glinted sharply. He bared his teeth with a short exhalation which may have been a laugh.

"When can you start?"

The girl gasped in surprise, bringing a hand to her mouth, looking as though he'd just given her the pet pony she'd wanted since she was seven. Quickly, she pulled herself together. "Immediately, sir. Thank you, sir."

Mycroft squinted at her curiously. For a second there, it almost sounded as though she'd begun an sh-sound before addressing him as "sir". He hadn't detected a speech impediment in her interview. That would have immediately disqualified her. Anyone seen by or around him in such a position must have perfect enunciation. His almost amiable expression dissolved into a scowl of warning, and the young woman could see why he had the reputation for being...intimidating. "Don't disappoint me. Now. There are only one or two little issues with your credentials. First of all, your name-"

"Jen," she told him, "Spelled just like it sounds, nothing fancy."

He scowled, circling her like a vulture. "No. From now on, your name is Vesta. Understand? I cannot and will not be followed around by someone with a name as common as that. You represent me, do you understand? You are to be my right arm. I will not have a right arm with a name trotted out by every other miserable urchin on the street! What is your name?"

She paused, staring at him with wide eyes. She hadn't expected this! "Vesta?"

"The Roman goddess of fire," he purred. "Do live up to it. Another thing: are all of your clothes like this?"

Jen, newly named Vesta, looked at what she had on. A simple black skirt, just above the knee, with a white blouse and pink silk scarf thrown in for colour. The outfit was far from new, but it still held up over the years, she thought. "Do you mean identical?"

"I mean in tatters. I wouldn't have my shoes shined with these rags. This particular outfit," he snidely sneered, "is obviously approximately eight years old, has been washed to threads, and yet you save it for special occasions when you wish to look smart. I did not hire you for your fashion sense, but I shudder to imagine the rest of your wardrobe." Vesta flushed, unable to think of anything to say to this. "Give me your measurements. I will see you are suitably attired before the day is out." He swooped in an inch away from her face, muttering, "Green eyes, I like that. No black on you, it would wash you out. Hmm..." Mycroft then goes to a drawer in his desk and pulls out a tailor's tape measure. "Lift up your arms," he commanded. His new personal assistant looked shocked, but obeyed. He took her measurements quickly and clinically, not looking the least bit embarrassed by doing this. When Mycroft measured her waist, he clicked his tongue, muttering that she was too skinny. He wrote it down in a small leather-bound notepad along with her height, skin tone, and color of her eyes. He snapped a picture of her and sent that, as well as her other information, to a number of reputable clothing shops in London. All the while, he continued his lecture, "Remember you represent me, we both have an image to uphold. I won't be taken seriously if-"

"If you're seen followed around by a common gutter brat?"

Mycroft smiled at her genuinely, pointing his umbrella at her, "I knew you'd catch on. If you have any possessions you wish to keep for sentimental reasons, gather them quickly and efficiently and return. I'll order you a cab. Everything else, like your old life, your name, your personal contacts, must be left behind. Your needs will be seen to. You needn't worry. And here," he handed her a Blackberry. "All necessary contacts are saved. My sources tell me your parents died fairly recently."

Vesta's eyes looked steely and unaffected, "Yes, sh-sir." She cringed inwardly, dreading his sympathy before it was even offered. People died, it was a fact of life. She wished more people could understand that and stop offering her unneeded, insincere consolation.

"Good. That makes it nice and tidy, doesn't it?"

She gave a sharp laugh, having never known someone who had seen it that way before. It had been a blessing, really. Neither of her parents wanted to live past their useful years. Dying suddenly in a car crash beat wasting away in a nursing home. Her reasoning was considered morbid by her peers, so to hear her new employer see the good in what others would deem tragic loss, brought him up in her opinion. They felt...similar. Vesta returned his crocodile smile with a good feeling about her new place.

At her second, more pronounced apparent lateral lisp, Mycroft gave her another odd look. Then, it hit him. He looked at her resume again. In addition to her history of secretarial work, he saw she had gone to culinary school and had a few years' worth of restaurant experience. The knee-jerk utterance of "Yes, chef. No, chef," was a hard habit to break. And was the highest token of admiration and respect that such a person could give another. He would almost put it on par with military training, the rigours, the discipline. He looked forward to working with her.

"That will be all. Tell the others to go away. Humans," he huffed with a distasteful expression.

Vesta nodded, and went out into the foyer, where she sent the remaining applicants to slink away dejectedly. She skipped down the stone steps and hopped into the cab that was waiting for her. They just pulled away from the house when her new phone rang. Her heart jumped as she answered it.

"Hello?"

"I expect you back here in precisely two hours. I've accounted the expected travel time, including stop lights and traffic of this time of day, as well as the time it ought to take you to gather your things. I've already sent people to begin the job for you. It shan't take you long once you arrive. Also, I've made arrangements for your cat."

"My cat?!"

"Yes, I've found quite a good home for him, actually. No need to thank me. I simply would not allow the creature in my home." He practically heard her thoughts on this, In his...home? "Yes, you will be moving in here. I shall require you at any hour of my choosing, so it is only practical that we live under the same roof."

"Uh, yes, sir. Very...convenient." The cab pulled to a stop and she went up the stairs to gather her possessions. Sure enough, she found a trio of ominous-looking men in black suits sifting through her things. The donation bins filled with her clothes and shoes made it all the more clear that she was leaving her old life behind.

She went to the kitchen and dug out a rolled-up black canvas case. Spreading it on the counter, she slid in her best set of knives, garnishing tools, and utensils. From her spice cabinet, she collected her treasured array of good seasonings and finishing salts. She didn't expect that he would require her to cook as part of her job, but she couldn't bear to part with them. Looking in her bedroom, she found that all of her clothes had been discarded. She was never one to take pictures, so there weren't any of those to deal with, she only felt guilty about leaving her bedstead behind. It had been a gift, and had gone with her wherever she'd moved. She ducked into her closet and removed a childhood treasure: a stuffed animal of dubious species that had gone everywhere she had gone in the past thirty years. Also, a large pink and purple checked quilt. Vesta had to hand it to her new boss's efficiency. She wondered about the wardrobe he had planned for her. What would be her required work clothes, what would she be allowed to wear on her own time? Would she even get days off, living with him like that? For some reason, the thought made her blush. She picked out a few comfortable novelty t-shirts and put them in the box she's started. She made one last look around, declaring, "Donate the rest."

Vesta descended the stairs and returned to the waiting cab with her one box. When she entered her boss's home—she couldn't quite think of it as her home yet—she was met by a very surprised-looking Mycroft Holmes.

"You're back early," he remarked. His gaze drifted down to the box she was carrying. "That's all?"

"You told me to be as efficient as possible, and to only take what was irreplaceable."

"Yes, well done. Here, look at this. Not a bad likeness, I'd say," Mycroft drawled, handing her his phone. It was open to a news story about a woman who died from gas poisoning just that morning. The victim looked remarkably like... "Congratulations, you're dead. That was easy enough, wasn't it? My brother and his team really outdid themselves, and on short notice, too. Helps to have a reliable contact in the morgue." He plucked his phone back out of her grasp, leaving her to reel at how much has happened in the space of a few hours.

"Follow me," Mycroft commanded, "I'll show you which rooms you are to go into and which rooms you are to leave alone." He led her back into his office. "Don't think you've landed yourself a cushy office desk job, the position may not involve much legwork, but the importance of the job and its what it entails cannot be overstated. I did you the favor of printing out a sample of my previous assistant's typical agenda. It will alter from day to day, of course, but it will suffice as a rough estimate. We'll see if we can break you in with something fun," he chuckled to himself.

Vesta took in his leering, posturing attitude with a smile, feeling like she'd certainly landed on her feet here. This was someone she could get on with. She could tell that beneath his cold and forbidding exterior, he wasn't all bad. She already liked his sense of humour: dry, dark, not altogether appropriate for most people.

They continued the grand tour of the house through the dining room. Vesta would be expected to join him for meals which he would treat as regular briefings. Keeping the country running from the comfort of his own home. On their occasional days off, she may do as she wished, but with the understanding that she was technically on call 24/7/365.

"You see, it's not all that difficult," he explained, strolling casually, twirling his umbrella as he went. It's all a matter of proper communication."

Vesta grinned, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the impressive figure her boss struck. "Sounds like it. All we need is enough people, product, and time. Just like working Valentine's Day."

"Ah, yes. You're no stranger to stress on the job, then. Perfect. And your mise?"

"Always en place," she answered with a grin. They tittered together, having made an office joke in butchered French. "I do speak a little French, actually, if that helps. I read it better."

"Well, I'm sure it won't be a detriment, at any stretch. Shows you're versatile, that's good." He pointed up the stairs with his umbrella, "Up this way, to the right," he told her, indicating she go up ahead of him. Mycroft fell behind, taking out his pocket watch, drawing a thumb over a clear purple amethyst on its silver fob. He sighed heavily. "So sorry," he whispered to no one, before putting it back in his pocket and climbing the stairs to catch up. The chain drooped out of his pocket as he walked, the sunlight caught an inscription around the jewel, glinting sharply: Anthea 2009-2014.

Once he caught up, Mycroft directed her down the hall. "This will be your room." He led her in, opening the walk-in closet doors that were already filled with her new wardrobe. Vesta stared all around her, amazed! The carpet was so plush she could feel herself sink into it, the bed was huge and made up with crisp white sheets and thick down blankets. All around her, rich mahogany shone in the setting sun. There was a vanity with a soft-seated stool, already equipped with combs, brushes, a makeup palette, and other preening implements.

"I've taken the liberty of having it prepared for you, but if you should require anything else, feel free to ask someone and it will be taken care of. Well. What do you think?"

Vesta was just peering into the closet, flicking through silk-padded hangers. There were classic business suits for ordinary work days, formal dresses for state affairs, as well as comfortable-looking lounge wear for her down time. There were shoes and purses to match practically every outfit. She slid open cedar drawers and found that her boss had even elected to purchase nightwear and underthings of varying description. A variety of silk, cotton, and fleece dressing gowns hung on brass hooks on the far side of the wardrobe.

Mycroft flicked his umbrella at her, pointing to her feet. "I could tell your shoe size at a glance, I'd advise to take the heels for a test-drive before you wear them anywhere if you're not used to them. They've all been implanted with arch-support so they shouldn't cause you too much discomfort."

It was so much more than she'd ever expected. It was a full minute before Vesta could even find her voice. "Thank you," she said, although she felt that to be a gross understatement.

"Change. Now. Keep the scarf, though, that's...actually quite charming. The rest will be disposed of. All of it." He stalked up to her, nose to prominent nose, drawing a slender finger along the material around her neck with a grin. Vesta shivered. As he sauntered out, he swung his umbrella carelessly, "Some of the clothes may feel a bit loose to begin with, but you're too skinny. That will be attended to. From the look of you, I'd think you didn't know where your next meal was coming from. Don't worry, you'll be healthy-looking in no time. I'll leave you to get situated; be downstairs by seven thirty. I'm afraid I'm rigidly punctual about mealtimes. Be ready to take notes."

Vesta shut the door, gazing all around her again. She'd never even imagined a room as rich as this! On the nightstand sat a sleek black tablet in a soft burgundy cover. She opened it and turned it on, and found he'd loaded it with a variety of books and music, several gigabytes worth of both. She selected a playlist of film scores to relax to. She had a little over an hour to herself and she was keen to make the most of it. She'd never imagined actually getting this job, even less did she imagine all that it would entail. Her new boss struck her as someone she could understand, someone she could work for and enjoy his company. They seemed to have similar sensibilities. That went a long way in determining their working relationship. Still, she had to admit that there was something confining about her situation. Given a new name, a new life, right down to her underwear! She didn't miss the way he'd commanded "all of it." Was this how he demonstrated control over her? To remind her that all she had in the world came from him now? Oddly, that thought made her blush with the strangest sensation of magnetism.

Vesta stripped off her old clothes, tossing them aside, except for the scarf, which she kept on. There had been that hint of a command that she keep it on for now. She inspected the dresser, where there was a line of different body sprays and perfumes for her to choose from. She spritzed herself over with a white lily mist, which was instantly refreshing. Not sure what she was expected to wear, Vesta selected a light linen suit. Much dressier than anything she'd owned, but in her new life she supposed it wouldn't be seen as anything too special. The new clothes were a comfortable fit, although her boss was right, they felt about a size too large. She remembered his none-too-veiled promise to plump her up just a bit to make her acceptable. Inspecting her figure in the full-length mirror, she had to agree with him. She wasn't starving to death, but another ten pounds would look good on her. She thought of him with an ironic smile. He was one to talk about being too skinny.

The pink of her scarf was a perfect contrast to the summery green suit she put on. Once dressed, she attended to her hair. Normally, she combed through it while it was still wet from the shower and tucked it in either a ponytail or held it back with a headband. In a drawer in the vanity, she found a set of rollers. Once they were heated up, she wrapped sections of her hair in it to lend control to her natural waves. While she waited for them to set, Vesta picked a book on her tablet and started to read. She had a timer set so she wouldn't forget and burn her hair off. Already, her old life felt far away and long ago. It was starting to feel as though she'd always been here. The timer dinged, and the rollers came out. Combing through the curls gave a neat bounce to them, and she pinned it back away from her face with rhinestone-studded barrettes. Next, she examined the makeup. Ordinarily, she didn't wear it unless it was a very special occasion, but she found her fingers reaching for the brushes and adding touches of color here and there. Pale green to accent her eyes, Vesta recalled him mentioning he liked her eyes; a soft smudge of rouge to bring out the natural pink in her cheeks. She felt as though she was getting into costume, into character, as she disappeared into her new life. She dabbed on lipstick, imagining her boss's hands on her waist again with an odd twinge in her stomach.

She checked the clock, 7:20. Just enough time to get downstairs. On the dresser sat her Blackberry and a large leather-bound notepad with a silver pencil attached to it. She took both of them with her, wanting to be prepared for whatever would transpire this evening. Slipping into a pair of white kitten heels, she scurried down the stairs and into the dining room, entering just as Mycroft sat down.

Instinctively, he sprang to his feet at the sight of her, having had it drilled in him from the time he was a child that one always rose for a lady. He stared. Was this the same bedraggled ragamuffin he'd just taken into his employ? For a ludicrous second, he thought of Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn in similar places.

He cleared his throat and pulled a chair out for her. "So, you are civilised after all," Mycroft observed as she sat across from him. He had a thick portfolio next to his seat. This was obviously about bringing her up to speed with the world at large.

Dinner, as well as the briefing, was elaborate, yet both were delivered in easily digestible courses. One led seamlessly into the next, until Vesta was starting to feel well up to speed with Mycroft's role in this secret world, as well as her own. Through it all, Vesta found herself treated to a meal the like of which she hadn't seen since her days in chef's whites. She'd listened attentively, taking notes on everything her employer told her, eager to live up to such an illustrious and important job. Mycroft was just in the middle of explaining the number of foreign dignitaries with whom she would be in regular contact, when he saw his new P.A.'s eyes glaze over and roll back in her head with a rather unladylike moan. She sat there with her eyes closed and her head tilted slightly back, holding up one finger to signal a time-out. Strangely enough, he found himself obeying, stopping his lecture until she had recovered.

"Finished?" he asked coyly with a mocking smirk.

"Oh, my god, you have got to try that!" Vesta pointed at her boss's plate with her fork, forgetting her place completely amid her ecstasy. A petit filet mignon garnished with crab and bearnaise sauce sat untouched. She'd noticed he barely tasted any of the courses his staff had brought out. As if he was only eating enough to keep himself alive and was not properly enjoying any of it. The newcomer, on the other hand, had cleaned her plate with each course, not requiring any urging on her boss's part to improve her figure.

Mycroft's lips curled in a serpentine grin. "Very well, since it comes so recommended." He cut off a small bite-sized piece, staring at his assistant's flushed cheeks. She nodded encouragingly with a bright, giddy grin. He popped it into his mouth and paused with a thoughtful expression. He nodded as he swallowed it, "You're right, very good." He looked up at her again with a scowl. "What is it now?"

She sat there, staring at her plate, hugging herself for comfort. "I used to cook like this. I haven't in so long." Her bright expression faded until she looked like she was about to cry. It was like she was experiencing a suppressed memory, a painful flashback. Indifferent to the newcomer's distress, a servant cleared her empty plate and brought out the cheese and fruit course. Melting d'anjou pears with mont chevre in puff pastry, drizzled with honey and balsamic vinegar, garnished with candied walnuts and served with a golden Clavelin made the floodgates burst open.

This definitely was more than Mycroft could take. He had no idea what the woman was crying for, and he could think of nothing that would make her stop. He only hoped this would not be a regular thing at dinner. He paid his cheese course much more attention than he had the previous ones, largely for the sake of ignoring the sobbing, sniffling woman sitting across from him. Finally, he tossed down his fork and stood, stalking out to the foyer. He snatched up a package that had come with the rest of Vesta's clothes but had gotten misplaced after delivery. He tore it open and pulled out a parcel of embroidered lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. He stalked back to her seat and thrust one into her hand before perching daintily back in his chair. It had a most peculiar effect: Vesta instantly stopped crying. She stopped her pathetic self-comforting attempt as well. She unfolded the white silk square, staring at it, then at the man who gave it to her.

"Thank you. It's beautiful."

"Please use it, you're dribbling all over the table," he ordered brusquely.

Obediently, Vesta dabbed away her tears, careful not to smudge her makeup. She gave her employer a genuine smile of gratitude. "I've never owned anything so pretty. You've given me such nice things. Thank you."

Mycroft elected not to respond to that. He felt that thanks was wholly unnecessary and only served to make his new personal assistant look like a sniveling peasant. He did not aim to present himself as some "benevolent master" figure. "Yes, fine," was all he muttered.

When this course was cleared, Vesta was quick to note that only she was brought a dessert. Mycroft didn't seem to be disturbed by this, he was still nose-deep in his folder of world-domination. Vesta spooned up a light and airy chocolate mousse accompanied by a small glass of port.

"Sir? Why didn't you get one?"

Mycroft smirked, getting it in his head to test the girl further. "Well, I didn't finish my meat, so I can't have any pudding," he replied crisply. His flatly-delivered joke was met with a shriek of laughter, making his grin creep higher. "Classically trained, I see."

"Oh, yes, sir. Raised right. My dad taught me well."

"Yes, well," Mycroft lifted his cordial glass and drawled, "To your estimable father. Wouldn't want a Pink Floyd reference to go to waste." And he drained it in one sip. There, keep things friendly. Make her comfortable before she starts crying again. "If you like, I'm sure the kitchen staff wouldn't object if you decided to poke around."

At that suggestion, she'd forgotten she'd ever heard a word against the man before her. True, while most people didn't realize the extent of his position, he had a reputation for his stark and forbidding nature. "Oh, sir! Yes, I'd love to!"

"Now, you can't expect every day to be this pleasant. Tomorrow, we go to work. I have high expectations of you and it is imperative that you perform your duties admirably." He rose, stretching his legs before disappearing into his office again.

"Yes, of course. Thank you. I could just hug you," Vesta gasped.

"Don't. Go on, just don't let them trick you into washing dishes. Good night."

Happily, she clicked down the hall to the kitchen and what she encountered was music to her ears. Shouting, swearing, clanging, banging, that particular whooshing noise of a flame gone out of control... "Oh! It's just like home!"

With that exclamation, the cooks stopped what they were doing and turned to face the intruder. The sous-chef actually sprang to attention at the sight of their boss's representative. Here stood the smartly-dressed woman who had been moved to tears by their elaborate dinner. Word of her had already trickled back to them.

"Evening, ma'am," the head chef greeted her. "Need something? Or did you just want to help deck-brush?"

"That depends, do you use wash 'n walk, or just straight quat?" Hearing an apparent lady speak their language got a good laugh all around. "Okay, serious question. What sort of house did I just walk into? Wusthof, Henkel, or Global?"

"I use Wusthof knives, my sous uses Globals," the chef answered.

"Marvelous! I have a set of Wusthofs myself. Some as a graduation present, some for Christmas."

"Looks like we have an apprentice," the chef remarked, wiping his hands on his apron. "If Mr. Holmes gives you a chance for a breather, you should come down here and show us what you can do. See if you're all talk."

"I'd like that. Looks like I've got an early wake-up call tomorrow, though, so I'd better turn in. See you later, though!"

She returned to the main part of the house and traipsed up the stairs to her room. There, on her bed, she found her notes she took over dinner as well as the rest of the handkerchiefs that Mycroft had given her. Vesta slipped out of her clothes and tossed them into the hamper, slid a silk nightgown over her head and chose the coordinating dressing gown before going to investigate her bathroom. Mycroft's chambers were in the far other corridor, so she knew that she had one to herself. Down in the office, Mr. Holmes heard her delighted squeal and grumbled to himself about hiring someone so easy to please, in that she seemed perfectly delighted with everything. Still, he considered her previous circumstances, thinking of how his brother chose to live as an example. She'll get used to it. The glitter will wear off in time.

Vesta looked around and around at the spacious bathroom. "You could sleep four people in here!" She gasped aloud. "Twice that many if they all knew each other!" She wondered if there were rules about when she was allowed to run water for a long period of time. Not even thinking that it sounded ridiculous, she sent her employer a text.

Am I allowed to draw a bath?

Mycroft read her query with an evil grin. "Well, she asked. Not her fault if she chooses to walk right into this." Yes, I advise you do. -MH

She pouted a bit at the screen, wondering what to make of his "advice." She gave herself a whiff and shrugged, and began filling the enormous tub. There were several varieties of soaps, scrubs, and bubble baths, as well as a soft bath pillow draped inside the tub. Pinning the rest of her hair up so it wouldn't get wet, Vesta sank luxuriously into the hot water. She had never seen a bathtub this big before. She wasn't tall by any stretch, but she'd always had to bend her knees to lie back in her old tub. Since it was so late, and she'd had her share of wine at dinner, she thought it would be for the best to keep it short. She'd make it a bubble bath later on in the week.

Twenty minutes later, just as Mycroft was coming up to bed, Vesta emerged from her bathroom. He could actually see steam rising from her body.

"Be downstairs at seven o'clock sharp tomorrow," he ordered shortly before going in his room.

Knowing she had to be up early, and that she had a full day ahead of her, Vesta got right into bed and turned off the lights. As soon as she lay down, however, she found her mind in a whirl over all that had happened to her that day. Equal parts excited and frightened, with a touch of uneasiness about sleeping in a strange place, she tossed and turned for a few hours before finally falling asleep well after midnight.