Daphne was watching Jean practice his scales when the knocking started. It was hesitant at first, a series of light taps, but then a couple solid hits. Daphne opened the door, looking at what appeared to be a bag of groceries that had grown a pair of legs. The bag shot forward, a young man peeking around the side. His hair was cropped close, his uniform hat hiding what little there was. "Ah, Mademoiselle Defarge!"
She opened the door a little more. "Do I know you?"
"I'm Standartenführer Landa's secretary, you can call me Hermann." He proffered the bag. "These are for you."
Daphne took them, setting them on a side table. "Danke, Hermann."
"Sie sprechen Deutsch?"
"Sorry, I only know a few phrases." She switched back to French. "Yes, no, hello, the useful ones."
"You really should learn. German will be most useful in the future." Hermann smirked. "Also, the Colonel would like you to make strudel tonight."
Daphne wrinkled her brow. "I don't know how to make strudel."
"There is a recipe in the bag, Colonel Landa was unsure if you knew how." Hermann nodded. "I must go, I will see you later this week Mademoiselle." He turned around, walking away rather quickly. She closed the door, picking up the groceries.
"Maîtresse Defarge? Who was that?" Jean called down from the top of the stairs. "Was he a German?"
Daphne waved a hand. "Go back to your practice or I will tell your mother."
"He was a German! Wasn't he?"
"Jean!" She snapped. "Back to your scales or you may go home early!" With a groan he turned around, stalking back to his cello. The boy has some talent, but lacks discipline. Daphne thought to herself as she carried the groceries into the kitchen. Landa certainly hadn't skimped on the food. Fresh apples, onions, beef bones for stock, and dear god, was that sugar? She licked the tip of her finger and stuck it into the brown sack before popping it in her mouth. Oh, it was definitely sugar. I haven't had sugar since the war started. There was more, steaks wrapped in white paper, carrots and celery tied in bunches, a jar of cream. And underneath it all was a recipe card from a well known restaurant that catered to Germans.
With Jean busy she started on the meal. The bones she browned, mixing in a bit of the onion. Those then went into a pot of water, set for a low boil. An excellent start for a stock. She quickly read through the recipe card, then set to slicing apples. Those went to the side, next came the dough. She kneaded, and stretched, and kneaded again. Finally she lined a pan with the dough, sliding the apples and sugar filling in. She wrapped the top of the dough over it, then covered it with a towel.
"Easy as pie." She muttered.
In English.
Shit.
Shit.
Merde!
Thankfully, over Jean's scales he could't have heard her. She dug her fingernails into her palm and bit her tongue, counting slowly to ten. No English, ever. French. You are French. You are Daphne Defarge, you are French. She let the pressure off, hissing a little at the pain. Daphne switched from her shortcoming to preparing what else was going into dinner. Vegetables were chopped and diced, bones were slid into boiling water, and the scales continued, rising and falling, rising and falling.
Even from outside he could smell whatever she was making. It smelled wonderful, and hopefully tasted as good. He wasn't dressed in his full uniform, since techincally he was taking these lessons on his own time. So he had just worn a simple white shirt and a pair of black pants. He had just reached up to knock on the door when it swung open. A tired, haggard looking woman was standing there, holding the hand of a young boy. She started backward, tugging the boy with her.
"Excuse me, we were just leaving." The woman said as he walked in. Her hand pushed the boy behind her, and she edged by him. She slammed the door as she walked out, bustling the boy away. Landa smirked at her shock, turning to Daphne. She was standing at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the rail.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle Defarge." He nodded his head to her.
"To you as well, Colonel Landa."
"Oh, I'm off duty. Call me Hans."
"Then call me Daphne." She asked. He smiled, nodding. She shrugged. "Alright. Come upstairs." He couldn't help but admire the grace in her hand as she dragged it up the rail, fingers slowly slipping from the wood as she turned to the music room. He followed her into the room, sitting in the chair she gestured him to. She stood in front of him, looking down. "Hold out your arm."
He complied, allowing her to move it as she pleased. She pressed down on his elbow slightly, turning his palm over so that his fingers reached towards the ceiling. Her touch was firm, yet soft. He smirked at her. "What is this for?"
"Measuring." She grunted, turning to the shelves of instruments. Her fingers danced over their sides, tracing them like an ancient carving. Finally they snapped close over one, then another. She set them down on the desk, pulling out three violins. He watched as she lifted them, looked them over in the light. "Hold this." He complied, letting her wrap his fingers around the instrument. Then she took it away, bringing another. She seemed satisfied with that one, reaching over to adjust his fingers even more.
"You're sure of this one?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow. He looked over at the last one on the desk. "You don't want to try that one?"
A frown crossed her features. "No one uses that one but me."
"Sentimental value?"
"It was my grandfather's, yes." She replied, fetching it from the desk. It was battered, the wood dull, but she handled it as if it were a Stradivarius. Her fingers curled in a claw over the bridge, "Put your fingers like this."
He tried to comply, but evidently he didn't succeed. She pulled his fingers up so that they arched over the bridge, the intervals rather odd. "And this is?"
"So you can make the notes." She ran him through the names of the notes, the strings. He had to admit, the closeness would usually have made him grab the woman and either hit her or kiss her. But she was focused, keeping her eyes on the instrument. Then came the bow, again arching his fingers so that they would claw around the bow. He didn't even get to play the violin that night, merely move his fingers up and down and repeat the names of the notes. Once the sun had set she took the violin from his hands, placed it back in the case, and put it away.
His hands actually hurt, the fingers sore from the odd position. "That was different."
"Just the first day, next time you can play." She slapped her fingers together, as if cleaning off something. "How about dinner? I've got a stew going."
Ah, so that's what it was. "It sounds lovely." Goddamn, but he couldn't peg this woman. Her grandfather's violin was obviously a part of it, a clue to figure out exactly who she was. But he couldn't exactly get close to it without her noticing. Next time he'd ask her to show him something on the violin, then get a closer look at it. That would help, and he could look at her books, and maybe she would slip and say something. But for now, he really was hungry. So he followed her downstairs, and smelled the delicious stew that sat in the chipped china. It was savory, warm and filling.
"Good?" She asked over her bowl.
"Very, you are a fine cook." He toasted her with the glass of water she had provided.
She smirked. "Hard to be a good cook with no food."
"Don't you have a garden?"
"Can't exactly grow wheat in it." She snapped. "Flour's the hardest thing to come by."
Hans shrugged. "Isn't it better under German occupation? A nice bit of stability?"
"Stability?" She spat, her voice full of scorn. Then she seemed to realize her mistake. "I mean, yes it is very stable. Hardly any drunken fights since the champagne stopped flowing." Ah, so she was unsatisfied with the way the war was going. Not exactly unusual, but certainly something to hold over her head if he needed to. After the bowls had been cleaned, she pulled out the strudel.
"A masterpiece." He declared as she cut into it. She placed a large helping in front of him, a smaller piece for herself. "Do you have the cream I sent?"
"Oh, yes. That goes on strudel?" She said as she fetched it. "Is it a German thing?"
He smirked. "Austrian, where I'm from."
"Really?" She asked, popping her forkful into her mouth. "Do you miss it, Hans?"
He thought about it for a minute. He did, but then he didn't. He missed the mountain air, the clean snow that fell in the winter and the flowers that came in the spring. But he loved the chase, the thrill of the hunt that came in France. So he shrugged. "At times." The silence settled around them, the only noise the clink of silverware against china. Eventually, the strudel was gone, the cream scraped from the bowl.
He stood, bowing to her quickly. He lifted her hand to his lips, "Until next time, Daphne."