I grind a handful of beans and scoop some into the funnel-like container. The two parts screwed back together, I place it on the boiling plate. "Mocha pot type three detected," says the kitchen automatron in a rich, male voice and again I nearly jump. "Heat adjusted for optimum brewing."
Darcy is still sipping on her first demitasse of coffee but on her third biscotto while I have had only one biscotto but now on my second demitasse of coffee. I find renewed interest in the original breakfast set out for me and, working slowly at it, I nibble my way through the whole plate.
"So, what do you think of real coffee?" I ask Darcy, stretching.
"Neah," says Darcy, waving her hand to indicate her so-so opinion of it. "I would not throw it out in disgust but I wouldn't go crawling across the desert for it either. It actually smells better than it tastes. But these biscotti, as you call them, I could eat a dozen of these."
"You'll get fat doing that," I tell her, grinning mischievously and then stretching again add, "I guess we should clean up then get washed and properly dressed."
"Yeah, I guess so," agrees Darcy but now she is grinning mischievously as she takes a handful of crumbs from the table and deliberately drops them on the floor. I hear and then see a row of little doors along the baseboards snap open and an army of little black things pour out of them. For a moment, I think that it is a re-invasion of those horrid black beetles and cringe but then I see them swarm around the crumbs Darcy has just dropped on the floor brushing them into themselves with little mechanical mandible-like projections in their fronts all the while squeaking and chittering as if to say, "How dare you! How dare you make this mess! Do you think I have nothing better to do than to clean up after the likes of you all day?" Then, the task of cleaning up done, they all file back into their little cubbyholes and in unison the doors all snap shut with a sharp, "Humph!"
"They are like Nell on one of her better days," I laugh.
Darcy is about to reply when the voice of the auto-nanny breaks in. "Storm-Witch child Stormy requires adult supervision," states Nanny in a gentle voice.
"Nanny," enunciates Darcy carefully, "what is the nature of the urgency?"
"No urgency," replies Nanny, "however, Storm-Witch child Stormy has been without direct adult supervision for one hour."
We leave the kitchen and float into the playroom where Stormy is playing happily amongst a mountain of plush toys. She has a blue and white plush bunny in one hand and a purple duck in the other and is playing a child's favourite game of banging two things together while burbling softly to herself. Since the ordeal in the arboretum, Stormy's hair has grown back long enough to cut. Her hair remains its usual blue-black colour but without the yellow lightning bolt streaks on either side and, strangely enough, it has not grown back frizzy but straight. I have cut it to just chin level and trimmed her bangs to mid-forehead. Now she look disturbingly like a little Witch-wannabe we once had to deal with on Solaria name Chimera but, thankfully, without Chimera's perpetually bitchy, spoiled brat expression which drives anyone to wanting to smack her within two seconds. Instead, Stormy has the face of pretty little girl with lovely blue eyes and a sweet smile yet even the girlish face and the loosely fitting dress cannot hide the fact that Stormy is really a young woman at her peak.
Kneeling down to Stormy's level on the floor, I cup her chin and lift up her face. "Hello, sweety", I coo to her. "How are you doing this morning? Is there anything we have to do for you?" I ask sniffing and checking her bottom.
"Oh, puh-leez," groans Darcy, rolling up her eyes. "You sound like Alysoun clucking over her latest brood of chicks or, worse, like that all sugar-and-spice Flora. Gag!" and makes a big production of putting her finger in her mouth and making retching sounds.
"Shut-up, Darcy," I say sweetly so as not to agitate Stormy.
"Well," continues Darcy, acting as if she didn't hear me, "you accuse me of going all domestic now you should see and hear yourself. What's next? Cute little tweeting birdies circling your head as sweet flowers spring up at your feet?"
"Darcy," I growl, "you are treading close to death!" But then I look up and see the wicked and mischievous look on her face. "Get out of here, you brat," I laugh as Darcy's expression becomes even more mischievous.
Meanwhile, Stormy is tugging at my sleeve and holding up the purple plush duck for me to admire. "Yes, nice ducky," I tell her and then I almost do gag realizing what I have just said. Then, while Stormy is still holding this toy in front of me, it becomes animated, blinks at me, smiles and in a disgusting little ducky voice quacks, "Mammy!" I'm immobilized and in shock for a moment until I hear Darcy giggle. I grab the closest thing to me and throw it. I watch the plushy pass through the image of Darcy standing beside me and harmlessly hit the wall behind it. "Cuckoo!" I hear Darcy's voice behind me and turn around to see her head sticking through the doorway. "Cuckoo!" says Darcy again and ducks out just as another toy goes sailing across the room. Then Stormy gets into it, squealing and laughing while she too throws toys across the room as if Darcy and I have been putting on this little charade entirely for her amusement. "Well," I think to myself, "at least Darcy is being more like herself and seems to be over her funk over being forced to break up with Riven."
I look down into Stormy's cheerful little face with its infectious smile and laugh. "Maybe (gag!) Darcy's right, Stormy," I whisper very quietly to her and kiss her cheek, "maybe I have gone domestic and you might make a mother out of me yet."
"Burble goo!" replies Stormy and goes back to her little game of banging two toys together.
Another quick check and I am satisfied that nothing requires doing. "Nanny," I say, imitating Darcy's careful enunciation, "what is Stormy's schedule?"
"Storm-Witch child Stormy will require feeding in one-half hour and bathing in one hour," replies Nanny.
I pick up the scattered toys and place them all at Stormy's feet and, seeing that all is well, I exit the playroom. I find Darcy lounging stretched out on one of the sofas wearing her little square-cut glasses and pretending to be reading a magazine taken from the coffee table beside it. She says nothing but a mischievous smirk still plays at the corner of her lips. She has changed into one of the simple disposable dresses that we have become accustomed to wearing which by its simplicity flatters the lines of her figure, sets off her mysterious jade-green eyes and heightens that aura of dusky, sultry seductiveness that is uniquely hers. Being kith and kin aside and despite at times being a pest, I am reminded again why else I keep her around.