Chapter 25b


Coincidentally enough, it had been the second maid that Mr. S asked: the one person in the entire castle who might have been expected to know where Willow Schnee was.

It was a good thing, too, Mr. S thought, as the Second Maid guided them through the back alleys and private sections of the castle, because he needed to demand money from the woman, stat.

The Second Maid seemed deaf to his needs, however; and, as he followed, he began to notice the many unnecessary detours into the servants quarters she seemed to be treating them too.

What he didn't notice, was the sprinting rush of activity every servant not in his line of sight had taken to. Maids and butlers alike rushed to remove everything in the vicinity that could be used as a weapon or otherwise be quickly converted into one. And, let it never be said the Schnee house staff were unprofessional, for, just as the Second Maid guided Mr. S and Schwarz around the last corner, a pair of younger maids managed to turn behind the far corner, carrying between them an antique vase, as well as the faux-marble stand it had been presented upon.

Mr. S, oblivious of everything except the sudden sparsity and child-safeness of his surroundings, walked cheerfully on towards the gold-bedecked set of steel-silvered doors which guarded his wife's bedchambers.

On the varnish of the doors, made out in streaks of precious metals, was a depiction of a willow tree and a cracked moon.

Mr. S knocked.

At his second rap, he heard the click of very rapid foot-steps retreating around the far corner. Looking to his side, the maid had disappeared, and Schwarz seemed to be standing several paces further back than usual as well.

Hm…

He waited for the customary fifteen seconds, and then knocked again.

And again…

And again…

And, just as he was starting his fifth set of knocks, the door suddenly opened away from him, and revealed the Head Maid - Nannen - standing on the other side.

Still dressed in her customary, yellow, dress Mr. S recognized her immediately from the staff files.

He also recognized that she wasn't his wife.

"Yes?" Nannen asked, disinterested.

"I'm looking for my wife. Is she here?"

"She's here," she answered. And, somehow, Mr. S felt like that was meant as an attack.

"May I see her?" He asked, after several moments silence made clear to him that the woman wouldn't be volunteering herself to the task.

"Apologies, Sir," the maid curseyed with dispassionate tradition; "But, I'm afraid there are only so many demons The Lady Schnee can stand to face in one day. Besides, it would hardly be proper for a personage of the Schnee family to be consorting with such a..." she looked up and down at him… "picayune individual."

Mr. S… wasn't quite sure how to feel about that.

"I'm afraid it's a rather important matter that brings me here," Mr. S said, unfazed. "So I will be needing to speak with her."

Seeing that he hadn't taken the opportunity to fight, and struggling with herself, Nannen grit her teeth, and, as her duty demanded, greeted him indoors.

The doorway led into a personal level much like the one Mr. S inhabited, and it afforded Mr. S a short moment to think as he traversed the felt-lined halls.

You see, despite the clear and obvious virtue in his aim, he still found himself getting nervous and prone to planning. What would be the best way to ask her, he thought, running multitudes of opening statements through his head.

But then, he recalled himself back to reality. He was definitely overthinking it.

Things like this shouldn't be left to impersonal propositioning.

He would just walk in, explain the situation, and propose his solution. Simple as that.


"Fuck off." The words came with dejected apathy.

Mrs. Schnee was sitting in a high-backed chair, face down on her vanity desk.

Now, that response had come as a surprise to Mr. S, not least of which because he hadn't even said anything yet.

Clearly, his plan would need rethinking. Because he was only at the "just walk in" part of it, and it had already fallen apart.

"Good Morning, Willow," he replied, trying not to sound disconcerted.

"I said, fuck off," she said, with an undercurrent of pain to her words as she sat up, lifting her white mess of hair off the vanity desk where it had previously been splayed about her head. "Why aren't you gone yet?" she looked briefly at him before turning aside to face the mirror, donning her lipstick for lack of anything else to keep her busy.

The answer to that was obvious. Mr. S needed her to stop him from being fired and, as a consequence, fucking off.

So, quickly, he rethought his plan of coming in to immediately ask for favors and instead opted for a subtler approach.

"I… was thinking we could have dinner together tonight, as a family. And, I wanted to invite you."

The words were heartfelt, and Willow, when she turned to look at him, actually paused for a brief moment before she burst into wild laughter.

"Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

"Uh-"

"Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

"So-"

"Hahahahahahaha!"

"I take it that's a no?" Mr. S managed."

"Hahahahahaha... Fuck off!" Willow said, managing the words in a jolly tone of voice.


Mr. S once again sat at the head of a dinner table, with very little idea as to what he should do.

To his right, Ruby, Yang, Blake and Weiss sat in a row. Unsurprisingly, with Weiss sitting furthest from him.

At his left hand was his son, Whitley. And, to Whitley's left, Schwarz ate somehow very neatly, even as she simultaneously worked at her tablet.

Mr. S was dismayed to see Schwarz working. Clearly, the computer discipline had broken down in this household if people were openly using tablets at the dinner table.

And, with that dismay, came a flood of bad tidings, as Mr. S sat over his stew, stewing over his recent misfortunes.

The first of which was the fact that he couldn't even eat his stew. Why? Because there were people trying to poison him! And at least one of them was a traitor in the walls.

"Oh, you've hardly touched your meal, Mr. Schnee!" The chef commented with a heavy french accent, taking the stew and replacing it with the entree. A series of waiters did the same for everyone else at the table.

Mr. S eyed the man with deep and grave suspicion. He never trusted french accents, even when came out of french people; and this man wasn't even french!

"I've lost my appetite," Mr. S responded politely, reminding himself of his second misfortune: that he hadn't lost his appetite.

His stomach grumbled subtly, and Mr. S ignored the gnawing hunger as he held himself back from gorging, uncontentedly turning the rice around with his spoon while occasionally poking at the unfamiliar looking main course with his fork.

The hunger had grown almost painful, now. Granted, he was probably going to be begging for alms in six months, so at least he had time to get used to it.

Also, his nose itched, and he couldn't scratch it because he was a person of class, now; a person of class who was starving, had a failing company, threats of assasination, no job prospects, and an itchy nose.

This, was not his best week.

He didn't even want to have this dinner. But that proposal he'd made to Willow apparently made its way to the castle staff, and, consequently, everyone was gathered. Everyone, that was, except Willow: the one person he actually wanted to talk to!

But, you know. All of that... would have been acceptable. He'd signed up for it, after all.

No, what really kicked this evening from bad to unbearable was-

"Oh, would you like some table salt, fathah?" Whitley spoke, again, over the comfortable quiet that had just managed to settle itself over the table. Weiss, again, glared up from her plate. And, again, Whitely had to make a statement. "Gelato is so easy to spoil, especially when one marries it with… unsavory ingredients."

Whitley glanced a pointed look over at Weiss, who was sitting next to Blake, and glaring over at him.

If whitley noticed her seething, he made no show of it, looking expectantly back over at Mr. S as if he'd made a particularly clever remark they'd both appreciate.

-his son.

And, not only his son, but the current heir to the Schnee family fortune.


Mr. S looked down at his dish and wondered… at this point, what really was the harm in eating it?

It was all such a blur, how they'd been roped into coming here. Blake, still, only remembered the blur of house staff as they descended upon them and - following some harshly whispered conversations with Weiss, during which, she was sure, some unspeakable breaches of conduct had been made - invited them sternly over to the dinner table.

Blake didn't mind that much. Naturally, she was an easy going person, and she understood that they'd have to make some compromises if they were going to be staying here for the foreseeable future.

Besides, if she closed her left eye, she could almost pretend she was just having dinner with Weiss.

No… what bothered her was the food.

It wasn't bad food, by any means. In fact, looking down at it, and taking a sniff, the soup she'd been presented with seemed quite delicious. It was just that, instead of 'soup' the staff had referred to the dish as 'consume' and, as a utensil, had given her a barbeque fork.

The dinner bell rang, and a quiet battalion of waiters came. One of them, a woman, took Blake's consumé and replaced it with the evening entré of reticulated Bouillabaisse. This time, they had graciously provided her with a slightly wider fork.

Blake poked confusedly at the unfamiliar, Atlas cuisine. Quickly, she turned her eyes onto Mr. Schnee for instruction, observing as he poked confusedly at his plate with the wrong fork, unsure at to how to even pretend to be eating it.

It seemed, indeed, that Blake was a natural at this. Still, for some reason, Mr. S, at the moment, struck her as an un-ideal example, and she turned to look over at Weiss.

Weiss was holding her salad fork in a murder grip, muttering to herself and stabbing at her plate hard enough to shake the table.

Blake, with vain hope, finally turned her eyes onto Schwarz. Observing the girl for a moment, Blake shrugged, leaned back into her chair, and pulled out her scroll.

She felt a peace come upon her as she felt her conciousness submerging into the online world. It was but a momentary calm, however, as, pointedly, Whitley's voice carried across the table and said:

"Would you like some table salt, fatha? Gelato is so easily spoiled, especially when one marries it with… unsavory ingredients. Really, I'm surprised you'd contend to accept such a weird arrangement of dishes. It seems like that would be the last thing you'd choose."

Blake, even without looking up from her scroll, knew where that was directed. And, apparently, so did Weiss, who stabbed her fork with particular force into the table, splitting the grain with a painful creak.

Despite the outburst, Weiss was quick to regain her stature, and sat up in her chair with a pleasant expression. "Not everyone is as sensitive as you are, Whitley," she said, sending out a stiff smile. "Besides which, you shouldn't confuse acceptance with approval. After all, I'm sure you have enough experience with being the final choice."

Whitley blinked back at that unexpected retort, the wind having gone out of him. And, smoothly, he sat back; that seemed, for now, to be the end of the affair.

Well, it seemed to be the end of it, at least, until Winter Schnee arrived followed, surprisingly, by Willow.

Even more of a surprise, Willow actually seemed happy to be there, smiling daggers into the back of Winter's head.

Smoothly, Winter guided the matriarch to the opposite head of the table, before herself taking a seat across from Weiss.

Weiss, far too jaded by the fantastic events of the past few days, barely mustered a raised eyebrow at her mother's arrival.

Whitley, mustered a strike.

"Oh, how wonderful it is to see you, mother!" Whitley chorused from across the table. "Have you heard the news? Weiss and I were just talking about the castle dinery, it seems they saw fit to mix some rather bitter flavors into our gelato."

Mrs. Schnee, sensing mischief afoot, and not willing to embroil herself in it, thought up an appropriately non-committal response.

"I'm sure the caste staff will take our grievances into account."

"Oh, but not all of us have grievances about it, mother!" Whitley said, excitement growing, "that's just what Weiss and I were talking about."

"Some can count ourselves lucky that not causing grievance seems to be the only thing expected of us!" Weiss nearly stood to her feet at that.

"Is that why some of us insist on causing it, even going as far dallying about with obviously unfit-"

"Finish that sentence, I dare you!" Weiss's chair screeched back, her body rising in time with the noise.

At that, Whitley paused, and then smiled innocently. "I was just going to say 'gelato', dear sister. Have you forgotten how to have a pleasant conversation already?"

Weiss sat back down without a word.

"Still, Weiss, you seem awfully adamant about the whole matter."

Weiss remained silent.

"Why so quiet? You seemed pretty confident in your convictions earlier, so why not tell us about their wonders?"

Weiss, took her fork from the table, preparing to eat.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

"This is hardly the place to talk about that," Weiss said, voice edged with constrained weariness.

"We can't talk about gelato at a dinner table?" Whitley was incredulous. "Surely, you're joking."

"I've already said enough about the matter for you to get the hint. I'm not sure why you insist on asking."

Weiss's words were tinged with caution, and she was quickly tempering herself.

This wasn't for no reason.

This was because the members of the schnee family - all but fluent in the craft of coding language - were also all trained in the habit of, at all times, maintaining their awareness.

And, they all noticed, now, the hard rage which seemed to boil beneath the surface of Mister Schnee's indelible expression.

Mister Schnee, as a rule, never showed or expressed anger in the presence of company. Those who knew him, however, knew well every feature of his rage, and every subtle mark it left upon his countenance.

They knew because that rage, they'd all learned at one point or another, was something to be avoided.

If the members of the Schnee family had learned the art of speaking poison, then Mister Schnee had mastered it; and it seemed as if there were no limit to the distress he could inspire with but a few whispered words.

And they all noticed, now, that, with every exchange that passed between Whitley and Weiss, that rage seemed only to be growing.

It was this anger, that Weiss worked to avoid with her increasingly vague support of her and Blake's relationship.

And, it was this anger that Whitley tried to make her draw out, by continually forcing her to defend the prospect.

To Whitley's credit, he had succeeded in drawing it out; and at no point was he as successful as when, at what seemed to be the height of his brinkmanship, he turned to address Mr. S directly, attempting to draw his favorable hand into their conversation.

"Anyway, father," he said, turning away from Weiss. "You still haven't answered me. Would you like any salt?"

"I'm not certain that Salt is the correct condiment for gelato. In any case, I've lost my appetite."

Whitley, took that as a good sign.

"Oh, but surely you'd like something!" Whitley said, growing bolder now.

Mr. S, drawing upon the memory of his hero captain Picard, was committing himself to being merciful and peaceful and… uh…

"Well, father?" Whitley asked. "Surely you must agree that this is not something to be ignored. We're losing very much, you know."

"It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose very much," Mr. S said, drawing fully now from his repository of PG-safe Picard quotes. Commiting himself to not speak freely with some of the… far less PG original thoughts that were coming to mind.

And then Whitley said: "Father, you haven't made any mistakes. If anything it's those mongrels at the dinery who made such an… unworthy addition to this dinner table.

"Shut up, Westley!"


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