One-Man Whorehouse
"Butler, you're trained in target analysis, correct?" Oh, is genius boy up to something again? It's been far too quiet lately. There is a pause, which I assume is Domovoi signaling the affirmative. I take the opportunity to ease my way closer to the door. "Then you would be well equipped to help me handle some personal profiling I need done?" What will it be this time? Mad genius—not Artemis, another one—who is working on creating a silent bomb, yet still goes home every night and plays Daddy? Bookish librarian quietly stealing and smuggling the latest nanobot technology? Or more fairy Folk?
"What do you need Artemis?" I manage to pick up a note of excitement in my brother's typically complacent tone. But that's only because it's my job to know him better than he does himself.
"I would greatly appreciate it if you would help me choose a date for the Autumn Festival." So much for excitement. "You don't have to do go through anything extensive. Just check their basic background: previous schooling, standardized testing scores, medical records, likes and dislikes. I trust you to narrow down the choices to a few exemplary candidates, with me in mind, of course." Ah, Artemis may have developed into a debonair young gentleman, but he still had the same calculating mind underneath. He's just upgraded his armor in disguise, his wrestling mask, so to speak.
The odd mixture of amusement and disappointment was, to me, evident in my brother's steady voice. "Very well. Do you have an initial list?"
"Not exactly." I could just imagine Butler fighting to quirk his eyebrows; he is quite expressive when he's not on duty, which is, of course, almost never. "I've been approached by a few promising prospects, but I was caught unprepared and told them I was going away for the weekend. I hinted that I would be reachable again on Saturday around five."
"That's in five minutes. You're going to open your private, secure phone line in five minutes for who knows how long to get a few Autumn Festival date possibilities?" One wouldn't have to be his sister to hear the amusement now.
"Actually, I do believe I might have given them your phone number." Silence. Then I hear something clicking, probably Domovoi unclipping his cell phone, before plastic is heard being caught (or fumbled). Strangely enough, noise evidencing another toss and catch follow. "I was hoping you would not mind getting names and taking any messages they feel must be left."
Domovoi is probably tracing the Fowl family tree back through all its many successful and significant descendants in his head in an effort not to seriously injure the current heir.
"Very well, sir. If you would excuse me to attend to this business." Domovoi does not use sarcasm on Artemis; no, it is reserved for those almost non-existent times when he is ticked off by his wonderful little sister. And Domovoi using "sir" in Fowl Manor means you should start running the other way. I may be a teenager hungry for more peeving of my big brother, but I am first and foremost a Butler. Instinct alone motivates me to pivot swiftly and begin innocently meandering up the hallway as the door to Artemis' study opens, a tad forcefully if you ask me. I can feel Domovoi's suspicious glare in my direction, but he seems too put out at the moment to pursue a line of inquiry. His feet can be heard landing in a stark contrast to their usually silent descents into the mansion's carpeted floor.
The grandfather clock down on the first floor can be heard chiming once, twice, three times, four times and then fi—the sound of a vibrating cell phone comes from Domovoi's general direction. I stifle my laughter as Butler's mutterings drifted up the hall to me.
"I'm a receptionist at a one-man whorehouse."