coming upon a fairy in the woods.
A tetchy fairy. She said, "Oh— Oh— Milton! Are you all right? What have you done, Mr. Tremore! I could hear your swearing downstairs!"
Milton and Mick talked at once.
"All I done was protect meself from his slimy fingers—"
"Yes, I'm wet, but fine—"
"I ain't swimming in no bloody tub. No one mentioned no tub of water today—"
"If I may say so, your ladyship, the man belongs in a zoo, not a bathtub—"
"Not for no hundred quid do I let some ol' sod—"
"Enough!" she said. "Enough of your oaths and fulminations, Mr. Tremore."
Ungrateful woman. Mick sucked himself up, squared his shoulders, and, trying to hold back from yelling, told her, "I'll have you know, duck, if it wasn't for me 'fulminations,' as you call 'em"—he mimicked the word, tone for tone, though he could only guess what it meant—"I'd be standing here in the rude with me widge hanging out."
That caught her back. Her big eyes grew. They got as wide and round as blue saucers.
Good. While he had her quiet, he drove home his point. "You can't tell me no gent soaks in water like a plucked chicken, like he was dinner—"
"Mr. Tremore, gentlemen most certainly do take a bath—"
"And how do you know? You ever seen one take a bath?"
She blinked, scrunched up her freckled brow, then swung her eyes onto the dripping fellow who was climbing over the edge of the tub. She asked, "You—you take a bath, don't you, Milton?"
"Indeed, madam. Though usually I remove my clothes first."
"Which explains," Mick pointed out, "why he's so wrinkled and stiff-looking. Too much water—"
The over-washed servant continued to mutter complaints, but she ignored him. She only shook her head at Mick with her lips pressed together. "You must take a bath." She didn't know how to make him do it, he thought, and it mattered to her. His refusal made her right upset. So upset that for a minute he wanted to do it. Almost. Just for her. For the sake of her worried expression and shy sort of pluck.
For his own sake, though, he had to tell her the truth. "I don't have to do nothing. And I gotta tell you, too, that the mustache stays where it be: on the lip."
She wrinkled her brow again, deeper, puckered her mouth, which in turn puckered her long chin. It was pathetic, her look. She stared at his mustache like it wanted to bite her, focusing on it. She was fighting looking lower, he realized—at his chest. He folded his arms over it, not to cover it but because he knew it flexed chest muscle. It made it look better, stronger. The hell with her. "The mustache stays," he repeated.
She squinched up her mouth some more, then said, "Well, a trim then. We'll trim your mustache for now. But you have to wash in the tub."
"I won't."
Oh, she wanted him in that tub. Her mouth pressed into a strained, fretful line—while her eyes shifted nervously to stay above his neck. She told him, "I can't make you into a gentleman, sir, if you insist on the toilette habits of a beggar."
He let out an insulted snort. "Listen, duck. There be an important understanding to get to here. I know them blokes asked you to change me, but, thing is, I'll take charge of me, all right? You say. I'll listen. But I'll decide what be right for Mick Tremore. And a swim in soup water ain't right."
She put her fists on her waist, her long, thin elbows poking out into the doorway. Her face was getting pink. She was really working herself up. "Then it's over, because you're filthy. Which reminds me"—she pointed a finger at his pocket—"you have to get rid of that as well."
She meant Freddie. And she meant the bet was off, if Mick didn't get in the bathtub. He straightened, gently brushed his coat down the front, and tried to gather some dignity. Bad enough he stood here missing buttons and pieces of his shirt, bad enough he had to hold his manliness together against some fellow who wanted his clothes. Now some bossy woman expected him to put Freddie out.
Then she pointed at
A tetchy fairy. She said, "Oh— Oh— Milton! Are you all right? What have you done, Mr. Tremore! I could hear your swearing downstairs!"
Milton and Mick talked at once.
"All I done was protect meself from his slimy fingers—"
"Yes, I'm wet, but fine—"
"I ain't swimming in no bloody tub. No one mentioned no tub of water today—"
"If I may say so, your ladyship, the man belongs in a zoo, not a bathtub—"
"Not for no hundred quid do I let some ol' sod—"
"Enough!" she said. "Enough of your oaths and fulminations, Mr. Tremore."
Ungrateful woman. Mick sucked himself up, squared his shoulders, and, trying to hold back from yelling, told her, "I'll have you know, duck, if it wasn't for me 'fulminations,' as you call 'em"—he mimicked the word, tone for tone, though he could only guess what it meant—"I'd be standing here in the rude with me widge hanging out."
That caught her back. Her big eyes grew. They got as wide and round as blue saucers.
Good. While he had her quiet, he drove home his point. "You can't tell me no gent soaks in water like a plucked chicken, like he was dinner—"
"Mr. Tremore, gentlemen most certainly do take a bath—"
"And how do you know? You ever seen one take a bath?"
She blinked, scrunched up her freckled brow, then swung her eyes onto the dripping fellow who was climbing over the edge of the tub. She asked, "You—you take a bath, don't you, Milton?"
"Indeed, madam. Though usually I remove my clothes first."
"Which explains," Mick pointed out, "why he's so wrinkled and stiff-looking. Too much water—"
The over-washed servant continued to mutter complaints, but she ignored him. She only shook her head at Mick with her lips pressed together. "You must take a bath." She didn't know how to make him do it, he thought, and it mattered to her. His refusal made her right upset. So upset that for a minute he wanted to do it. Almost. Just for her. For the sake of her worried expression and shy sort of pluck.
For his own sake, though, he had to tell her the truth. "I don't have to do nothing. And I gotta tell you, too, that the mustache stays where it be: on the lip."
She wrinkled her brow again, deeper, puckered her mouth, which in turn puckered her long chin. It was pathetic, her look. She stared at his mustache like it wanted to bite her, focusing on it. She was fighting looking lower, he realized—at his chest. He folded his arms over it, not to cover it but because he knew it flexed chest muscle. It made it look better, stronger. The hell with her. "The mustache stays," he repeated.
She squinched up her mouth some more, then said, "Well, a trim then. We'll trim your mustache for now. But you have to wash in the tub."
"I won't."
Oh, she wanted him in that tub. Her mouth pressed into a strained, fretful line—while her eyes shifted nervously to stay above his neck. She told him, "I can't make you into a gentleman, sir, if you insist on the toilette habits of a beggar."
He let out an insulted snort. "Listen, duck. There be an important understanding to get to here. I know them blokes asked you to change me, but, thing is, I'll take charge of me, all right? You say. I'll listen. But I'll decide what be right for Mick Tremore. And a swim in soup water ain't right."
She put her fists on her waist, her long, thin elbows poking out into the doorway. Her face was getting pink. She was really working herself up. "Then it's over, because you're filthy. Which reminds me"—she pointed a finger at his pocket—"you have to get rid of that as well."
She meant Freddie. And she meant the bet was off, if Mick didn't get in the bathtub. He straightened, gently brushed his coat down the front, and tried to gather some dignity. Bad enough he stood here missing buttons and pieces of his shirt, bad enough he had to hold his manliness together against some fellow who wanted his clothes. Now some bossy woman expected him to put Freddie out.
Then she pointed at
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