Potato's Day Off

Yuu was twenty glorious minutes into eating soup directly from the pot, (her lunch), sitting wrapped in a moldering blanket that the Ramshackle staff had let her pilfer from a trunk in the attic, and watching the ghost butler Roger in his attempt to steep tea by shoving the entire box of Earl Grey into the hearth. She let him. It was Saturday.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was pounding on the front door like it owed them rent and a kidney.

Yuu shuffled to her feet, dragging her dignity like a wet blanket behind her as she fastened the moth-eaten robe—another attic find—around her waist.

“Better not be Ace,” she muttered, gripping the doorknob. He’d promised to watch Grim today, and, she hadn’t had real peace and quiet in weeks.

Sighing, she opened the door—and…well, it wasn’t Ace.

Vil Schoenheit was tapping his foot in her doorway like a magazine cover with opinions. His hair, in contrast to hers, which she hadn’t bothered to look at that day, was polished and perfectly-styled. His skin was glossy and flawless, and definitely not chicken-broth-scented.

She only barely resisted fidgeting in the robe—which she was suddenly conscious of in ways that she’d never been conscious of a robe before. Had the sleeves always been so close to falling off? There weren’t any holes in indecent places…right?

“Vil,” Yuu greeted hesitantly, as Vil took in her surroundings, and finally, her.

The venomous beauty’s eyes traced over her like a blade, as though he was determining what merited keeping—and mostly, what didn’t. His gaze landed almost immediately on her robe, traveling downward with scandalized distaste.

“Prefect,” he voiced, entering the building with deliberate slowness. “No, no need to rush for tea…I can see that hospitality has already died a painful death here since your assistance in the VDC.”

“Most things have died here already, yes. And now, they do actually make the tea…sort of.”

Over by the hearth, Roger had managed to start a small fire, and the tea bags were beginning to smoke pathetically.

Vil pressed his fingers to his forehead, muttering something about regret under his breath before bringing his attention back to his original goal.

“I find myself in need of an assistant in the coming week, Yuu, and you….come highly recommended.”

“Rook—” she started to say, when he held up a weary hand.

“Rook is gone.”

Her mouth fell open. Some of the most magically adept students and professors in the world had a hard time getting rid of Rook.

“What do you mean, gone?”

Vil gave her a look so sharp it could filet fish. “Gone on some ridiculous ‘hunting emergency.’ He left this morning. Without notice. Without warning. Without an ounce of professionalism. And do you know what else he left?”

She folded her arms around herself, feeling her sleeves tug precariously in their sleeves. “Well, I’m hoping you’re going to say ‘a letter,’ but this is Rook…”

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“Yes!” Vil growled, flinging a glittery envelope in her face. It reeked of cologne, a hint of deer-bait, and pheromones. “A letter full of the usual excuses, and your name as his replacement.”

Yuu stared. “He what.”

“He volunteered you. ‘Roi du Poison, I am confident you will be in the excellent hands of the prefect, whose sense of timing…’ ah—” Vil’s ears turned slightly red at that.

Oh dear, he really must be angry, she realized.

“He compares you to no fewer than three forest animals and a line of perfume as a recommendation.”

“Vil, I have no idea why he recommended me—especially like that—but could you please tell me what he—you—are actually asking?”

It might have been the wrong question, because suddenly his frustration with Rook was redirected toward her.

“As I said, potato, I need an assistant for the week of the Starfall Gala. I need someone trustworthy, and punctual, and who perhaps does not dress as though she rolled around on a dirty attic floor and decided to wear whatever stuck on.”

“I am clearly unqualified,” she deadpanned, annoyance creeping up in her chest. What Mr. Perfect-and-Prissy failed to realize was that not everyone possessed the wallet of the Great Schoenheit.

“You did a tolerable job at the VDC. That means you can handle this,” Vil said, waving her protest away like she was a smudge on a mirror. “And of course if you do well, then I will ensure you are properly compensated… although I did think that after the VDC, you would have at least put in a little effort.”

“I can see that you’re desperate,” she said tightly, a hair’s breadth away from scolding him senseless—although she knew from personal experience that he could certainly give as good as she could.

“I am,” he agreed ruefully. “I take it you’re accepting?”

It a fit of tragic irony, the Powers That Be chose that moment for her sleeves to give up their hold on life. Both of them came undone, falling neatly to her wrists like a set of freshly dusted cobwebs.

Her face heated as Vil’s brows quirked at her.

“Ah, the power of mutual desperation,” she said flatly, by way of acceptance. “How may I help you, O Lovely Princess?”

He whacked her head with the folder he had tucked under his arm—bringing it soundly to her attention.

“You can withhold the cheek,” he instructed, “and read this.”

He handed her a laminated schedule so thick it would have concussed a less sturdy personal assistant.

“You’ll be my assistant for the entire week of pre-gala preparation,” Vil said, already pacing the length of the moldy carpet. “That means fittings, rehearsal walkthroughs, sponsor meetings, and smoothing over PR disasters before they explode on social media.”

Yuu flipped through the itinerary. “Color-coded footnotes?”

“Yes. You’re the pink notes. They’re labeled under ‘Potato Tasks.’”

She thought she caught him smirking at that, but the expression had vanished as soon as it appeared.

Vil adjusted a cufflink and muttered, “Meet me at Pomfiore at five-am tomorrow. Wear actual clothes. Not…”

It was rare that Vil was at a loss for words when describing any article of clothing, but the cloth draped around Yuu’s body at that moment seemed to have him stumped.

Well, I have that at least, she thought grimly.

“Be on time,” he said at last, tearing his eyes off of her in what was probably relief.

And with that, he was gone, swept away into the Saturday sunlight, leaving only the scent of perfectly balanced bergamot and stress in his wake.

Yuu looked at the itinerary again. Tomorrow; 9am: Press Conference with Producer Marine Diamond.

WHY was that a ‘potato task!?’