Fictober - Day 3 - âyou did this?â
Note: Set after âA Strange and Feral Creatureâ, and before âMrs Lombardâ.
G-rated, 500 words, un-betaâd.
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The stove in their new house runs hotter than it should. Thatâs her excuse, Vera decides, looking down at the charred mess that should have been supper, and sheâs going to stick to it. No matter what Philip says, no matter the agreement between them, this lie will stand. Itâs the stove, not her lamentable cookery skills. And if he knows whatâs good for him, she thinks grimly, heâll accept the lie, this once.
Sheâs rarely had to fend for herself, food-wise. From orphanage to college, and then in boarding schools, her meals have been prepared for her and served thrice daily. Usually edible, if not always inspired, sheâs accepted it all and never imagined she could do any better herself. Oh, she can use a hot plate, can cobble together a soup or a stew in a pinch, but domestic arts had definitely not been her strong point as a girl, and as a woman thereâs been little need. Even her summers have usually been spent in catered accommodation of some sort.
Now, though, she has a house. A home. And she has plans for the decorating, and plans for the garden, and somewhere in there sheâs entertained plans of becoming a better cook.
It isnât going to happen. She drops the pan into the sink, runs cold water into it, and opens the back window to let the smoke out. She wonders if thereâs enough time to run out and pick something up for dinner. Or she ought to be able to manage something simple; there are eggs, and some potatoes. She could make something with those. The casserole should have been fine, but maybe sheâd set the oven too hot, or left it in too long. Or both.
She isnât cut out for domesticity, she despairs. She never has been. Philip will just have to accept it, if he wants her. Thereâs no point pretending to be something she isnât, not with Philip. If he doesnât like itâŚwell, he should know sooner rather than later. Of all things, this is hardly likely to be what puts him off.
Thereâs no hope of hiding her disaster, anyway. She hears the front door open, and a few footsteps is all it takes for Philip to come from there to the kitchen. He looks around, still in his hat and coat, eyebrows arched and mouth twisted in amusement.
âYou did this?â he inquires.
âThe stove overheats,â Vera says, lying through her teeth. His gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the dish in the sink and the open window. Then he meets her eyes. He knows itâs a lie, of course. He always knows. Usually he doesnât let her get away with it. She lifts her chin, defiant. There is a long moment of silence between them.
âIâll fix us something,â he says at last. âDo we have any eggs?â
For once, heâs letting it go. Sometimes, it seems, even Philip accepts the value of a white lie between them.












