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It is spring, and while he would be caught dead before anyone suspected him of having a bounce in his step, he can't deny a certain alacrity as he walks across the cobblestoned yard to the stables. His wine-red cape sweeps around his feet in a way his body-man (well, body-woman) would call dashing, though he is not entirely certain whether Kay was jesting or not when she said that. In any case he makes sure that he steps carefully enough not to splash mud on it’s hem.
Several friendly whinnies greet him in the stables. He walks down the boxes, exchanging friendly words and pats with the horses. They're not all 'his', so to say, for that would be an extravagance even he would have thought twice about. There are draft horses for the field, heavy Shire's and Ardennais in shifting patterns of black and white. There are carriage horses, twins to the eye, matching gray Gelderlanders with a bounce in their step. He passes them, taking in the aroma of sweat, horse droppings and dry hay that fills the stables. The stable cat looks down at him lazily from its perch upon an old wooden beam.
He nods to the stable-master, stops himself from reminding the man that the horses need to be taken outside for their exercise today, for he will not forget, has never forgot. The stablemaster smiles his broad smile, puts back the pencil he's been using to mark down inventory in its habitual place behind his ear and readies Edgeworth’s favorite horse.
Lord Edgeworth is particular with many things, so as with horses. Some say he cares more for horses than people, others that rather he cares little for them but as a means of transportation.
Edgeworth does not pay any of these people heed.
His horse is a dark-brown Morgan, with a flowing black mane matching it’s legs beneath the knee. His tackle is light brown leather, brass details gleaming dully inside the dark stable. It creaks ever so lightly, comfortingly, as he swings one leg across the horses hindquarters. His boots fit into the stirrups as if fitted for them (they are).
And he nudges the horse through the open stable-doors and into the clear spring air.
The sky is clear shade of blue with only thin wisps of cloud slowly, imperceptibly making their way across. The snow is melting, has been for the past week, but still lies thick and wet on the bigger branches and haphazardly across the ground, hanging off bushes in big heaps. As his horse trots past one bush seem to shake, releasing its winter burden, snow falling to the ground with a wet slosh. Some of the ground is barren already, soft brown earth where the first brave green sprouts of spring grass are already peaking forth.
It is still cold and thin white mist rises from his horse's muzzle. A fit of silly seize him and he lets a deep breath go, seeing the steam rise towards the sky.
It is deeply unserious and he almost (almost) regrets it.
The sun is already turning downwards and he spurs the horse to the gallop: he has a destination in mind.
There is a timber-framed two-story building down by the river, just at the outskirts of town. Its white walls are framed in dark, almost black lumber, its roof covered in dark red terracotta shingles. It used to be a mill-house, long time ago, but now holds a different kind of commerce entirely.
He dismounts from his horse and hands the reins to the stable-hand, once again noting the boys hair's mysterious ability to stand straight up. For a moment he’s temped to give a litany of details for how his horse ought to be cared for, but seeing how the boy has already started to cheerfully talk to the horse he decides against it, for once. There is love there, he recognizes, a simple uncomplicated love between a boy and a horse, kindred souls who nevertheless lack the ability speak to eachother directly.
The Wright-In inn , which is what its is called (the pun is terrible), has been refurbished recently. Sunlight falls through hand-blown plated glass windows with color inlays across a polished hardwood floor stretching out beneath dark roof beams. There's a fire in the hearth, which he knows also fuels the ovens. Last weeks capital paper lies forgotten on a small table by the door and he grabs it. The place is half-empty, few travelers this early in the season but later in the year the tourists will start coming from the city.
(Edgeworth abhor that season and those people and spends most of it inside the grounds)
"Miles!" a cheery voice greets him. The owner, founder, operator, chef, baker and occasional pastry maker, whom Miles had not seen for over a decade before he rocked up at the old inn with an overloaded wagon and squad of apprentices and adopted daughters and whatever they were, snatches a cloth of a rack with snap and comes to greet him
(Lord Edgeworth, miles corrects the man in his mind)
Phoenix, as always, looks fit to hug him and he holds his newspaper against his chest like a shield "Mr Wright," he answers (someone has to use the proper titles around here).
"Oh come on, it’s Phoenix, please," he gestures into the locale, "the usual table? I must admit I wasn't expecting you back so soon."
Have I been here that often , he thinks.
"Still," the man continues to prattle, even putting an arm around Edgeworth's shoulder (he should be angry over this, Edgeworth knows, but somehow isn't), "its always great having you!"
Miles usual table is a a corner nook near the entrance to the kitchens, with a window hand-made of rounded crown glass view out over the water. The river is slowly rising day by day, warning of how it may overflow once spring comes in earnest.
"Now," Phoenix says as he pulls out the chair, cloth carefully folded across his forearm, "I could give you the menu but since we’re friends I want you to try something."
"Something?" Edgeworth ask with a skeptical tone in in his voice ( friends ? his inner voice asks).
"Nothing major mind you! Just a something I've whipped together with some of the dried mushroom we had left over." The man disappears but reappears quickly with a metal plate (an untrained eye might mistake it for silver but he's fairly certain its tin) on which a teapot is carefully balanced together with a small porcelain decanter (red like the mans cravat), a porcelain cup with a little lithe dragon crawling along the side and a equally tiny silver cup holding sugars with a tong carefully balanced on top.
"Hot tea with just a touch of cinnamon and clover. For the ride here."
"Thank you," Miles answers, somewhat flustered by the unexpected to consideration.
"Think nothing of it! Soup be up in ten." The man says the last part while waving across his shoulder as he disappears. Miles looks after him for a minute before shaking his heads as if to clear it. He pours the hot tea and lets it settle, letting a touch of its aroma fill his nose. Fighting the urge to see whether Phoenix has returned yet, he opens his newspaper with a well practiced flourish. His eyes chase headlines across its length, such as that he barely notices how a bowl of newly cut fresh bread, crust still crackling with heat appears near his elbow.
"He likes you,"
He looks up briefly from the paper, spectacles carefully balanced at the tip of his nose. A brown-haired girl whose name he didn't quite catch is standing over him, arms crossed over her apron, a satisfied smirk on her face.
"I beg your pardon?"
"My dad," she jerks a thumb back towards the kitchen-door that Phoenix disappeared into, "he likes you."
Miles shakes his head and sips the tea, "You are mistaken. I'm sure he chats to all the customers."
The girls rolls her eyes, "Sure he does. Incessantly, can barely make him work on a good day. Just that when you walk in his eye's go 'bing'," her eyes open and extend to ludicrous proportions "and then they go 'ahhh'" she tilts her head and her eyes flutter outrageously.
He stares at her for a moment before returning to his newspaper. "This is silly," he claims with lordly authority.
The girl rolls her eyes again, the skill of every late teen on obnoxious display. "Sure. I am the silly one here." Before she can further expound Phoenix calls from the kitchen.
"Trucy! Order up for table eight!"
"Coming!" she answers in an equally loud voice, turning while shaking her head. Miles pour another cup of tea and peruses the paper. Its fairly housekeeping stuff, crime, laws, planning for the spring harvest and the noise made by the latest von Karma to take her seat in the House of Lords. He turns the pages quickly, scanning headlines and grainy daguerreotypes, halting briefly as he reaches the crosswords puzzle.
A brief "harumph" makes him look up again. Phoenix is holding a tray with a round bowl on a small foot, which he carefully places in front of Miles. The soup is smooth, light brown-gray doted with greens and the smell of sauteed mushrooms fills his nostrils.
"Mushroom soup," the proprietor add, "made on fried porcino, cream, truffle oil and a slice of chives." He looks around before he leans in and whisper "Athena's recipe, don't tell her or it'll go to her head."
"Thank you," an impulse causes him to lower his voice in quiet conspiracy, "I won't."
"Excellent! Bon appetit, as they say." Phoenix executes a twirl that would make a dancer envious and throws his cloth across his shoulder with a flourish.
Miles carefully dips his spoon in the soup and blows on it. Its perfectly balanced, just the right amount of mushroom taste adding to the creamy, warm, filling deliciousness. He indulges in another spoon, then another, pausing but briefly to butter one of the still hot slices of bread. Its crust gently breaks against his teeth. Trucy appears again, smirking but mercifully without comment this time, a glass and wine bottle appearing in her hand as if by magic. The wine is dark red and rustic, not something he would have in his own cellars, but it works perfectly with the earthy tones of the soup and he wonders whom on the team is the hidden sommelier.
The inn is still not full but more people seem to arrive and he notices Phoenix ordering around his staff with truly outrageous pointing gestures, which they seem to take about half as seriously as he does.
Suddenly, with a pathetic scraping sound, his spoon reaches the bottom of the now sadly empty bowl. Looking around to make sure no one is watching, he takes the last slice of bread and gently runs it around the bottom, soaking up the last drops of soup.
"How was it?" Again Phoenix has somehow managed to sidle up to him without noticing and he wonders whether he should really have chosen a spot so close to the kitchens.
The superlatives threaten to loose and roll off his tongue but he manages to stay himself to a simple "It was very good."
T he man beams like a ray of sunshine, "Thank you! There'll be dessert coming right up," the man gestures to Trucy, who turns up with a round piece of crockery. A brown and golden crust lies atop it.
"Creme brulee!" Phoenix exclaims, "basic really, with just a touch of lemon."
Miles makes a pleading gesture over his chest. "I certainly can't eat all of that," a reckless thought jumps to his mind and before he can stop himself he asks, "would you share it with me?"
He look from Miles and back to his common room which is still not full, "maybe I shouldn't..." his eye catch Trucy, who suddenly stares at him with a commanding force, all but pushing Phoenix into place in the chair opposite.
Miles smiles inwardly. He's beginning to like Trucy.
Outwardly he hands Phoenix the spoon lying next to his sugar cup. "It has not been used," he says as he offers it.
Phoenix accepts it with a smile as their knuckles briefly brush against each other. "I wouldn't care," he gestures towards the crockery, "common, you're the guest, you'll at least have to crack the crust!"
Miles does so and it breaks with a sharp silent crack, thin custard leaking through the hole. They eat in silence. Edgeworth studies Phoenix face. He eats with the speculative air of a craftsman, trying to find the slightest flaw in his culinary design.
"Mm," says the man, "maybe I should try just a tad more lemon."
Miles smiles, "Its your creation."
"True, though I'd value your input. Especially the wine. I need to pair this with a wine."
"Hmm," he ponders for a moment before deciding on another role of the dice, "maybe you could come by the manor sometime. I have far too many different bottles, I'd have to ask my major-domo, she knows the cellars better than me."
"Really?" The man perks up, "sure!" he smiles again, warmly. "If it wouldn't be a bother."
"It would be the complete opposite of that," says Miles. An errant sun-ray falls through the window all but parallel to the table, regretfully reminding him of the hour.
"You should probably go if you want to get back before dark," Phoenix says, having observed the same thing.
"Indeed," Miles raises and grabs his cape. Phoenix looks ready to follow him to the door but another guest distracts him and Miles leaves on his own. He throws his cape across his shoulders and mounts his horse. The days sun has melted more snow and he can hear the constant dripping off the trees. Slowly the inn sinks and disappears into the evening twilight as he heads home. Mud splashes from his horses hooves onto the hem of the cape.
It doesn't bother him.
He has a guest to prepare for.