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kat_lair***
Title: Myristica Fragrans
Author:kat_lair
Fandom: Enola Holmes
Pairing: Enola Holmes/Tewkesbury
Tags: Spooktober, Ficlet, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening
Rating: G
Word count: 837
Summary: “Come and see what I got!” Tewkesbury grabs her hand and pulls her through the doorway and into the house.
Author notes: Spooktober 2024, Day 10/31. Prompt/theme: Spice. Incidentally, why is it 'Tewksbury' on AO3 when both IMDb and Baker Street fandom wikia spell it 'Tewkesbury'? Anyway, going with the latter.
Myristica Fragrans on AO3
“You’re here!” Tewkesbury opens the door, more excited than Enola remembers seeing him in a long time, certainly not during the busiest parliamentary season.
“Yes,” Enola agrees, not bothering to hide her smile. It’s nice to be greeted with such enthusiasm.
“Come and see what I got!” Tewkesbury grabs her hand and pulls her through the doorway and into the house. He leads her through it at speed, over thick rugs from the Far East, past intimidating portraits of grim-faced ancestors, and parlours full of expensive furniture. It’s not that different from what Enola grew up with, of course, but it is… Newer. And better maintained, definitely.
Finally, they reach the back of the house, weaving through the cooks and the servants in the kitchen, all of whom have a benevolently amused look on their face, clearly used to Tewkesbury’s antics. And Enola’s now too, she supposes. She’ll have to have a chat with the older members of the household, for intelligence, of course. And if that just happens to produce some embarrassing childhood stories about his lordship, well, then all the better. It never hurts to have some extra ammunition in her pocket for when he needs to be taken down by a rung or three. Although, to his credit, she’s found that Tewkesbury needs it less often than most other men she knows, certainly including her own brothers.
Tewkesbury throws open the back door and all of a sudden they are in a little oasis of greenery, right in the heart of London. Technically, it’s a kitchen garden, something most well to do house have. This one, however, is large enough to also accommodate things grown for their aesthetic value rather than just nutritional ones. She should’ve expected it really. Someone who was as into green things as Tewkesbury would surely value outdoor space over the house itself and choose dwellings that reflected that even when his duties kept him from the true nature of the countryside. There is even a decently sized oak tree in the far corner. Enola wonders if the neighbours complain about the shade it casts, though if they do it probably won’t be to Tewkesbury’s face. Then she wonders how often Tewkesbury climbs the tree and the neighbours witness the Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquiss of Basilwether dangling from the branches like a skinny acorn.
“Here, here!” Tewkesbury is still tugging Enola along to edge of the garden. He finally lets go of her hand – which she obviously has no opinion on – and points at the tree sapling in front of them. “It arrived yesterday from India.”
Tewkesbury’s knowledge of plants is generally better than Enola’s but this one she recognises due to its particular properties.
“Myristica fragrans,” she says, reaching out to run careful fingers over the dark green leaves. “I didn’t realise you were in business for poisons.”
Tewkesbury gawps at her, indignant. “Nutmeg is only poisonous is consumed in large quantities!” He sees Enola’s grin, realises she’s joking, and gently smack her on the arm. “See if there’s any deliciously spiced baked goods for you at Christmas.”
Enola eyes the sapling critically. “I seem to remember that it’ll take at least seven years before the tree starts bearing fruit. This one can’t be more than a couple of years old yet.”
“It’s not,” Tewkesbury confirms. “I didn’t say this Christmas, did I?”
Enola stares at him. “Myristica fragrans reaches full production at about twenty years of age,” she parrots from memory.
Tewkesbury smiles, softly, and takes her hand again. “Yes, well,” he says, and then doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“Are you even sure this tree is female?” Enola asks, to hide how flustered she’s feeling. At least it’s a sunny day and she can blame that for the way her cheeks are pinking up.
“I was assured that it was,” Tewkesbury says. “It’s grafted, so they can be sure.”
“Right,” Enola says. “Good.” She looks around and then at Tewkesbury, another grin starting to take over her face when she realises what’s missing. “You… You do know that for this female tree here to produce the fruit that will produce the seed that will produce the spice for our Christmas cakes, it needs to be pollinated? And that needs a…”
Tewkesbury’s face falls. “A male tree,” he finishes from behind his hands. “I’m an idiot.”
Enola bites down hard on the laughter that threatens to escape and pats his back consolingly. “Maybe sometimes,” she says. “But I bet you can source a male tree soon enough. And then in about, oh, five to seven years’ time, we can enjoy all manner of dishes spiced with home-grown nutmeg.” She uses the plural on purpose, and the way Tewkesbury’s dismay melts into something like wonder, tells her that her choice of words didn’t go unnoticed. “Won’t that be something?”
“Yeah,” Tewkesbury says. His arm comes around her shoulders, tucking her in, and here in the shelter of the garden… their? garden, she allows it. “It will be.”
***
Title: Myristica Fragrans
Author:
kat_lair Fandom: Enola Holmes
Pairing: Enola Holmes/Tewkesbury
Tags: Spooktober, Ficlet, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening
Rating: G
Word count: 837
Summary: “Come and see what I got!” Tewkesbury grabs her hand and pulls her through the doorway and into the house.
Author notes: Spooktober 2024, Day 10/31. Prompt/theme: Spice. Incidentally, why is it 'Tewksbury' on AO3 when both IMDb and Baker Street fandom wikia spell it 'Tewkesbury'? Anyway, going with the latter.
Myristica Fragrans on AO3
“You’re here!” Tewkesbury opens the door, more excited than Enola remembers seeing him in a long time, certainly not during the busiest parliamentary season.
“Yes,” Enola agrees, not bothering to hide her smile. It’s nice to be greeted with such enthusiasm.
“Come and see what I got!” Tewkesbury grabs her hand and pulls her through the doorway and into the house. He leads her through it at speed, over thick rugs from the Far East, past intimidating portraits of grim-faced ancestors, and parlours full of expensive furniture. It’s not that different from what Enola grew up with, of course, but it is… Newer. And better maintained, definitely.
Finally, they reach the back of the house, weaving through the cooks and the servants in the kitchen, all of whom have a benevolently amused look on their face, clearly used to Tewkesbury’s antics. And Enola’s now too, she supposes. She’ll have to have a chat with the older members of the household, for intelligence, of course. And if that just happens to produce some embarrassing childhood stories about his lordship, well, then all the better. It never hurts to have some extra ammunition in her pocket for when he needs to be taken down by a rung or three. Although, to his credit, she’s found that Tewkesbury needs it less often than most other men she knows, certainly including her own brothers.
Tewkesbury throws open the back door and all of a sudden they are in a little oasis of greenery, right in the heart of London. Technically, it’s a kitchen garden, something most well to do house have. This one, however, is large enough to also accommodate things grown for their aesthetic value rather than just nutritional ones. She should’ve expected it really. Someone who was as into green things as Tewkesbury would surely value outdoor space over the house itself and choose dwellings that reflected that even when his duties kept him from the true nature of the countryside. There is even a decently sized oak tree in the far corner. Enola wonders if the neighbours complain about the shade it casts, though if they do it probably won’t be to Tewkesbury’s face. Then she wonders how often Tewkesbury climbs the tree and the neighbours witness the Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquiss of Basilwether dangling from the branches like a skinny acorn.
“Here, here!” Tewkesbury is still tugging Enola along to edge of the garden. He finally lets go of her hand – which she obviously has no opinion on – and points at the tree sapling in front of them. “It arrived yesterday from India.”
Tewkesbury’s knowledge of plants is generally better than Enola’s but this one she recognises due to its particular properties.
“Myristica fragrans,” she says, reaching out to run careful fingers over the dark green leaves. “I didn’t realise you were in business for poisons.”
Tewkesbury gawps at her, indignant. “Nutmeg is only poisonous is consumed in large quantities!” He sees Enola’s grin, realises she’s joking, and gently smack her on the arm. “See if there’s any deliciously spiced baked goods for you at Christmas.”
Enola eyes the sapling critically. “I seem to remember that it’ll take at least seven years before the tree starts bearing fruit. This one can’t be more than a couple of years old yet.”
“It’s not,” Tewkesbury confirms. “I didn’t say this Christmas, did I?”
Enola stares at him. “Myristica fragrans reaches full production at about twenty years of age,” she parrots from memory.
Tewkesbury smiles, softly, and takes her hand again. “Yes, well,” he says, and then doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“Are you even sure this tree is female?” Enola asks, to hide how flustered she’s feeling. At least it’s a sunny day and she can blame that for the way her cheeks are pinking up.
“I was assured that it was,” Tewkesbury says. “It’s grafted, so they can be sure.”
“Right,” Enola says. “Good.” She looks around and then at Tewkesbury, another grin starting to take over her face when she realises what’s missing. “You… You do know that for this female tree here to produce the fruit that will produce the seed that will produce the spice for our Christmas cakes, it needs to be pollinated? And that needs a…”
Tewkesbury’s face falls. “A male tree,” he finishes from behind his hands. “I’m an idiot.”
Enola bites down hard on the laughter that threatens to escape and pats his back consolingly. “Maybe sometimes,” she says. “But I bet you can source a male tree soon enough. And then in about, oh, five to seven years’ time, we can enjoy all manner of dishes spiced with home-grown nutmeg.” She uses the plural on purpose, and the way Tewkesbury’s dismay melts into something like wonder, tells her that her choice of words didn’t go unnoticed. “Won’t that be something?”
“Yeah,” Tewkesbury says. His arm comes around her shoulders, tucking her in, and here in the shelter of the garden… their? garden, she allows it. “It will be.”
***
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on 2024-10-11 12:54 am (UTC)no subject
on 2024-10-12 08:16 am (UTC)Yay!
on 2024-10-11 06:23 am (UTC)Re: Yay!
on 2024-10-12 08:17 am (UTC)Re: Yay!
on 2024-10-12 08:29 am (UTC)