Scratch tried to stay calm. It wasn't the first time she'd been in this predicament, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Casinos seemed to hate it when you won too much, or thought too much, or did anything that they perceived to be either suspicious or incorrect behaviour. ln this particular situation, she had to concede that, just maybe, trying to cheat had been a bad idea. Now some asshole guard named Bertrand with a point to prove was dragging her to the security booth, where she would inevitably get a Stern Talking To, and then be banned for life.

So yeah. Not her first rodeo. They didn't usually use handcuffs, though, and Scratch found herself rubbing against where the metal dug in.She wasn't necessarily against the idea of being handcuffed, but there was a time and a place (and a person). Sitting at the security booth of a casino where she'd been caught card-counting by a middle-aged man losing hair like he was going through a divorce was not the ideal circumstance.

Bertrand, unsurprisingly, was immune to even Scratch's most pathetic of pleas, and she could do pathetic very well. There was something about being five foot two with excellent puppy dog eyes that just made people pity you. Apparently not Bertrand, though. ‘Come on, gimme a chance.’

Bertrand did not even look up from the form he was filling out. 'You know, I think the most insulting thing about all of this was that, in spite of the blatant cheating, you were still losing.'

Scratch snorted. ‘Card counting isn't cheating,' she said, emphatically. ‘I wasn't swapping out the cards for better ones or anything.’ Perhaps she shouldn’t have straight up admitted it, but Scratch did not think that denial would get her anywhere in this particular situation. It would just make him more annoyed.

‘Cheating is whatever the Lightport Grand Casino says is cheating.’ Scratch suspected that he had this argument many times per day. 'And the Lightport Grand Casino also says that I get to throw you out on your ass, so I've got that to look forward to.'

Great. It wasn't like it was the only casino in town, but it was the nicest one, and the only one that wouldn't straight up murder her for cheating counting cards. It was also one of the only ones that might theoretically comp a room with a wet bar and full kitchen.

‘Look,’ Scratch said, at the same time a very unexpected voice behind her said:

‘Kitty?’

Scratch froze. She did not turn. Because the only people that would know the name Kitty were not the sort of people that she wanted to catch her in this fairly compromising position.

She should have thought about this. Should have thought about the fact that maybe the very rich, very influential family that she was working for might potentially have a member that would want to visit the best casino in town. And maybe - just maybe - that person would be surrounded by a group of very gossipy older women.

Scratch put on an expression of innocence. She turned. ‘Mrs. Vandersnoot. I swear, this isn't what it looks like.’ It was hard for it to be anything other than “what it looked like”: Scratch, in her very nicest civilian clothes, cuffed to a pole next to the security booth, pleading her case to Bertrand. There were not a whole lot of other things it could have been.

Of the people that could have caught her, it wasn’t the worst outcome. Mrs. Vandersnoot and all of her very attractive friends, dressed for what looked like a very fancy night out. One was wearing half a dozen strings of pearls that looked like genuine Serendipity pearls, and another had genuine Petrichor shoes, the left heel of which was probably worth more than Scratch’s entire fit. She was almost jealous.

'Please darling, I've told you at least a dozen times, you must call me Francesca.' This was literally the first time Mrs. Vandersnoot had said any such thing. In fact, Scratch was entirely certain that she hadn't even known Mrs. Vandersnoot's name until this point. 'Now, now, Bertrand is it.' She peered down at the security guard's name tag. ‘There has clearly been some sort of misunderstanding, this lovely young lady is employed by my family, she would never engage in anything so pedestrian as cheating.’ Francesca put a hand to Bertrand's chest, and Scratch could see that there was a crisp hundred stilbit note in it.

If it were anyone else, they probably wouldn't have gotten away with it, but Scratch had learned that the name "Vandersnoot" carried weight wherever you went in the galaxy. About two minutes after that, she found herself uncuffed, with Bertrand apologising profusely, which almost made the blown cover worthwhile. Scratch had to resist the urge to give him a smug look as she was whisked away.

The downside was…well, pretty obvious. Mrs. Vandersnoot – Francesca – gave Scratch a coy sort of look that would have been very attractive if it were on anyone else. Okay, that wasn’t true. It was still insanely attractive on her, but Scratch was absolutely not going to be that person that fucked someone, and then fucked their mother three days later. She was better than that. Okay, that probably wasn’t true either. But she was at least smart enough not to shit where she ate twice. She’d made that mistake before.

Francesca seemed to misunderstand the look in Scratch’s eyes. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell my husband, and even if I did, I don’t think he would mind. He told me about about the conversation you had the other day. This is far better than that artist she dated last year.’ She spoke the word artist like it was an insult, like it was the worst thing someone could possibly be. Scratch was entirely certain at least three of the other women she was with spent their vast millions on priceless art, and the other three considered themselves ladies of leisure that took painting classes for fun. ‘If you’re really worried though. Sophia here has just been raving about your lemon curd tarts…we’re up in the penthouse, and I’m sure we can get some supplies from the kitchen.’

In words it was a request, and Scratch didn’t really think that Francesca would do anything rash if she said no, but the woman had saved Scratch from…probably not prison, but at the very least a ban from the casino, which was nice. She knew that her luck was so close to turning. Plus, Scratch was not going to turn down an evening in the penthouse suite on her boss’s dime. Lemon curd tarts weren’t even that difficult to make. The hardest part was going to be reprogramming the fridge to do a quick-chill, and even that Scratch had gotten down to an art at this point in her life.

So, dutifully, she grabbed her bag, and followed her fuck-buddy’s hot mother and her equally attractive friends upstairs to the penthouse suite.

It was nice.

Not even nice in that sterile, “hotel” sort of way. Someone had clearly put a lot of thought into the decor. Polished herringbone floors, and waterfall countertops, and a feature wall of deep jade green. It wasn’t exactly Scratch’s style, but at least it wasn’t boring, and it did in fact have a wet bar and a full kitchen.

It was a very nice kitchen and even used gas. Where exactly the gas was coming from was anyone’s guess. Scratch hadn’t even realised there was that kind of gas on Serendipity, but she didn’t know nearly enough about alien biospheres as to whether or not that was actually true. That was a question for people that had paid attention in Xenobiology class, or indeed, ever actually taken Xenobiology class. Shit, Eric probably knew.

The wet bar came with a bartender that Mrs. Vandersnoot had hired for the evening; attractive in an "out of Scratch’s league kind of way," with effortlessly styled platinum blonde hair, and eye-liner that might well have been drawn by machine for how precise it was. They were wearing a button-down white shirt and waistcoat, neither of which were off the rack, and both of which had been stylishly embellished; the waist-coat by hand-stitched embroidery, and the shirt with holographic inserts. It was a very busy look Scratch never would have worn herself, but was hypnotic nonetheless.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

'Lucero,' they said, and held out a hand in a way that suggested Scratch should kiss it, so she did. Lucero gave a bright, twinkling sort of laugh. 'Ooh, you're fun. And you didn’t use tongue, like Esmerelda did.' From across the room, Esmerelda in her skintight dress and her six strings of Serendipity pearls, gave a wink.

Scratch raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t sure she would have considered herself fun. Not boring, but not exactly the life of the party. She was too busy to be fun at the moment. She had tried being fun tonight, and almost gotten herself arrested. Of course, there were lots of different ways to have fun…

‘What can I get you?’ Lucero asked, and Scratch resisted the urge to say “surprise me,” because there was absolutely nothing more that she hated as a chef, except for maybe, “oh by the way, little Timmy’s allergic to gluten” while she was midway through making a birthday cake. So, she went for something slightly more palatable that achieved the same intended result.

‘What’s something you’ve always wanted to make, but no-one has ever asked for before?’ That got her at the very least a wild grin. The sort of grin that Scratch should have seen as a warning sign, but then, she’d never been particularly good at reading warnings.

‘I can guarantee you’ve never had this before,’ Lucero said, with a wink. ‘On account of the fact that no-one would ever mix these two drinks. Have you ever tried distilled Ribwort? Specifically of the Amarand variety?’

Scratch had not. Mostly because Amarand Ribwort was insanely expensive, and well…you could only get it on Amarand. Unsurprising that they had it here on Serendipity, given how much this place was a playground for the rich.

‘So what…Amarand Ribwort mixed with…I dunno, lavender liqueur?’

‘Not quite,’ Lucero told her, before pulling out an unexpected bottle from behind the bar. The cheapest, nastiest whiskey that Scratch had ever seen in her life. Then, they mixed the two of them together and set the entire concoction aflame. The Ribwort was high enough proof that both of them nearly lost their eyebrows. Well, Scratch nearly lost her eyebrows. She suspected that Lucero's were drawn on.

Once the flames went out, and they’d both stopped coughing, and the smoke alarm had been dealt with, Scratch took a sip. It tasted like burnt, rotten fruit. She just barely managed to choke the first sip down.

‘Eh, it’ll probably grow on you,’ Lucero said, undeterred. Apparently, Scratch realised, this was what happened when you asked a bartender to be creative. 'So what's your deal? Why are you here?'

'Trying to decide whether I have the energy to find someone to hook up with tonight,' Scratch said, before she could stop herself. She wasn't looking in the direction of anyone in particular. Pretty much everyone else here seemed like they probably had unfulfilling spouses, she wasn’t too picky. Then, realising what the question had actually been, and that it had come from someone she had literally just met. 'Uh, I'm Mr. Vandersnoot's private chef. Someone apparently wanted lemon tarts, so I'm getting five grand for a couple of hours of work.’ She shrugged, like it was nothing.

The energy in the room changed. Scratch couldn't tell if it was from her first comment, or her second. Probably the first. She was not exactly the paragon of wholesome and healthy relationships. The word "scumbug" didn't quite describe it, but it was close.

In any case, Lucero had that mysterious sort of expression on their face that only an experienced bartender could muster, and Scratch wasn’t nearly curious enough to push them on the matter. Her first plan of the evening of “win big at blackjack” had been a disaster, and the second plan of “bag a MILF” didn’t seem like it was going to transpire either, so her third choice was “enjoy the free drinks and penthouse suite, and get drunk enough that she didn’t care about the first two anymore.”

Before she had even asked, Lucero was pouring her another drink. Nothing fancy this time, just that same cheap whiskey, mixed with ginger beer. It was pretty good. Scratch usually went for a Kalimotxo, but she didn’t think it would make her any friends in this particular crowd.

‘What about you? She pick you up from casino security as well?’

That mysterious grin deepened. ‘Oh, honey, I never get caught.’ A bit of a pause. ‘No, I’m here for a much better reason than making tarts, trust me.’ It was a comment so unnecessarily vague that Scratch knew it wasn't going to be expounded on, so she didn't bother asking.

Instead, she got to work. Synth the pastry shells because who has time for that, mix eggs, sugar, lemon, etcetera over boiling water, add butter, fill the shells, and then chill, both literally and metaphorically.

Scratch took another glass of whiskey from Lucero, and leaned back against that fine marble countertop to rubberneck.

Mrs. Vandersnoot and her friends were sitting around the coffee table with very full wine glasses, debriefing on their purchases of the day. It was incredibly easy, Scratch knew, to spend a day shopping in Lightport and end it having forked over the GDP of a small planet. She didn't think anyone here would have spent that much, but it was possible nonetheless.

Against her better judgement, Scratch watched closely. It was good practice for a chef to keep an eye and make sure everything was perfect while waiting to serve the food. Okay, she didn't really care about any of that, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Esmerelda held up a small statue of an owl, announcing that she had seen it at the gallery and just had to have it. Behind Scratch, a glass shattered.

Mrs. Vandersnoot chuckled, not at the smashing of glass, but at the owl itself. None of them seemed to have even noticed the glass, which Lucero was now cleaning up hurriedly. ‘Oh, Alarysa would love that. She’s such a big fan of things that belong in museums.’ They all laughed uproariously at what Scratch considered to be an incomprehensible in-joke. She had absolutely no idea who Alarysa was, or what relationship she had to museums. Ultimately, not Scratch's problem.

One by one, the women showed off jewellery and handbags, and one-of-a-kind designer shoes. Sophia showed off a diamond tennis bracelet, and Tiffany gushed over her new thigh-high leather boots, and even Mrs. Vandersnoot had done her fair share of burning money.

‘I was so excited about this necklace when I got it, but now I'm not sure that the colour suits me…Kitty, come here, I think it would look wonderful on you.’ Before Scratch could even comprehend what was happening, she was being dragged to the show-and-tell circle, and a platinum ruby necklace was being affixed around her neck. All the women cooed and nodded in agreement that it looked good, and she was yeeted back to the bar without any further fuss.

‘Those are the best kind of party perks,’ Lucero whispered, just loudly enough that only Scratch could hear them, and even Scratch had to turn slightly so the words caught her good ear. ‘I once got a free designer gown just because Venus was in the wrong house for buying silk.’ Scratch had no idea what any of those words meant, but she got the gist of the statement. She wasn't sure she could imagine any situation in which she could wear this necklace, and she very quietly undid the clasp of it. As she shoved it into her pocket, a truly horrific thought crossed her mind; the possibility that she was getting pygmalioned in an attempt to make her a more suitable partner. This was perhaps the worst case scenario. Scratch absolutely did not want to spend the rest of her life as Kitty Sparklestone (Kitty Vandersnoot?), no matter how nice the pillows were.

That was the beauty of pretending to be someone else. The moment you decided you were done, you could pack up and leave, and anyone who came looking would discover that you had died in a tragic shuttle crash on the way back to your home planet.

Thankfully, Mrs. Vandersnoot had turned her attention back to Olivia's acquisition of a perfume made from flowers that only grew in one very small climate zone of a lush garden moon that Scratch had never even heard of, let alone visited. It smelt very strongly of lavender and Scratch was pretty sure it would be very easy to find a knock-off for less than fifty stilbits.

Eventually, the women ran out of purchases to show off. Scratch was pretty sure she overheard one of them whispering very loudly to another about how gauche Mrs. Vandersnoot's new crystal wine glasses were, and that very much sounded like something else that was not her problem. Frankly it was a miracle that she had even heard it.

What was her problem was the dozen lemon curd tarts that needed garnishing. The casino's kitchens had outdone themselves on supplies; Scratch had asked for berries and mint leaves and creme fraiche, and the kitchen had delivered. She had expected strawberries, but they had sent up several other kinds as well, and she tried not to get too excited about it. They were only berries after all. The tarts would have been fine without them. But Scratch always liked to give things a little flair: if the dish looked nice, then people always seemed to like it more.

So, she washed and cut and delicately placed berries atop the dozen small tarts. The mint leaves would mimic the green bits that she had so painstakingly removed. Lucero watched on in interest, having already poured all the digestifs. ‘Have you been doing this long?’ they asked, curiously, and it was only thanks to the fact that Scratch had turned around to grab the sugar that she heard it.

‘Oh,’ Scratch said, trying to remember what she'd said in her resume. ‘Like ten years maybe?’ From the look on Lucero's face, they had more questions, but an impatient sort of throat clear from Tiffany put a pin in the conversation. Scratch hurriedly dusted the tarts with powdered sugar, and managed to not trip over her own feet when serving them.

There were a couple of impressed “oohs” but no-one mentioned the delightful berry medley, which, frankly, was pretty fucking rude of them. On the plus side, Scratch at least had someone's help to load the dishwasher.

‘So is this a one-time-gig for you, or will you be slinging drinks for a bunch of old white men for the next few weeks, too?’ Scratch wanted to know what kind of company there would be on The Determinator. She liked spending time with Charlotte, but she wasn't sure if her back could handle it every night. Not to mention the fact that now both Mr. and Mrs. Vandersnoot were aware, it was probably a good time to start making some distance.

‘Oh, I'll probably be around,’ Lucero told her, in a manner that was just as cryptic and vague as their previous words on the matter. It wasn't until two days later that Scratch got any insight as to what they meant.