"How would I go about fruitcake, Jeeves?"
By having me make it and licking the bowl. I shudder as he scrapes the bottom.
"Jeeves?"
Unclean thoughts. Unclean. I resort to outrage.
"Sir. That is not hygienic."
To my satisfaction, the cake is a success. Moist, even without alcohol. I promise Emerald the recipe.
I bleed when they cut it. He will never feed me bliss. I cannot lick his fingers.
He finds me smoking afterwards. I always cry at weddings.
"For you, Jeeves." He presses it into my hand. It is a small, marzipan newt.
He did sculpt the topper.