Tea time

 The devil makes work for idle hands. Beelzebub is blacked with elbow grease, the air puckered with toil.  Workbenches stand scrubbed raw, dredged with the dust of breads proving in the heat. An army of minions bustle beyond the kitchen, worker bees serving the hive, the metronome of life beating its allegro.
          The copper kettle gargles a rising scale as water gushes from protesting pipes. Dew drops hiss from its base as it settles on the range. Moments pass before a curlicue of steam poses unanswerable questions, puffing and billowing them into a confusion of  clouds. A harried kitchen maid appears, cloth in hand, and heaves the boiling kettle from the heat.
        Vultures begin to circle, drawing close to the domestic heart, tasting impending gossip on the air. Cook squints at the maid with scrutiny, ready with one lasts scratch of severity,
        "And don't forget to warm the pot."