Twelve Days of Christmas, MFU style - Eighth Day

[avirra.livejournal.com]

"Good morning, darlings. Today, I'm the one passing out the packages. Or baskets, to be precise."

"Thank you, April. This reminds me of my youth. Homemade soap, yes?"

"Yes, Illya. Goat's milk soap."

"Are you dropping a hint about the state of our hygiene, Miss Dancer?"

"If you don't want it, Napoleon, I'll take it back. This stuff is wonderful for your skin."

"It certainly doesn't smell goaty, luv - which I consider a large plus. Smells like . . . mint?"

"That's what the lady called it, Mark. Garden Mint."

"After the season is over, I would like you to show me where you were able to find this. It is very much like the soaps my Babushka made."

"I'd be delighted to take you there, Illya."

"Does this really fill your lyric?"

"I don't see why not. The song says the maids were a'milking. They don't mention what was being milked."

"She has a valid point."

"That means we're back to you tomorrow, Illya."

"One lyric left for each of us."

"And the hardest ones of the lot, at that."