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Chapter 27. Is This The Real Life? Is This Just Fantasy?
by Desmond
She was beautiful.
Desmond needed no more invitation than her smile – alluring, warm – to approach the squirrelmaid. She accepted his offered paw, and they whirled into a dance, waltzing deliciously around the ballroom, filled with distinguished guests. Desmond guided her slowly to one of the corners where the shadows would hide them from prying eyes. She smirked up at him, having read his mind.
"I believe it's customary to introduce oneself before making advances, sir," she breathed teasingly into his ear.
"Customary, but a complete bore." Desmond stared at her and then blinked. "Lisa?" he asked in surprise.
"Your own," she replied. "Kiss me, darling, it's been ages…"
"You can't be," he said sharply, pushing her away. "You're…"
"Dead. You killed me."
She was Estella! Her voice was flat as her blank eyes stared into his.
Desmond felt a silent scream rip through his throat. "Go away!" he shrieked, clawing at his paws, trying to rid them of the cold feeling that her touch had left. "I don't want you! Leave me alone!"
She advanced toward him, forcing him back into a corner. "You don't deserve to be alone." Her paws reached for his throat, and he could imagine the moment when they would strangle him with their embrace…
Desmond woke to find himself face-down in the pillow, gasping for breath. The sheets were tangled uncomfortably around him, and he spent several minutes extricating himself from their silken grasp. The squirrel squinted around his chamber, letting his eyes adjust; it was morning, and much earlier than he was accustomed to waking. He always slept badly in new surroundings, and this had been no exception, despite the comfort of the bed.
The memory of the dream filled his head, and he frowned thoughtfully. It had been ages since he'd even thought of Lisa, much less dreamed of her. They'd only been married for a season before he'd effectively sent her into exile…
Desmond pushed the dream – especially the ending, which made him shudder – from his thoughts and dragged himself out of bed. He caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall and croaked in dismay. He was an absolute mess. Ravenous though he was, it simply wouldn't do to go down to breakfast and let everybeast see him in this state. The squirrel sighed and looked around for his comb – he could have sworn that he'd left it on the nightstand the day before…
Quite abruptly, he stopped and laughed.
"It doesn't matter," he said aloud and leered at the mirror. All but one of them were going to die anyway – what did it matter what he did anymore? He could do anything he liked!
And that is precisely why he went down to breakfast clad only in his striped pajamas.
*
Breakfast was uneventful. Biara, took note of his unconventional garb with a raised eyebrow and a snide remark - "Did you forget something?"
Desmond smirked. "I simply realized that certain things are no longer as important. You should all try it, it's terribly comfortable."
Her expression remained unconvinced. "Well, let's hope you don't catch cold."
The squirrel helped himself to food and sat down in his chair, the same one he'd had the night before, and thoroughly enjoyed himself. The toast was perfect, and the tea was strong, the way he liked it. And, of course, halfway through his meal, Quincy burst in and ruined the whole thing. At least, he mused, as he held up his spoon to check his teeth for crumbs, he was still alive, which was more than could be said for Sootpaws.
But Quincy, of course, couldn't leave it at that; there would have to be organization. Desmond mentally sighed. Just when he'd decided to enjoy himself, too.
Still, he got up with the rest when the time came to draw straws, and when he pulled one of the shortest twigs, he looked around curiously to see which of the other eight were in his group.
Oh 'gates, he fumed silently. That pansy of a hare and possibly the most unattractive female in the whole room, the windbag of an otter who called herself Flynn. Desmond had never liked female warriors, even the pretty ones; their looks were always entirely wasted on them. And they usually hid weapons under their clothing, which made things awkward.
"Well," said Quincy, "I guess we're in this together."
"Pity," Desmond remarked. "Because I don't like either of you."
Quincy eyed him, disdain touching his face. "Regardless, I think you understand how important it is to work together." He paused. "Aren't you a little underdressed?"
"If I'm facing the possibility of dying any minute, I think I at least deserve to be comfortable in the meantime," the squirrel snapped.
"Suit yourself," said Quincy coldly. "But if we're lucky, we'll find a way out of this soon." He looked at Flynn. "Any ideas for what we should search for?" he asked.
"We need to find the professor," Desmond said quickly, before the otter could speak. "He's the key to all of this. And I have a… matter to discuss with him." He closed his mouth tightly. He still had no idea where – or who – Helena was, or even if she existed. The invitation, he remembered with a jolt, had said that she was Falliss's niece, but when he'd received it, he'd assumed that his host was a squirrel like himself. He certainly hoped he hadn't come all this way just to meet an owl. Perhaps "Niece" was just an endearing term…
Flynn shrugged. "Sounds fine to me," she said. "Let's get started."
*
They began their search in the vacant bedroom next to Flynn's, checking the walls and behind the furniture for any switches that might trigger the door to a hidden passage. Desmond gave his half-hearted help, sitting down on the bed half-way through and watching the other two finish. He could almost see Quincy getting angry with him, and he laughed inwardly when the hare spun around and exploded.
"Look, the only way this is going to work is if we all do our share!" He glared at the squirrel.
"You should have considered who you wanted to be assigned to before you made everyone draw straws," Desmond returned coolly. "I'm sure you could have found a way to make it happen."
He saw Flynn out of the corner of his eye, staring at him with disgust. "Are you saying we should have cheated? Well, I wouldn't put it past you to have done so!"
Desmond raised his eyebrows incredulously. "You think I'd cheat to end up with you lot? Don't flatter yourself, darling, I have more refined taste."
"Yes, we know, you don't like us," Quincy snapped. "The feeling's mutual. But the longer you let us do all the work, the longer we're going to be locked up in this place."
The squirrel opened his mouth and then closed it again when one of the servants, a male rat, appeared in the doorway.
"Excuse me," said the beast flatly. "The master has asked that no one touch anything in this room." He eyed Desmond, who was bouncing slightly on the springy mattress. Desmond grinned.
"You should try it," he said. "It might put a smile on that face." He laughed at the absurdity of the idea and slid off the bed.
The rat waited in silence until all three had exited the room and then closed the door and glided off to find other rules to enforce, no doubt.
"Well," said Quincy. "I suppose we'd better move on, then." He turned his gaze to Flynn. "Would you mind us searching your room?"
She shrugged. "I searched it myself, but feel free."
They filed into the otter's room, but the search was brief and turned up nothing. Desmond pointed to the writing desk, which was unlocked and empty.
"Was this empty when you first got here?" he asked Flynn.
"I don't know," she replied. "It was locked when I arrived, and whoever opened it did so while I was out of the room."
"There doesn't seem to be anything hidden here, unless you count the weapons," Quincy spoke up, a disapproving tone coloring his voice.
Flynn turned to face him. "I like to be prepared," she said, her voice harsh. "Just because I'm willing to work with whoever I have to doesn't mean that everybeast feels the same way. I'd rather be safe than dead."
Quincy opened his mouth to reply, but Desmond cut in.
"Yes, well, I'm sure it would be lovely to spend our time on a philosophical discussion, but I think our time would be better spent continuing our search." He cleared his throat and led the way out the door.
They stopped outside the next doorway and Desmond looked at the other two. "What room is this?" he asked.
"The ballroom," Flynn replied. "One of the servants gave me a tour," she explained to Desmond's questioning expression.
They pushed through the double doors. Desmond looked around with interest; the large room was lit, surprisingly – probably so the servants could clean, he mused. A bow with the string cut was leaning neatly against the wall next to the entrance with a little pile of broken arrows next to it. Desmond wondered how on earth they'd gotten there. He wandered around the edge of the room, admiring the paintings hung on the walls. Mad or not, Falliss had impeccable taste.
"Desmond! Quincy! C'mere!" The command was issued in a loud stage whisper. Desmond looked over at Flynn and saw she was in the center of the room, gesturing for the other two to follow her. The squirrel and the hare did so and she silently led them to the door that presumably led to a powder room. The door was slightly ajar, and Desmond started when he heard voices from within. The three crowded around to listen.
"…and I believe I informed you that I am fully capable of attending to my work without you going behind my back." There was a hint of irritation in the business-like voice.
"I have no idea what you're referring to, Jeremy." Desmond craned his neck to try to see the speakers but the door wasn't open far enough to give any of them a good view.
"The imposter, Sootpaws," said Jeremy impatiently. "You killed him, didn't you. After the professor asked me to see to it."
"That's ridiculous. I was nowhere near the armory when he died." Their tones were becoming heated, Desmond noted with interest. It was the first time he'd seen – or heard, rather – any of the servants display emotion.
"This wouldn't be the first time you've tried to take my place, Agatha," Jeremy said sharply. "No matter what you try, the professor isn't going to promote you just because you go behind my back. I'll thank you to tend to your own business from here on."
Flynn frowned at the other two. "Sootpaws's death was an accident," she whispered. "No one killed him."
Quincy signaled for her to be silent.
"Think what you like," Agatha said flatly. "I haven't done anything out of turn. And the professor will promote me, when he realizes that I was made better than you were."
"What on earth?" Desmond muttered. "What an odd thing to say."
Quincy elbowed him in the side to silence him, but unfortunately, the action didn't achieve success. Desmond yelped, alerting the two servants of their presence. The three moved back from the door and attempted to look nonchalant as Jeremy stepped out, his straight face belying the irritated tone he'd used only moments before.
"Forgive us," said Quincy politely. "We were just exploring. You seem to be quite busy, so we'll just get out of your way." He smiled and motioned for the other two to follow him.
Desmond looked around thoughtfully as they left the ballroom. He wanted to dance. He missed dancing.
He stopped in surprise when Quincy whirled around to face the other two. "Did you hear them? What do you suppose she meant, 'I was made better than you were'?"
"Makes no sense to me," Flynn admitted, rubbing her forehead.
Desmond just shrugged. "Whatever it means," he remarked, "One thing is quite clear: the servants aren't as lifeless as they pretend to be." He smiled suddenly. The little squirrelmaid he'd met the day before just might be worth pursuing after all…
Quincy nodded, though his mind was doubtless not going along the same lines as the squirrel's. "That could be useful." He poked his head into the next room and then gestured them toward the door. "Shall we adjourn to the lounge?"
Desmond's shoulders sagged. And they were still on the first floor! He had a feeling that the day could only get worse.
Unfortunately, he was right.
