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Cat and Mouse: The Chase
By Ela-chan

Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?

Chapter Seven

Before and What Comes

The morning dawned without preamble and the day began in bright illuminato. An impossibly clear sky boasted and highlighted the sun's good morning bitch rays, casting light throughout the world and into the ocean depths. Yet despite the almost-godly hour and strength of the sun, neither mere fragment nor strip of light penetrated the cement-like curtains of the Evans residence.

So, naturally, it was rather the tedious chore to have to wake up from the recesses of one's subconscious mind to commence their daily routine of eat, badger, screw, bother, badger, eat and possibly shower. It was a shame, really, to have them miss out on such a lovely day of buzzing, smiley bees, honeysuckle-scented air and little pink tinted wisps of hybrid clouds. It was a shame, truly, for those who were tangled amidst their silken, inhumanely expensive duvets. They just blatantly refused to come awake.

It was almost midday in their part of lonely England and it appeared as though the Evans family and the rest of their staff / slaves / cooks / etcetera were going to sleep through out it all. That was their profound intention, of course, until Petunia burst into her sister's room, foaming at the mouth, mistaking her own music that she had left open the night before to be her sister's irksome stereo. She was planning on howling at Lillian J. until both their ears imploded into unknown pieces, but when she caught site of the paleness and sickly look of her sister and how no movement stirred at a loud sound, she did the only thing that a composed, highly calm older sister would do if faced in such a dramatic circumstance.

She screamed at the top of her lungs.

The pitch of her scream climaxed at near sonic-boom level, making the several tens of pairs of feet pounding up the stairs become implausible to hear. Bare feet smeared with coal and flour and whatnot along with many bodies still shaking themselves from the clutches of sleep exploded through the door, knocking Petunia off her feet and onto the floor, silencing her effectively.

Many cries of 'Who in the name of all things holy is making that racket so early in the morning?', 'Who did that?', 'What's wrong?' and 'ARGH!' erupted in the air, mingling harmoniously with the still steady twitter-croak that was Petunia.

Gregory, who was the chief cook around the Evans place, was the only one who did not resort to covering his ears from the stupid sound their little mistress was still bloody making. With the grace of a man trained by an aristocrat since he was a little tot smearing carrots all over the walls, he strode to Petunia in dignified steps, face stoic, and promptly shoved her, nightgown, nightcap and all, into the nearest hole – which happened to be Lillian J.'s shoe cupboard. She was silenced, either from the smell of the shoes overwhelming her horse nostrils, or from the shock that one of the servants actually dared become violent.

All five lower-ranked workers stared profoundly at their superior, some blatantly impressed, some abhorrently adoring. A pause occurred in which Gregory waved delicately away their hushed praise. Having dealt with one Evans daughter, he instinctively looked over to the other and what he saw promptly stole away what was left of the colour in his face and instantly let his emotions show through.

'Get Mrs Evans,' he hissed to the closest person. The ordered complied immediately and raced down the several stair cases and corridors to summon the summoned. The other four patiently questioned what their orders were but having received a harsh 'be quiet' recoiled and shrank back, like vulnerable puppies shown a torch and burned with it.

Gregory walked briskly to the side of Lillian J.'s bed, eyes bewildered. He gulped nervously, laying the back of his hand across his charge's pale forehead. The temperature was normal. He narrowed his eyes, suspicion trickling in. With a steady hand, he felt the pulse of her heart by the throat. Normal as normal could be. He stepped back, bewildered, and surveyed her with a detached eye. No sweat coated her skin, her breathing wasn't erratic, just steady … she wasn't thrashing, as though haunted by a nightmare. It was as though she were sleeping soundly, normally, without anything amiss. Except the blood from her face. She was pale, yes, but that was it.

'… lucky I haven't fired you or set you on fire, ungratefulmiscreant – Gregory!'

Ah, Mrs Evans.

Storming footsteps rattled the space around the chef. He stood firmly and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With a calm air, he looked at the seething woman before him and inclined his head respectfully, to which Mrs Evans huffed unsurprisingly at.

'What in the name of all things holy is wrong with you?' She cuffed him around the ear as if he were a child. 'Waking us up at the crack of dawn – I should have you burned for that!'

It's like I'm the witch, Gregory thought airily.

'Madame,' he said, clearing his throat politely. 'It's just -- err, your daughter, Madame. She might be a little, err, indisposed.' He pointed to the bed. Mrs Evans' eyes followed angrily, mind insisting the violent way out. What she saw, however, forced all other thought from her mind and forced one particular one to replace it all.

tubes liquid wheeze i'm sorry medicine white impossible daughter

She fell back, fur-padded feet taking involuntary steps away from her youngest daughter. All emotion melted from her face, leaving it a bare surface, like an unfinished sculpture of glass.

i do care i don't for you it's not like that i didn't mean to wasn't thinking

She backed away, and away, until her back collided with the door. The people once behind her parted ways, letting her through. Her hand was shaking as it groped and groped for the rasp of the door, apparent desperation obvious to all. When her fingers found it, they gripped for a long moment, still, with a vice-like grip. Her eyes seemed to quiver in their sockets as she looked on at her stationery daughter. Glints that may or may not be tears twinkled by her ducts. She was still devoid of all feeling, her body like an empty chasm, wind billowing, like a hallow echo.

'I – I –' she tried, free hand shooting to her throat as though something there damned the breath from her lungs. Slowly, she began trembling. First her hands, then her arms, then her torso. But before her legs followed suit, she turned, and fled from the room.

Every pair of eyes, bar one, stared bewilderedly at her wake. The lone couple left belonged to Mr Evans, plain worry dotted by his temples.

'Gregory, kindly fetch the family doctor,' he said, not an ounce of order in his tone. It seemed his voice received the same reaction as his wife's screech. The head chef inclined his head a little lower than he did to Mrs Evans and walked resolutely out of the room, but not without a backward, anxious glance at the grown little girl he used to feed apple pieces. As soon as his footsteps faded to nil, the head of the house sent the others watching to retrieve what they thought would assist the present circumstances. They too bowed and scuffled out.

A brief silence bathed Mr Evans and he took the moment as opportune. He slowly breathed in and out, soothing the nerves contracting in his mind and in his body. Those observant eyes of his closed on instinct. His façade may have been comforting and brave from another's point of view, but he knew his own feet were touching the cliff's edge, ready to keep inching forward, and forward, until he fell. Strength only went as far as his emotions would let, and his emotions were easily tampered with. His eyes opened and he found his mind clearer. A thought struck him, one that brought upon the mystery of what the house cooks were doing in his daughter's bedroom in the first place.

'Petunia,' he muttered to himself at once, a slight creasing taking him between the eyes. He stood straighter, ignoring the agonizing silence that was uncharacteristic of his Lily's private dwelling. With two once-overs of the wide room, he made for the shoe cupboard and wrenched it open. As soon as the scene revealed itself, Mr Evans revelled in the fact that he could witness such a site.

There, curled in a foetal position, was his eighteen-year-old daughter, thumb in between her lips and snoring contently. Warmth of a Father's love seeped into him and he looked at her for a longer while, cursing time for letting her grow up so fast. A great ball of memory, however, slammed itself at the back of his head in the form of a clumsy servant offering a basin with furious muttering of how the household was in total chaos.

'Why?' asked Mr Evans, rubbing the back of his head and taking the basin from the youth. 'Thank you for bringing this up.'

'It's the Missis, Sir,' the youth blurted, bowing thrice in the one sentence, creating interesting effects with his voice. 'She hasn't given the orders for the party this evening and the party commences in seven hours and no one is ready and the little mistresses' clothes have not arrived from –'

'Will you stop that confounded bowing?' demanded Mr Evans, feeling a knot of impatience swelling by his jaw. The voice effects of the young man did not ease many things.

'I apologize, Sir!' squeaked he, desisting and stepping back. He wrung his hands over and over, eyes so overly bright. Mr Evans saw a trickle of cold sweat crawl down his face. His eyes narrowed, and without warning, he slammed the young man on the wall adjacent.

'Who are you?' he hissed, eyes matching the brightness of the youth's.

'Jo – Joseph, Sir,' croaked the reply, voice almost a wheeze. 'Sir, if you please, you're hurting me –'

'What do you know?' Mr Evans growled, nose almost touching Joseph's. His teeth were feral bared and a vein pounded in his temple. His long fingers fisted the boy's flour-stained shirt, creating wrinkles that would go unnoticed in the kitchen.

Joseph squeaked again in reply and looked everywhere else but the intense face of Mr Evans.

'Answer me.' The hiss sent shivers through him and Joseph's bravery wavered.

'Nothing, Sir, it's just that I – I – I saw something that wasn't right last night in the kitchens but Gregory said to leave it because he needed me to do something else and I couldn't do anything about it because he hauled me away from the toffee apples and I –'

'Toffee apples?!' exploded Mr Evans, throwing Petunia out of the recesses of her slumber. She leapt from the closet and into the room with a pained yelp, slipping on a fur rug. Neither man noticed her unceremonious heap on the floor.

'What toffee apples?!'

Joseph whimpered and clawed at the hands around his shirt.

'Please, Sir, I'm only recalling what I said and I didn't see much of it and I don't know if what I saw what correct –'

Mr Evans ground the boy harder into the wall, making sure to create bruises for him to nurse for the next week. There was something not right at work here, and when it involved foul play and his youngest daughter, it was his business, prerogative and duty to make sure she was not hurt. The thought of this failure under his nose forced him to react unusually violent.

'Didn't see much of what?! What bloody toffee apples?!'

Joseph's breathing was erratic. The air was tightening. The pin was about to fall.

'Nothing, Sir! I just saw someone who didn't belong drop something into the toffee while it was boiling and then Gregory dipped the apples Miss Lilliane loves into it and when I looked back the person was gone and – and – and I don't know, Sir!'

The boy collapsed into tears and once Mr Evans released him from his grip, Joseph fled out of the room and into the kitchens, frightened tears burning his reddened cheeks.

Mr Evans stood there, hands still aloft and facing the wall. A sense of wonder and apprehension scorched through the tunnels of his veins and across the senses he possessed. Something isn't right, he thought vaguely, something, someone … did something to his little girl.

He stood there, like a clueless phantom, thoughts fighting a useless battle in his mind. Petunia picked herself up from the floor with as much grace as she had fallen with and put her shirt front to back again.

'Well, you're certainly chipper in the morning,' she breathed out, looking mockingly at her Father's back and then looked around the room with a disgusted air, seemingly stringing together an insult at how ugly the colours were. Then her eyes fell upon her sister and she remembered why she was there in the first place. Once again, with utmost calm, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

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