Disclaimer: I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?)

Cat and Mouse: The Chase
By Ela-chan

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

Chapter Eight

The Household and its Masters

'Yeah, she's not bad-looking.'

'Sort of pretty, really.'

'In a too-animalistic, voice-too-deep-to-be-legal kind of way.'

Petunia thudded down the stairs with the grace of a giraffe, causing the illegally lounging launderers to quickly smash out their stubs of cigarettes under their bare feet. As the little mistress collected herself off the floor in the most dignified of ways (as in the-most-quiet-so-no-one-would-notice way), the young men hitched the baskets on their hips higher, pretending to count how many stained things were in their respective piles, all the while trying not to scream from the burning sensation on the pads of their feet.

'Good morning, Miss Petunia,' they greeted suavely when Petunia sauntered past, head held ludicrously high. They wisely ignored the limp she now carried. The stubs had scorched their way through their first layer of skin. Teeth bit down on lips.

'You look radiant today, Miss!' Meev almost gasped out, swallowing mountains of slow, eating pain. He closed his eyes in an attempt to avert the picture of the young girl's caked drool and electrified hair.

'Simply fetching!' complied his companion, cutting a clean line through his bottom lip. As the pain registered, Josh, the now-injured, let loose a howl he could not help. It was a hybrid sound of sorts, like a pained seal mating. Both men held their breaths, hoping to whatever higher power listening to force Petunia out of the corridor. Fast.

The girl halted, her stillness shooting shards of annoyance through the Evans employees. Meev and Josh closed their eyes and half-attempted to swallow their lips by sucking them in as fast as they went. The result proved fascinating. Petunia turned slowly and walked (or waddled) toward them, suspicion evident in every step (stumble) she took. Her form stilled a metre away from the squirming men. They visibly cowered under her level gaze.

Petunia took in their curiously arched feet, the way an odd red hue glowed from beneath, their foaming bloody mouths, their narrowed eyes (either from pain or the willingness to possess telepathy to will Petunia away) and the way they practically supported each other upright. Petunia squinted. Meev whimpered. Josh croaked. It was the end for them.

'You're not allowed to use the word 'fetching',' she said carefully, eyeing them with a meaningful air. For a moment, she stayed that way, as though figuring out if either two were women for doing the laundry, or if they would catch another disability the way things were going. When neither proved productive or useful to her, she harrumphed and stalked away (or galloped with grace).

Meev and Josh watched her go, in case she turned back. Their eyes followed her every step, no emotion showing when Petunia stilled at the end of the corridor, threw up her arms and howled something about her sister the rest of the way to the kitchens.

Meev and Josh leapt off their stubs, hurled the basket full of clothes over their heads and collapsed on their bottoms, blowing and spitting on their soles. It was a sorry sight, but smoking wasn't allowed in the Evans Household.

'I want that sodding cake white, damn it, you plebeian little idiot! Not brown, not grey, not bloody pink – white! White! The colour all our shirts were before that scary witch decided to not give us any more bloody uniforms!'

He strangled the frightened assistant, moustache all a-quiver and mouth foaming at the edges. Kao, the Evans personal cake-maker, was not happy. Not happy, at all. In fact, he was so not happy that he felt like murdering many little helpless things, namely little helpless icing-boy. All of his three chins wobbled in acquiesce.

'Little boy, you do not appreciate the beauty that is cake-making!'

Kao snatched the wooden spoon from the boy's tight clutches and made a great show of preparing one's stance while delicately mixing a large bowl of cake batter. It wasn't exactly pretty.

'Now,' he said tightly, waggling his infinite number of derrieres as far as they would go. 'You stand like this –' he stomped his feet, almost squashing his tiny companion's and cracking the roof in two '– and you mix like this.' With those words, he sank the wooden spoon into almost shin-deep batter and whisked it at the speed of light. Avalanches of flesh wriggled on his arms. Splodges of white (or grey) ricocheted on the walls, on their faces, on the benches, on the cat and on the ceiling fan above. Kao didn't seem to notice. He manically looped and looped and looped the mixture until it was as frothy as used toothpaste.

'And that is how you mix,' he wheezed, taking out the spoon and brandishing it in his assistant's face. More white flew happily around and Kao collapsed on the floor, energy-drained. The wide-eyed assistant shakily watched him for a minute before bolting out of the cake section of the kitchens.

All that was to be heard was the steady sizzle spark pop of the stoves until mysterious voices spoke up in dark, dark melancholic shadows. (Or the bright benches a little way away adjacent.)

'He really has to stop doing that to first-timers,' observed a woman kneading dough.

'And what, clean out all the fun we have doing this?' replied her fellow kneader, slamming flour onto the bench, spraying their faces as white as Kao's chin.

'On second thought, let the man foam all he wants!'

They cackled for a long period of time, hacking coughs into the dough as they finished.

'Scissors, paper, rock – scissors, paper, rock – scissors; oh, for Pete's sake, you worthless piece of cross-dressing –'

'I won it fair and square. Now, wipe my part of the floor like a good little big loser.'

'Oh, sod off, you prostitute-like – Good morning, ma'am!'

Both abandoned their games and stood, backs like planks, as Petunia whizzed by. Their salutations went unnoticed, however, as it seemed their little mistress had more entertaining thoughts within her mind. She shuffled past the young corridor cleaners, eyes not even drawn them the least bit.

'Well, hello, I love you, too,' drawled the younger cleaner contemptuously, pulling a face. She ground her mop into the floor with sulky childishness as her companion roared with laughter.

'Here, here! Come on! Are you blind, woman?'

'I'd get it in if you just held it still.'

'I am – it's just your fat eyelids wobbling.'

'Come here and say that you – Hello, Miss Petunia!'

Elliotte hurled the washing cloth she was about to aim in the suds bucket over her shoulder. The cat yowled and Elliotte and her companion pasted on their best smiles.

'Why, Miss Petunia, where is Miss Lilliane J.? She is usually up before you, err, begging your pardon for saying, Miss.'

Petunia halted completely and swivelled to face Jane, Elliotte's friend. The younger girl's eyes were narrowed, a confused and almost-offended nature in them. Jane and Elliotte bit down the urge to slap her face. Before they would induce their violent nature, however, Petunia's eyes widened and she fled out of the corridor, continuing her high-speed chase for her mother. She was howling again.

Jane and Elliotte stared, blinking slowly.

'Err, okay.'

'I told you she was retarded.'

'Dear? Dear, open the door. It's me.'

No answer.

'Elspeth. Elspeth, open the door.' (He called her Elspeth because it was the name Lillian. J had said when she was six and demanding an dog. It had stuck.)

Thrice knocked, again ignored.

'Elspe –'

'It's open.'

He swallowed his embarrassment and went inside. The click of the door closing sounded much louder than it usually did, jarring his ears somewhat. The room was dark. The candles were lit, one by the table beside the door, and two beside the silhouette of Elizabeth Evans.

'Elspeth,' he said to himself, shaking his head. It was so typical.

'I don't want to go up there right now. I just want to make that clear before you say anything. I'm not going up there. I'm not.'

'We might not need Petunia either if you're going to go about acting like that, love.'

He stood behind her, their reflections an eerie depiction of the world. His hands went instantly to her hair, fingers slipping through the locks easily, like a needle through unwoven silk.

Elizabeth did not appreciate the jest. She moved away from the dresser, crossing her arms. Her eyes were half-lidded and clouded. Her movements were restrained with a force invisible. A force like pushed-away guilt.

'Don't be so emotional, Elizabeth,' crooned Patrick, idly playing with a candle's flame. It danced around his finger, he observed, like his wife was dancing around the past, avoiding it, perhaps. 'If we keep our cool through this, Lillian J. will be fine.' He cursed as the flame bit into his skin. It quivered and died. He picked up the candle, the wax like melting webs. Thoughtfulness seeped through his lowered lashes as he looked at his plaything. 'Just … don't exaggerate things, Elspeth, love.'

'It doesn't need exaggerating, Patrick.' It was a breathy hiss. Tightly closed eyes now. 'You talk like it's just an everyday thing. She looks like him too much. She looks so much, just too much like him, Patrick.'

He smiled sadly and set down the candle. It looked withered beside its illuminated counter. His shoulder sagged somewhat.

'See? You're too emotional.'

'Wouldn't you be if she was your daughter?'

It was a deadpanned statement, but its edges were surprisingly sharp. It bit at Patrick hotter than he thought. Emotion leaked through his eyes. Annoyance twitched on his finger.

'She is my daughter.'

Elizabeth stood still, arms crossed, eyes shut and memory raging. White exploded beneath her lids and black spotted about when she opened them. Without another word, she turned and walked to her husband.

'Of course she is.'

They embraced emptily. It was more than they could give, and the contact was far too cold to be called emotion anymore.

Read? Review, then!

lacy -- the 'what happened?' will be explained. XD