He scrubbed the floor like it had never been clean. It was absolutely spotless whenever Zvan was finished with it, but sure enough half a moment later the Lord and his sons arrived in their carriage and stomped around on the stone floor tracking in all manner of mud from outside. Zvan wasn't even sure that there was mud to be had - he was often convinced they dropped water on the dirt before exiting the carriage and gleefully messed up the clean floors on purpose.

He was positive that Lord Jlean was doing it on purpose, anyway. With the look that the puma man had in his stormy green eyes on entering the kitchens, he sneered down at Zvan his 'son' cheetah, who didn't raise his eyes to meet the man's.

"It's not clean here," Jlean announced flatly, but with a coldness that meant something at their meeting had gone awry and he was not happy. Zvan kept cleaning, scrubbing with the brush until all traces of passage had been removed again. The young men that posed as Zvan's elder 'brothers' had tromped through moments before, leaving their pawprints everywhere for their father to notice. They had chosen the dry places, too, where Zvan had long since finished.

With a sigh, well into the evening, Zvan cleaned. Perhaps in the morning, he would only be beaten a little, because the place really did shine. Zvan crept into his bed, which at that point he was happy to have. Even if it was halfway outside, stuck under the pantry where the kitchen met the carriage yard. A pile of stones and old hay stood where the wall had collapsed a little, and any shred of material Zvan could find he put up to seal the holes.

And he was halfway convinced that sometimes Jlean kicked at the loose rubble, just to tear it a bit down again.

The cheetah male was a few years younger than his adopted siblings, and considerably smaller in build. Pumas were the largest of the so-called 'small' cats, and cheetahs the smallest of the 'big' cats, however Jlean's build was much closer to a lion, and his sons the same. Zvan's father had passed away during the great cold winter eight years before, and his mother was wooed by this grey-green man quickly enough. They married, and within a year Zvan's mother was dead too.

Though he was close to sixteen at this time, Zvan was not as tall as he should have been, nor his limbs as full and muscular as they could be. He was hardly nourished by the scraps he was able to sneak from the kitchen. He had to cook for the family, their last servant had been let go some time before, and Zvan was for some reason expected to pick up the slack of cooking, cleaning, and tending to Jlean's needs.

He had an appetite, and was used to superb food. Zvan learned quickly how to make what his 'father' enjoyed, and at least when full from a feast the man didn't jump up to beat Zvan for some other imagined transgression. The young men - aged twenty and twenty-two - who still lived with their father had failed in every way to secure themselves wives, but Jlean refused to punish them for it. Even though they could well afford to live with servants, he insisted that every penny had to go to a dowry or to woo their potential mates. Or Jlean's next, or perhaps just to buy another bottle of wine.

Zvan felt they were rather a pack of liars, a group of bachelor lions who had no intention of 'settling down'. He himself missed his real family. He had had a brother and sister, both gone though he knew his brother might still be alive. He missed his mother, who was somewhat round bodied for a cheetah, and a much better cook. Zvan thought absently while he tried to sleep, that he was lucky he inherited that skill from her at least, it was serving him well.

Before he slipped into blissful sleep, he heard Ohrn, one of his step-brothers, speaking to Jharn. "And you think she'll choose one of us? What if she does not? Father will be furious."

"Let him be, we will try harder."

What could they be talking about? She who? Choose?

With such wonder in his mind, Zvan fell asleep and all but forgot about the conversation he'd heard by the morning. His slumber as always was broken by the rooster in the yard declaring itself awake, and the sound of Jlean upstairs grumbling about how some day he'd kill the little beast. Scrambling to his feet and bolting into the kitchen, Zvan lit a fire and began making tea, he'd have to bake some biscuits since they were almost out. When he looked into the pantry he saw that which he dreaded most: they would run out of flour by the week's end. He would have to ask Jlean to buy some more. That would require Zvan to endure a lashing or two.

It might get the man out of the house, though, to buy more. Zvan steeled himself, and while the tea pot boiled he had assembled a short list of items that he had to have before their household could eat another meal. At least this way, Zvan pondered, he could be beaten once, instead of five times.

With great fear and a lump in his throat, Zvan served breakfast, which was hot herb tea, thick warmed biscuits with heavy butter and strawberries and then a serving of cold ham with scrambled eggs. When they were almost done, and Zvan was picking up their dishes (and upon bringing them back to the kitchen, licking them practically clean and hastily wiping his muzzle of the evidence), he crept back out to ask for Jlean to buy their supplies.

The puma let out a long low belch, instead of a growl, which was in itself a good sign. Zvan added to his plea, "I was hoping to make the chicken curry dish you like, and we've no more spices, you do like it hot."

"Yes, yes I do!" Jlean exclaimed. "Go on, I will join you, it's an excuse to buy something better than this for it," he said after pausing a moment - whatever 'it' was, he didn't intend Zvan to know what it was. So today, Zvan got away without being beaten.

Breakfast for the men had been uneventful if a little quiet, the brothers went out almost immediately into town on foot. Wherever Jlean and they had been the day before had required the use of their carriage, which Jlean commanded. That meant it had to have been much farther than the township nearby. Their house was a large stone building of three stories, framed by a forbidding and rather tall stone wall. Jlean must have fancied himself a little king, that's how the place always looked to Zvan, like a small squat castle.

Every inch of the place had been at one point or another, cleaned by the cheetah. He liked having to go outside and wash the windows, clear the roof of whatever had fallen on it, or chase animals out of the attic. He got to go outside, then. At almost all other times, he was required to remain indoors and be unseen by anyone. If he was seen, it was as a dirty servant.

If anyone did spot the boy, they only saw a grey-black blur of motion covered in a fine layer of ash from the fireplaces. The flash of burnt-orange or bronze occasionally came through, the glimpse of a spot might give away that he was of big-cat blood, but nothing else. Jlean never mentioned him to anyone, certainly, and the boys were less inclined to speak in kind terms - they often mocked him or taunted him. Sometimes they threw things at him, which Zvan was adept at dodging. He never tried dodging Jlean's whip, not after the one time.

Zvan breathed a sigh of relief when Jlean exited the house and went to town to locate the supplies and later his sons. And most likely, to visit the tavern and flirt with the girls - he always challenged his sons to find a better catch than he, when they came home after nights whoring. Zvan was expected to have dinner ready and the beds clean when they got home, of course, so he started the roast (the curry chicken would have to be another day naturally) and got to work upstairs.

It was actually a wonder that Zvan didn't track any dirt around himself, being that he had to clean the furnace in the back, dig through ashes in the kitchen, clean the flue of all three other fireplaces, shine the mantle of the hearth in the main hall, beat the rugs outside, and all the other grungy work that went with cleaning a small castle. Not one footprint did this cat leave behind. Even when he furtively tried to brush some of the ash off his coat, the dirt didn't seem to go anywhere - certainly not on the floor.

Upstairs, Lord Jlean's room was specifically off-limits. He didn't enter, didn't even look inside. Not even when there was a bad smell coming from it, Jlean always seemed to tidy up after himself - perhaps his one secret. Zvan suspected he'd kept dead bodies in there, but what the man did with them after they'd turned ripe was a mystery even the cheetah didn't want to know.

The brothers' rooms were just above the kitchen, with a window each above the outside carriage yard. Their rooms were cluttered with clothing and bits of this and that. The people of this world didn't wear all that much clothing of course, being furred and finned, feathered and scaled. But they did enjoy dressing up sometimes - covering bits of themselves with clever articles like gloves, anklets, belts, sashes and robes. They adorned their heads with hats, their shoulders sported cowls and capes.

That was for the rich, of course. Jlean and his boys weren't poor, by any means, but they were seemingly out of touch with fashion today - and they required something more modern for whatever 'it' was that Jlean had mentioned. Zvan picked up Ohrn's leggings, folding them carefully and putting them into the closet. He had stacks of odd clothing, sometimes they would be all scattered around, and others they were hardly touched. Moody creatures, those boys. In Jharn's room, after making the bed and tidying up the window sill which had several wine glasses on it and some spilled down the wall, Zvan was just about to leave and clean the glasses, when he saw something.

He blinked, holding the wine glasses and two shirts that needed mending. He brought those things into the kitchen, quickly cleaned the glasses and set his sewing kit up to work. But what he'd seen distracted him. It was the corner of an envelope, he was positive. Ivory colored paper was hard to come by, usually it was a kind of dingy grey-brown shade, and so this envelope was from someone rich - and probably far away.

As Zvan sewed distractedly, putting a small patch onto a shoulder and hemming up a wrist band on another shirt, he considered the facts. Ohrn said 'she' and 'choose', they'd been out somewhere farther than the local town, and Jlean asserted they needed to impress 'her' with something. He was done with the sewing. He had to bring it back into Jharn's room, didn't he? Of course he did.

He knew how to put things back carefully, so that no one knew he'd been there. He had read much of Jlean's library that way - in the few times when he had time, he would sit by the fire place (without a fire, that would be a disaster because Lord Jlean let no one in his library) and read. Jlean didn't really know his servant-stepson could read more than a few words - he didn't question that the boy knew weights and measures, and simple words for food supplies. And Zvan was careful not to let out that he did know rather advanced things.

The shape of the world. The many species in it. Maths that Jlean's boys couldn't do. Exotic tales of faraway places, ships and magic. He wasn't sure he believed in magic. But a lot of books mentioned it. Jlean was not a religious man, but there were religious texts in his library. Zvan didn't feel like choosing one of those, either, to pray to - not publically, not in front of Jlean. How would he know about such things if not by the library?

So upstairs, Zvan went carefully. He knew it had only been about an hour - and the men wouldn't be back in the house until at least late afternoon. They never went to town and came right back. He placed the shirts in their cupboard, arranging them so that if Jharn noticed it at all, he'd see they had been fixed. And then Zvan's bright blue eyes went to the table where a pile of papers and books (which he was always instructed to leave alone) sat. Under them, rested the piece of telltale ivory paper. It was thick, heavy paper, folded, he could see where it had been ripped open on the edge. Zvan licked his muzzle. He would be in so much trouble if he...

He kept looking over his shoulder, of course. His ears were flat, moving backwards and forwards to detect any footsteps into the house or past the creaky iron gate. His tail, usually well-behaved, lashed a little. He picked up the envelope. It was tucked under but not securely, that stack of paper. It would be quite easy to get just right, under it. Zvan made memory of which way the paper inside was folded, everything.

It had a smell to it, something he'd never .... no, there had been once, Zvan couldn't recall where he'd sniffed this scent before. He took a deep whiff of the envelope and the paper inside before opening it to read. It was a musky scent, something with a dash of ... orange? Weird.

The paper inside was thin, lacy, embossed with an invitation to a party. Not just a party, apparently, but to a courtship dance. The Queen's daughter Dvrinne was of age to be married, and she had to pick a suitor from among the men invited. Perhaps there would be hundreds coming to this ball. It was, the invitation said, the first of three such events. If one was chosen for the second, another invitation would be forthcoming. And so on.

It was a strange sensation, creeping through Zvan's body. He carefully placed the invitation back into the envelope, and the paper back under the sheets of language studies that Jharn had piled on it. Zvan gently shook.

They were trying to woo a princess?

Three men who went whoring on weekdays? Trying to doll themselves up to impress the Queen's daughter?

It was suddenly the most ridiculous thing that Zvan had ever heard. And for the first time in years, he burst out laughing so hard he almost cried. His step-brothers and father, trying to win the princess!

***

When the men came home, there was a feast - albeit slightly singed because Zvan had put the fire a bit too high - ready and waiting for them. He'd scampered through his day with a half grin on his muzzle for the while, though they they got home he had to keep that in check. As the family enjoyed their meal (and Zvan had to move into the kitchen to give off a belch, he'd managed a full meal himself before they got back) they muttered about materials, about wigs, about things that Zvan knew but couldn't say. Finally he asked, "how did your shopping trip go? What were you looking for?"

His step-brothers began listing off items like bows, ribbons, ties, scarves. Their father made a menacing growl, narrow eyes warning them not to say too much. "None of your business, little cat," he said. "We were successful. That is all you need to know. And next time, don't burn the roast."

They exited to the den, where they played cards and chatted in more bright words thinking Zvan couldn't hear them. They were going to dazzle her, woo her, sweep her off her feet. They made a 'gentlemans' agreement that if their father was chosen he would be the one to make any moves. He would call all the shots anyway, but just in case, he put the boys in their place by casually threatening to beat them like he beat Zvan. Though he heard the pair chuckle nervously Zvan knew he was serious - as did they.

He went to bed with a full belly and a full mind.

Life for a while was a bit hectic. Zvan was ordered to sew up some costumery for his brothers and father, which he did with zeal. They had selected the most gaudy things: green and violet ribbons, red dotted white fabrics, stripes in yellow and red. At least Jlean had selected more muted tones of yellow and beige, which he apparently wore per habit, he didn't much care for brighter shades or other colors. After being smacked several times for accidentally poking Jharn with a needle or two, and kicked in the belly for commenting about the contrasting colors, his stepbrothers seemed somewhat content with their outfits. To Zvan they looked like clowns. But apparently it was all the rage in high society, and what would Zvan know about that?

Then came the dangerous task of outfitting his stepfather. Carefully, the young man looked over the materials at hand, and tilted his head. Jlean stood impassively in the center of the fitting room, near the landing of the second floor. He chose to make a cape from one large piece of material, framing it in the brighter yellow ribbon, and a pair of sashes in white and beige would decorate the man's muscular midsection. They covered his loin, which was something that Zvan knew was always in fashion - to be an animal and show one's parts was crass anywhere. They were people, after all, not beasts.

While Jlean appraised the cat's work, in silence, Zvan couldn't help but wonder why his stepfather would be trying to woo a girl who couldn't be more than Zvan's age herself. But he couldn't bring it up, he bit his tongue. He did however, ask, "I cannot help wondering, you all look so fine, is it a party? Or a rally? You will look your very best."

"Yes, we will look our very best," Jlean said flatly, his eyes mirroring his words with flat tops and his ears slightly back. Zvan nodded, eyes down. "Your curiosity is well-founded, boy. But do not forget. You are a servant in this house, and nothing more. We will be attending a dress ball for the Queen and her daughter, so if you are on your best behavior you may even be allowed to dress us for a future dance. We will need better than this," he waved his arm at the finely sewn armlets that framed his fingers. "Practice if you must, we will spare no expense on this dance."

"Yes, sir," Zvan said. "I could... I could embroider something, when will I need to--"

"When you are told," Jlean said, backhanding his stepson hard across the face, knocking him into the stairwell. "Not before. I expect you to practice, not to anticipate. And not one word about this from now on." Jlean walked into the corridor leading to his third floor suites, swishing his tail under the cape - which Zvan actually was proud of - it looked good. He rubbed his jaw, and then went back downstairs to clean.

The dance was in two days time, which gave the men more time to shop. Their own heads of blond hair were apparently not quite enough for this type of thing, so they came home with boxes containing frilly feathery wigs. They didn't go at all with the outfits and accessories that Zvan had created but they didn't care. The young men bragged about how many birds it took to create each of their wigs. Zvan was positive he saw a whole wing in there somewhere, and stifled a giggle about there being a nest of birds already still alive in one of them.

"What are you laughing about?" Demanded Ohrn, "what?"

"I - I was thinking how there might not ... be enough birds around to fit onto other wigs, when someone else comes along to buy one, that's all," he lied lamely, but the young man didn't care. He kicked at Zvan with a clawed foot, Zvan took it with a typical grunt, and they moved on to do whatever they did all day. They should have been studying, testing each other on their maths and grammar, but instead they played cards and practiced dancing.

The ball would be in the early evening of the next day now, so the men would have to travel from midday on. They would be staying in an inn on the way home, and Jlean gave specific instructions on what he wanted Zvan to have done by the time they arrived home. "In that time you should have this list done," he said, and Zvan looked despondantly at the list. It was at least thirteen items long, and many involved doing things like deconstructing bed frames and oiling springs. Dirty things, complicated, time consuming things.

"Yes, sir," he said, quietly. "I ... Hope you have a very good time, sir. Will... will you get to meet the Queen?"

"I said, I never wanted to hear another word about this from you," Jlean said in a breathless growl. Zvan's blood went cold - he had forgotten, what a stupid thing to do!

He felt the strong hand of his stepfather gripping his neck, forcing him down to his knees, and as always there was some object within easy reach to beat the boy with. Ten minutes later, his anger mostly sated, Jlean left Zvan on the floor and went back upstairs to straighten himself out. Zvan hadn't moved in the time that took, even the brothers didn't come near him to mock him. Salty tears rolled from Zvan's eyes. He really did wonder, what was the Queen like? Her daughter? He didn't even know what species they were, were they cats? Stoats?

But he could never reach them, he could never know. He was positive that his step family didn't stand a chance of actually wooing the girl. They'd never come here. But these things on the list, they were almost in preparation for a visit. Royalty coming here? Never. But... the only way to keep himself alive, Zvan knew, was to start on the list and just get it done. He was fast. He was thorough.

He was wounded, his shoulder was broken, he was sure of it. He could hardly stand, he could barely see. His stepfather had bruised his face so badly that his eyes were halfway swollen shut. Zvan went outside carefully, to bathe himself in the horse trough and try to fix his shoulder. Every movement was brilliant pain, he could flex his fingers, but he could not raise his right arm at all from the shoulder. He found a torn blanket and made himself a sling, with great difficulty putting it on and settling his arm into it. He stayed out there for a while, choosing to begin the chore list somewhere in the middle, while he was outside, sweeping with one hand was very hard.

Zvan realized around nightfall that his family would want breakfast - and he could hardly move. They would want something hot - but that was almost out of the question, if he went to bed and tried to sleep he might not wake in time. His body kept telling him to rest, to sit down. Zvan was in shock, most of the evening, but he made bread and crushed berries for jam, carved what he could of the roast into slices to be warmed in the morning.

Zvan realized that if he went to sleep, he would wake being beaten. So he didn't sleep. Instead, he kept working. Blindly, without even a candle, he scrubbed the pots carefully and quietly. At least he could hold things down with his right hand - still in pain - they didn't clatter around on the marble surface of the kitchen sink.

Zvan was thoroughly thankful that this world, advanced in some ways and backwards in others, had indoor plumbing and a furnace. The furnace would need to be cleaned, but that would have to wait. He didn't have to pump water from a well, in other words. That would probably have caused him to collapse. He worked well into the predawn, the whole kitchen was spotless and smelled fresh of bread and berries. When Jlean, Ohrn and Jharn exited their rooms prepared to doll themselves up, breakfast was already set for them. Zvan wobbled around, picking up plates as they finished, and did his routine without a word. Ohrn gave him a strange glance - it was almost pitying, that was a first.

But then he said, "Father, there's no way Zvan can help us dress if he only has one hand to use. We'll have to do it ourselves."

Zvan was in the kitchen, leaning against the wall in silent pain, when he heard Jlean say, "I daresay we will. Not to worry boys, when the night is through, all we'll have to worry about is which of the Queen's servants to have dress us in the future."

They laughed, and went on their merry way. When noon came, a hustle in the house brought the trio into the courtyard. Zvan was almost on his last breath when he brought the carriage out to meet them, their horse waiting to be nipped with the whip a little often and antsy.

"Have that list done, or you'll meet your doom in my den, boy," Jlean warned as he mounted the carriage and grabbed up his long horse whip. Instead of hitting the horse, he aimed one blow at Zvan which struck him on his injured shoulder, then urged the horse into a trot out of the courtyard. Zvan cried, openly, clutching his shoulder with his good hand, staggered to the gate and closed it.

He thought absently about locking it somehow.

Staggered back to the house, which loomed like a big solid rock before his swimming eyes. He was in a daze of pain and shock, still, exhaustion and hunger had all but overcome him.

Zvan passed out, falling onto the floor in the kitchen, and did not even rouse though he'd fallen onto his injured shoulder.

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