After Zvan reached the halfway point between the castle and home, if anything to make sure that his family had stopped there for the night, he decided to run the rest of the way. Once he'd established that the carriage was in fact there (and he heard Jharn's drunken snoring from one of the open windows of the inn) he felt better.
He still had to get home before dawn. What would happen to him if he didnt? The night was too bright and dazzling in his mind to let him think of too many dismal outcomes, but he did remember the little flitter's words - and he obeyed them. He sprinted home, almost ten miles, in just a few minutes. He had time to make sure that everything on his step-father's extensive list was done (everything was, from polishing the fireplace tools in every hearth to that silly cat-hair on the furniture - though where the glowing sprites had put the cat hair was a mystery to him, and he wouldn't feel like looking for a pile of fur anyway) but he didn't look. The flitter's words were to go straight to bed.
The moment his head hit his hard pillow of rags, Zvan began to sleep. He had dreams of the ball, of his parents, and of distant places that he'd only read about in forbidden books in Jlean's library. He didn't remember any of them when the light of day came to greet him, but he stretched greatly and noticed with a hard twinge that his shoulder wasn't completely healed after all.
Maybe that was the magic. It could disguise, delay, but not really fix? That was okay because he realized that he'd never be able to explain how in merely one day he'd healed. He found his sling and put his arm gingerly into it, and noticed with a dismal thump of his stomach that he was completely dirty once more.
And he had to go to the bathroom something fierce. All that food last night, of course!
He heard in the other room, past the kitchen and dining room, that all three men had arrived and were for some reason complimenting the meal Zvan had made for them, where was the little fuzzball anyway? Well at that moment the little fuzzball was outside squatting in his loo, wondering just how much food one person could hold?
He finished up, stood, and then turned to enter the kitchen. He was not certain what to say or do, he was confident that, because he'd been told not to worry about it, he didn't need to wonder whether the items on the list had been done. They were - and Jlean's voice grumbled about it. Because now he didn't have anything to beat the cheetah over.
Except that boy at the ball, what gall, he complained bitterly but with a bit of a happy note. His son Jharn was hung over fiercely and that at least took some of the pressure off Zvan, because Jlean delighted in the torment of just about anyone. He clearly was speaking too loud for the young man, who grumbled something incoherent and staggered back up to his bed. Which had been reassembled and oiled, so it didn't squeak. ("Like a whole nest of mice the thing squeaks! Fix it!")
Before Zvan made it into the kitchen, however, he saw a shadow approaching. It wasn't Ohrn, who he could hear speaking to his father, and it wasn't Jlean himself, because it was too small.
It was Zvan. A shadow of him, at least, a grey-tinted dirtball with a tail. Hunched slightly, wearing the same rag (or... maybe a different one, rags were everywhere) on his arm, and with soul-pained vacant blue eyes. When Zvan met those eyes, he saw nothing, not even a mirror of himself. He glanced sharply at himself, he was dirty, but he wasn't like this was he?
Maybe he was. The pain in his arm grew a bit, as he reached up to touch this doppleganger.
It dissolved into a million pieces of ash and ...
"Cat hair," Zvan breathed. "That's where it went..."
Leaving only the real thing standing just outside the kitchen. For the next half hour he busied himself with cleaning it up, as the doppleganger had left a big smurch and cat fur flying in the light morning breeze. Zvan gathered the dusty fur into a half-cracked barrel, and placed the rag on top of it. He didn't even know why he bothered, but then again he didn't quite know where to put such an amount of fur either.
He had little to do for the rest of the morning, because now everything was basically done. All he really needed to do was make sure that if Jlean yelled for something, he was there with it right away. Dinner would be curry chicken - that at least he could make with his arm in a sling, and he knew he could do it well enough to keep Jlean off his back for the time being.
He did not mention the ball, nor any fineries. He did not ask any questions. This time, Zvan knew better than to open his stupid mouth.
He'd spoken so well last night. He'd actually said things that people found witty! People - they looked at him, and they looked like they liked what they saw!
Zvan spent a while preparing the dinner, allowing the scent of curry to drift through the house before serving it. Might as well enjoy it, because the scent was about all he'd be getting to eat. Chicken had precious few scraps, in this house. Several times during his life, Zvan had resorted to chasing mice and eating them, but when Jlean found out about that, he put down poisons and tainted the mice and rats. That left roaches, and Zvan wasn't big on eating bugs.
Maybe with a curry sauce.
He chuckled to himself, and continued his day in relative peace.
***
A week later, as his shoulder continued to heal at a reasonable pace, Zvan mended clothing, cleaned wine stains from Jharn's outfit, picked gnats out of the wigs, and made certain that any imperfections in their costumery was fixed. They wouldn't be wearing the same outfits again, the boys complained bitterly when they realized it, because they'd worked hard on those things.
Zvan didn't roll his eyes until they were out of the room, at that.
If they weren't going to wear the stuff again, why have it in the first place? Zvan wasn't certain where his own finery had come from but he did know it had gone with the light of dawn that day. If he never saw it again he wouldn't be surprised, it might not have even been real.
He'd actually began to doubt that he really attended the ball after all. The dry dullness of pain and the endless torture of serving his step-family began wearing on him again, until one day when a post carrier arrived with a second invitation. Since the others were in their rooms and Jlean was upstairs not to be disturbed, Zvan took the letter. The postman was a white mink, who glanced up at Zvan with an odd expression, smiling, and he winked. Zvan wondered what that was about, but the mink vanished into his carriage to deliver others' letters. Zvan realized, they'd been selected to come back? After the brothers behavior, and Jlean's annoying of the dignitaries? Well that was something, wasn't it.
It was in the beautiful ivory paper again, with a seal from the Queen, and weirdly the symbol upon it looked ever so faintly familiar to him. Not because he'd seen it on their crests in the ball room but ... Something else.
The mask. The mask on the tiny flitter thing, that's what it looked like. A scribed loopy thing, meaningless unto itself but, for some reason filled with a queer mix of hope and dread for Zvan.
He left the letter, unopened, on the round table beside Jlean's library where he often had parcels delivered. Zvan wondered... Why the wink? Why did a currier seem to look right through him? It was perhaps just odd that someone met his eyes. He wasn't used to that kind of thing here at home. By the end of the ball last week he'd actually gotten to like it, meeting even the Queen's regal yellow eyes with confidence. She returned a smile to him, she did seem to like him, she did seem to notice that he'd danced with her daughter more often than any other attending the ball.
The Queen liked him.
And the seal on her letter had an image that only he might recognize.
Was it more magic? Was it something else? He didn't know. But once the evening came and the men were picking at the remnants of their dinner Jlean announced that they would be going into town to find more for even better outfits for a second ball. The brothers started plotting right away as to what their clothing would look like this time. There was still only the hint that it was formal and required nice attire, and that it was certain fewer people would be at this ball.
Narrowing the field, it seemed. Zvan, without asking, determined that the next ball was merely another week away. That did not leave much time, if he was going to be fixing their outfits up. He knew perfectly well there were good tailors in town - one of them had attended the ball with his own teenaged son (a pair of weaverbirds, who else would be such good tailors?) and had spoken highly of the boy's abilities as seen on half a dozen of the patrons of the ball. But Jlean would never hire someone else when he could have free labor in his own home.
Zvan didn't ask, he merely obeyed, when the family arrived from their shopping trip the next day. He was all but silent the whole week, doing the cleaning chores, cooking, mending and in the daylight hours working on the men's clothing. Each of them were slightly more gaudy than the last time, though Jlean's was still in the same color scheme of yellows and beiges. Ohrn's was a dark green and bright yellow, while Jharn's chosen outfit was sky blue and pink of such a hue that a butterfly might like it.
While working, Zvan wondered that the only difference between this outfit and the songbird's that had tried to dance with him at the ball, was that the bird had a skirt. Girls wore skirts, men wore sashes and kilts, why did it matter suddenly? As long as the right parts were covered again, that's what counted.
But this time, when he began fitting the brothers, nothing was working for them. Jharn yelled sharply that the sash just didn't fit him right, make it work! He had to unstitch, rework, even repair it because Jharn managed to throw it off himself so violently he ripped part of it. Ohrn's was a little less harried, but the headpiece was heavy and kept sliding down over the puma lad's nose.
Jlean was barely satisfied with the work on his own outfit, but fortunately decided not to take out too much of his anger on Zvan. After breaking his shoulder last time, he realized they'd never be able to replace their cook, wait staff, cleaning person and beating bag so easily. Zvan did have to endure a stomp to his thigh when he slipped and nicked Jlean's arm with a sewing pick, and apologizing profusely he fixed the wrist band without another incident.
The men would do almost the same thing they'd done last time, leaving in the early afternoon and coming back in the morning after a stay in the tavern.
And this time, the list of things for Zvan to do was not only longer, but seemingly impossible.
For Jlean had demanded venison for his homecoming meal the night after the ball - and deer was something that very few people in the town could afford. No money was presented to Zvan to buy it, he certainly wasn't going to be able to do much about that but maybe hunt - and that was almost impossible for a house-raised boy.
He also wanted a rug re-sewn, in fact he wanted something embroidered into a thick leather chest piece. Embroidered. Into leather. Surely Jlean knew that wasn't possible. Zvan could embroider - anything some girl might be expected to do, he could do well enough. But he lacked the sewing equipment to even pierce leathers, let alone make delicate work in them. Perhaps the rug could be done, started at least, the edges of it were frayed and could possibly be braided together... The 'digging a new cesspit' was right off the list, entirely, in Zvan's mind. No way. Even if his shoulder was feeling better, he'd done that twice before and the things he'd found in the old one had given him nightmares.
"I wish my little glittery friends would help today," Zvan sighed loudly, staring at the list. It was noon, the family had just left and the carriage was jingling away. "I hope Dvrinne does not have to dance with my stepfather."
Why would he say that? He knew he didn't stand a chance of attending this ball, let alone any other - without aid. But Zvan had never had to rely upon anyone else before, and he didn't even consider what he'd said as a 'wish' so much as a wild prayer.
"You needed but ask," said the glittering mask-wearing flitter, perched atop the stair bannister. A flurry of pale colored lights went by, and apparently began working on the tasks on this list of Jlean's.
"We cannot help you with the food, this time," the flitter said, "but you might try your hand at hunting, you may find it easier than you think. You are a predator after all. Aren't you?"
Zvan licked his lips, "I've never hunted anything but mice before."
"Mice are much harder to catch than deer," said the flit.
"Mice also don't kick back with hooves," countered Zvan with a grin. "But... I'll trust you - everything worked so well last time, so perfect. I thank you, I didn't get a chance to thank you before. I got to dance with the princess, I kissed her hand!" He said excitedly, and the masked flitter gave off what appeared to be a proud grin.
"Good for you, lad. Get going, deer are still elusive enough. But there is a forest full of them right here, and if you've got it in you to hunt a deer with your bare hands, you will certainly have something to talk to the princess about this evening."
Zvan nodded, and a silly grin went over his muzzle. "So I still have to hunt with my bare hands, is that it?" He flickered his eyebrow and sped off into the nearby woods. The house's tall stone wall was nothing to Zvan, he scrambled over it - though he'd have to remember to use the gate when coming back in, if he had a deer over his good shoulder anyway.
As he went through the woods, carefully and quietly, Zvan wondered at how easy it was to fall into the madness of this magical task. It had to be magic. It had to, because logic failed him. There was the lingering memory of the smell of Dvrinne - and suddenly Zvan stopped cold in the middle of a faint deer-trail.
The letter. It smelled of her. An orange-tinted musk, vanilla and citrus. He closed his eyes and remembered that scent, it had barely come to him while they were on the balcony alone - without all the dancing and food smells, it was hers.
Thusly encouraged, Zvan picked up a scent of animal, he hoped it was deer. The trail was thin, but had hoof prints leading downward to a small glade. There was a doe and two young - perfect.
He would only need one of the young, he felt that it would be doing the doe a favor in the long run. Predators picked off prey that were sickly but unfortunately a sick deer would only make the family ill - and it would be death to Zvan if he brought back tainted meat.
Zvan thought hard about how he had to do this. He wasn't a real four-footed cheetah after all, he didn't have the turning speed or the talent for knocking prey off their legs that a simple cat did. But what he had was a big brain, and plenty of spare thumbs.
He picked up a stick and a rock, after looking around carefully. Fortunately for him the wind was with him and the doe didn't detect him. Or perhaps, he simply smelled too much of ash and dust to worry about. He selected an area that gave him a little room to pounce, and threw the stone and stick in disparate directions. That startled the doe into running, and he let it bound past him. The two young however followed just after, and he sprang upon the second of them in a flash. It kicked, but Zvan held its neck in his hands until it stopped thrashing. He heard the other animals rustling away into the woods, and then finally stood to claim his prize.
Dangling in his hands was a deer, no more than two months old. Veal on the hoof. A perfect prize, a perfect meal in the making. Zvan headed home to gut and clean it, he assumed he would be responsible for those things anyway. And he relished it, from start to dirty finish, because he'd done it all himself. No magic, really, could match that feeling.
Once done, he entered the kitchen properly and saw that the little shiny sprites were still dancing around here and there. The slight crack in the entranceway's ceiling had been patched and was invisible. All the doors (except for Jlean's) were re-hinged and oiled and re-hung. Zvan looked out and saw that in fact there was new upturned dirt outside where the plumbing was diverted.
"I'll actually enjoy making this dinner," he commented to the air, realizing that the flitter was watching him from the hanging pots rack.
"I am sure you will, tomorrow will be a big day. What would you like to wear for this ball, Zvan?" It asked, and Zvan rolled his head around.
"I don't know, nothing like my brothers, though. Why did they have to choose head gear that weighs so much it falls of every time they turn their heads?"
"That is their problem, is it not? You do not want a wig?"
"No, why would I? I think my hair looked good as it was. Maybe I should braid it, that's it, a ribbon for a braid?" He went with the braided idea, and his flittery friend manifested from somewhere a number of cords, braided and lace items. These were all in dark shades, rich crimson and dark indigo, even a black that he had no idea how it could be so dark. A loin cloth that almost reached the floor decorated his waist, while a collar rested around his neck and was connected in wide crimson swaths behind his back, onto wrist bands.
All this was after he bathed, of course. With the bloody innards from the deer still crusted on his nails he didn't dare touch one thread of cloth. The sprites observed and kept watch as he tidied himself up, very possibly to take the muddy residue from the bath and use it for another doppleganger.
Zvan didn't ask about that, he merely enjoyed the feeling of hot water on his fur, cleansing himself of what felt like decades of dirt. The sunlit sprites dried him, keeping his fur warm and making his hair fly up as though in a hard wind. He narrowed his eyes to it, enjoying the way it felt, it reminded him of his run to the castle.
"Will I get to run again?" He asked.
"Like the wind, Zvan," replied the flitter. "And take this," it said and deposited something on the table nearby. It was a small box, in it there was a smell of chocolate. It made Zvan's mouth water.
"What is it? It's for the princess, right?"
"It is for whomever you decide to give it to," the flit said. "It is a delicacy."
He tucked the small box in his waist cloth, where he trusted it to remain until the right moment. Then, Zvan sped out of the house, as sun set, toward the hills and the castle.