Getting Down to the Crunch (2/2)

“There you are miss!”

The Mousewife bustled up to her, whiskers and floofy dress bouncing. She had on her festival best, which included a flour-streaked apron and oven mitts.

“Oh, right. You told me you were going to help with the baking. I forgot,” Celia felt her smile shift, just a little more toward the sincere end of things. “Is it going well?”

“Oh it's going splendidly Miss Celia! So many hungry people, and so many tasty treats! There's a few of the babbies I helped deliver in the crowd and they're all so big now, and all of their mothers stopped by and I made sure each of them got plenty of loaves and sweet rolls and twice baked honey cakes!” The Mousewife paused. “I tried to make some thrice-baked ones. It didn't go so well.”

She pointed with her oven mitts, and Celia glanced over to see a plume of black smoke rising from one corner of the square. She stifled a chuckle.

“But someone said you was here, and that means it's the end of my shift because I asked in advance to be off when you were off, and I'm glad you're off because now we can get a good seat if we hurry!”

Celia opened her mouth to tell her that she'd lost her enthusiasm for the show, tell her about how Jean had manipulated her, but before she could say a word the Mousewife had grabbed her hand with one oven-mitted paw, and hustled through the crowd, squeaking apologies all the way. “Scuse me, sorry, sorry, coming through, scuse us, oh dear, hey mind the tail buster, pardon me, sorry, scuse us...”

There was nothing to be done but be towed along in her wake, and Celia didn't mind. This left her free to scan the crowd.

And sure enough, there were quite a lot of bunny beastkin in full piratical costume working the crowd. They were ARRR-ing and strutting around, and playing hurdy gurdies and hornpipes, and dancing, and doing sword tricks for the kids. A few of them even had hooks replacing hands, or peg legs, or leather ears, or eyepatches that looked like the real thing, rather than an affectation. There were many scars on display, and though Celia's mind was hovering on the edge of that black void where memory took too much effort, she realized that she'd never seen some of them before. These weren't the actors in the troupe. Or if they had been with the troupe, they'd been far out of sight of the public.

They were watching her back, too. Some of them were more discrete about it than others, but a few of them were staring at her like she was the tastiest carrot in the world. Normally she would have chalked that down to her 'Gorgeous' skill doing its thing, but here and now? No. No, there were definitely shenanigans afoot, and they were padding in on oversized, soft, bunny feet.

They drew closer to the stage, a massive theater built in the center of the square. Curtains hung from nearby tall buildings, prodded up even further by scaffolding and poles, covered the structure. It was five stories tall if it was an inch, and she could see great masts poking out from the uncovered top.

And under the murmur and cheers from the crowd, she could just hear a faint thrumming. A mighty engine, no kind she knew, idling in a smooth purr.

PER+1

“Oh there we are! There's that handsome Gaston fellow!” The Mousewife practically hauled her down the aisles between the benches, past crowds of people packed in tightly, past the food and beer vendors busily hawking their goods, past a row of nobles and wealthy citizens who waved at her and tried to get her attention or shouted words that were lost in the noise...

...down to the very front row, where a surly and annoyed human was telling a pair of drunk and well-dressed patrons that no, these seats were taken, kindly piss off, s'il te plaît?

“No, we don't want a salted plate,” the woman screeched. “We want those CHAIRS.”

Fortunately, the Mousewife had come prepared.

“I'm very sorry miss, but those are saved for Miss Celia and guest you see, and that'd be us, so here's some tasty and healthy cookies for you and your husband, and a few more for the road.”

The couple scarcely had time to look around in drunken surprise before Karen Mousewife was in among them, drawing baked goods from her apron with lightning speed, and tucking them into whatever pockets or purses she could reach. The man opened his mouth to protest, and she promptly leaped up on one of the seats and jammed a muffin into it.

“There you go sir! Goes great with milk, I think I saw a feller selling some down the way there, bye bye now!”

“But...” the woman said, spilling beer as she scowled down at the Mousewife.

“Bye-bye now,” said the Mousewife, and the two practically fled down the row, and didn't stop until they had vanished down the aisle.

“Merde!” Gaston was wide-eyed, staring down at the fuzzy little woman. “How did you do that? I was thinking I would have to hurt them.”

“It's one of my secret weapons, so don't go telling anyone, okay now?” said the Mousewife, in front of the crowd of eager onlookers. To be fair, most of them were focused on the stage, but still, Celia thought it a perfect testament to the woman's peculiar-yet-effective mentality.

“Oh I'm so sorry I've been rude, here you go Mister Gaston! I made these for you and Miss Jean special, they're carrot cookies with real carrots!” she pulled them out and happily waved them in front of his face.

And to Celia's surprise, the hairy man's eyes went wide with alarm. He stared at the cookies, then whipped his head around to look at the setting sun. Back and forth, back and forth, and then he slapped a hand to his mouth, and shook, literally trembling as he said. “No, I... merci, but... I can't... Ihavetogobye!”

The two watched him run away, slamming through the crowd, leaving an angry wake of people behind him before vanishing under one of the curtains.

“Oh dear. Oh dear, that didn't go well,” the Mousewife said sadly, putting the oversized orange and green cookies back into her pockets. “I wonder if he's allergic, poor thing.”

“Maybe,” Celia said, staring after him, her gloom momentarily forgotten. “But I'm not sure what kind of allergy makes your ears grow and your skin start sprouting fur.”

“What?”

“Maybe nothing,” Celia took her seat. “Let's get this over with.”

The Mousewife stared at her, whiskers quivering in shock. “Ma'am! This is going to be a fun play! This is the biggest, bestest play I've ever been to, and Miss Jean is going to be in it! You like Miss Jean, don't you? This will be fun!”

Celia opened her mouth to explain...

...then shut it again.

What could she say?

There was no time to explain the horrible news she'd gotten not an hour ago.

And this was not the place to do it, not in front of a crowd that though loud, was eager for drama and none too picky about where it came from.

So instead Celia gathered herself, and hugged Karen Mousewife.

Surprised, the Mousewife hugged her back.

“You're a pure soul,” Celia whispered. “Just... be ready. Run when the trouble starts and get help. Okay?”

“What? Trouble?”

Celia settled back into her chair, shook her head, and patted the empty seat next to her.

Karen hopped up beside her.

She had been a blessing, the Mousewife had. All of Celia's minor troubles, all the miscommunications and slip-ups, all the myriad tiny things that kept going wrong and distracting her or making her feel worse, all of those things had started to disappear when the Mousewife had joined her staff, rolled up her sleeves, and gotten busy sorting matters out.

The sun sank below the horizon. Glowgleam lanterns along the scaffolding flickered on. Hidden somewhere within or perhaps under the stage, an orchestra stirred, and the first notes of music were met with a deafening cheer from the eager crowd.

And despite herself, she felt a part of that eagerness, felt her own interest stirring, pulling her away from the pit.

Something new was happening.

This wasn't any of the old problems, this wasn't a complicated and thorny political matter, where one wrong word could sink her, or have ramifications that made hundreds of people hate her. This was a simple thing, a new problem, and she didn't have to make a tough decision or go to lengths to fix things.

All she had to do was stop pirates from kidnapping her.

She looked around while the curtain opened, saw nothing and no one out of place. All eyes were forward.

And there was Jean, stepping out onto stage, a stage which looked nothing less than a full sailing ship. Jean who sang about how she was bound to service with pirates, for the rest of her life.

Jean, who looked at her, and hesitated, eyes wide.

Celia held her face as still as she could, but the words resonated in her mind. I know. She wasn't sure if she could keep the betrayal from showing in her eyes, and she wasn't sure if she cared.

But whether or not she saw it, Jean was a professional. She resumed the song, glossing over her slip, although Celia thought there was a touch more sorrow in it than before.

After the number, a woman bellowed from offstage, “WHO'S THAT LOLLYGAGGING WHEN THEY OUGHT TO BE A SWABBIN'!”

Immediately a full bunny beastkin crew popped up out of hatches, out of barrels, dropped from behind the sails, and took up a full comedy song about lazy crew, while a sassy, overendowed bunny woman with a full set of gold buckteeth and a captain's hat stalked around the stage, firing a pistol into the air and lashing a whip at anyone unlucky to get near her. The captain bunny couldn't carry a tune to save her life, but the audience was laughing so hard it barely mattered. Even Celia found herself cracking a grin, and she forgave Jean, just a little.

Well, if they're going to try to kidnap me, at least they're doing it in style.

And then, in the middle of the song, Jean rushed out from the middle of a line of swabbing crew, and screamed “Look out Celia!”

The song halted.

The crew froze, staring at Jean.

The audience stared at the crew.

And something very heavy struck Celia's skull from behind, as she heard porcelain crunch, and it sounded and felt just like she'd imagined it would.