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blundering-owl · 1 year

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Annual Fairchild Yule Ball

It was a slow, quiet evening for the lady of the manor. She and her husband were seated by the fire, listening to their children play nearby and murmuring sweet nothings to each other. Miss Duchess inclined herself close to Aristotle, with her arms strewn over her husband’s shoulder.

Creeping up behind her brother, Lark playfully batted at the shorter cat. Finch, ever the excitable child, gave chase. Brother and sister scuffled and tumbled around the floor, puffed up and locked in a mock-fight. Distracted by their play, the two rolled right into Colette, knocking her flat on the floor. Lark was the first to pipe up.

“Colette? Are you alright?”

Huffing, “I’d be just splendid if you hadn’t rudely knocked me off my feet!” the younger girl swiftly turned her head and crossed her arms.

Finch stuck his tongue out at her. “It was an accident, I swear!” Came his protest.

Their friendly squabbles were drowned by the sound of a piano coming from the family room. Miss Duchess and her husband were watching their daughter intently as she performed O Willow Waly for the first time. Starling was careful to keep her paws on their keys. She played as though she knew the keys by heart.

Starling’s last notes were met with applause from her parents, who drew her into a hug. The young girl nuzzled against her parents’ thick, warm fur.

Eventually, after a long squabble that turned into a tussle, Lark joined the others in the family room, Colette and Finch in tow. Starling stiffened, sniffing around briefly. Recognizing their scent, she raced to meet her siblings with a chuff. They bobbed their heads in greeting. From the couch, their parents discussed something unintelligible.

“Children, children, come here for a moment,” Duchess called. Colette and her siblings were quick to sit before them.

“The ball will begin in a half hour. Girls, you’ll come with me. Finch, you’ll go with your father.”

In the drawing room, a photographer sets up a camera while Madame Duchess gathers her children. The boxy contraption, a four-lens, wooden bellows tintype camera, stood atop a three-leg stand. By the sofa, Lord Aristotle joins Madame Duchess for a portrait. As the camera whirred up to take a photo, Aristotle adjusted his collar and worked up a pose with Miss Duchess. She settled her hands on Aristotle’s shoulder and laid her head on her hands. Aristotle placed his hand on the small of his lady’s back, and he even managed a cheeky smile.

After taking a few photos of the couple, the photographer moved on to their children. Beneath a lavish chandelier stood Miss Colette Fairchild. She wore her hair in a bun that flowed into layers of ringlets, decorated with begonias and calla lilies. The gown itself was a light pink, with pink roses planted sporadically on the sleeves, bodice, and skirt. For her portrait, Colette faced herself away from the camera, showcasing the intricate styling of her hair, as well as the detailed handiwork on the skirt and bodice. Following Colette, Starling moved forward to take her own photo. She stood at an angle, with her face partially obscured from the camera. A waterfall of tight ringlets flowed over her neck and back. Starling wore an ice blue brocade gown hemmed with pale blue lace and ribbon. She also wore a small gold oval-shaped locket.

Thereafter, it was Finch’s turn to take his own portrait. He playfully slung his arm over a cloth covered table, dressed with a gold and white beaded lamp. Finch wore a warm brown blazer and lighter brown pants. In his left hand, he held a warm brown hat.

Decorated with ornate, extravagant gold drapes, chandeliers, and lounge chairs was the Fairchild manor ballroom. Madame Duchess was the first to arrive, with Aristotle in tow. Later, guests had begun to filter in, starting with a friend of the family, Miss Windsor, who’d arrived accompanied by her husband. After giving respects to Madame Duchess and exchanging greetings with her family, Miss Windsor and her husband joined them in waiting.

Following the gradual filtering in of guests, the annual Fairchild Yule Ball had officially begun. As Aristotle greeted guests, the composers started off with the Bohemia and France in origin dance, the Polka. Within minutes, everyone began to pair up, whether it was with a partner, or with someone new.

Miss Lark sat on one of the many lounge chairs conversing with Colette and observing the other guests. After a while, it had become apparent that Miss Lark had acquired herself a certain.. Admirer. To the lady’s left stood a woman dressed in a pale green and gold velvet suit. The woman, Miss Opal walked up to Miss Lark and extended a hand in a proposal.

“Shall I have the honor of dancing this set with you?”

Giggling, Colette nudged Lark encouragingly. Lark smiles up at Opal and bows deeply, giving the other woman her hand.

The pair pranced merrily onto the dance floor and began to dance with the crowd. Holding Lark’s hand with her own, Opal spins Lark in a circle to the right. They then bounce forward, briefly break apart, and spin towards each other again.

Clasping hands once more, they turn; to the side and forward, to the side and forward, to the side and forward. Opal spun Lark to the right and put a hand on her waist. Lark’s breath quickened at each stolen glance, each fleeting touch. She fought the urge to get closer to Opal as they danced. Now both Miss Opal and Miss Lark are bouncing and spinning and twirling around the other couples dancing.

Opal and Lark separate and dance alone for a while before bouncing forward and grabbing each other by the waist, spinning once more. They resume their prior positions and spin and bounce even faster than before. Opal kicks out a leg and twirls into the center once again, spinning Lark in a fast, grand way that makes her skirt flare wildly, showing off its magnificently intricate handiwork. Finally, joining the other guests, they pause with the music and hold their hands for one last dramatic flare.

When heading back to the lounge, Opal and Lark finally get a chance to talk.

“You kept up quite well with me,” Opal offered, still holding Miss Lark’s hand.

“As did you.” Despite her short response, Lark could do little to hide her great happiness at the chance to finally dance with Opal. In return for the dance, Mis Lark bowed and gave Opal her most gracious of smiles before returning to talk in quiet tones with her sister.

Before long, the dance floor began to clear out for Madame Duchess and Aristotle as the composers played “En Reponce.”

The couple spun rhythmically in a circle around the ballroom. Aristotle would pick Miss Duchess up and set her down as they twirled. Aristotle moved behind Madame Duchess and they moved back and forth. The couple separated and bowed, ending their routine with Aristotle spinning Miss Duchess by the hand, pausing to bow as Aristotle held up their hands, before finally leaving the dance floor to sit with their children. Madame Duchess and Lord Aristotle left right, arms interlocked.

Across the ballroom, amongst the couples dancing, laid and ancient Oak. Its weather-worn branches wove their way through the wide, arching windows of Madame Duchess’s ballroom. The peace was soon disturbed by Finch, in his grand entrance. He inched his way up the tree and into the ballroom. Finch had made it in, but not before he missed his footing, sending him for a spill onto the dancefloor. His blunder was met with gasps and guffaws from the other guests. A strange hand grabbed Finch and helped him up.

Snickering, the other tom introduced himself. “That was some stunt you pulled! I’m Rune, by the way.”

Finch dusted himself off, biting his lip. He tried to avoid Rune’s gaze. “I’m, um– I’m Finch.”

Rune giggled. “I know. It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re a lot clumsier than I imagined.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

Before they could separate, a new song began to play, this time to the tune of gally polka dance. Rune turned to Finch and held his hand out in a proposal.

“Since we’re already here, will you honor me with your hand for a quadrille?”

Finch felt his face heat up. He sucked in a breath and took Rune’s hand. Rune placed his left hand on Finch’s shoulder and they moved in time with the others. The pair bunched up, then spread out from the other couples. They dipped and galloped around the ballroom. Breathing heavily, Finch finally looked at Rune. Really looked. The other tom had light green eyes and long, ginger fur that flowed and bounced as they danced. Finch’s mouth hung open as he struggled to follow Rune’s lead. He’d never seen someone so beautiful.

Finch and Rune were one of eight couples dancing. When they spun, and Finch could see the glimmer in Rune’s eyes, he knew that their meeting, no matter how clumsy, was fate. As the song ended, Rune sent Finch an exuberant smile, the kind that sends a warm sensation through your body.

Finch couldn’t help but look over his shoulder at the crowd. Would he ever see Rune again? He found himself wanting to know the interesting tom more. Sighing, Finch rejoined his family for refreshments. Starling, ever the conversationalist, pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, Finch, you’re back! How has the night treated you?”

“I had a bit of a rough start, but this really nice tom cat helped me up. We also danced for a while.”

Colette and Lark chimed in, “Ooh.. Looks like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer!” they giggled enthusiastically.

A gruff voice broke up their shenanigans. “Now, now, you three. Don’t tease.” He laughed good-naturedly.

A few hours managed to pass, and Colette and Starling each took their turns dancing. At long last, the guests had taken their leave. But not before a particular fellow left a note for Finch.

Miss Duchess had finally wrangled all four of her now thoroughly bone-tired children and got them up to bed. They’d have a long eleven days ahead of them; the festivities had just begun.

#happy yule #maybe expect little oneshots of the various couples #this was honestly fun to write

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blundering-owl · 1 year

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The scent of honeycrisp apples from Ms Fairchild’s orchard wafted across the property. Tall sweetgrass swayed lazily in the early autumn wind. The trees were now wearing their fall best, decorated with leaves of orange, red, yellow, and green. Under one tree sits a wooden bench, and connecting the orchard to the main house is a cobblestone pathway. Among all of this, on the great plain, was a lone she-cat. This feline, with long fur dappled by splotches of ginger, cream, and black, was known by most as the lady of the manor. Her noble status garnered the envy of other cats, and many a mis-placed love confession.

It is by no surprise the young lady found herself endlessly lonely. Though she had the company of Ms Fairchild and her wealthy friends, she had no other cats to talk to.

The she-cat sat in the grass, quietly grooming herself while she enjoyed the sunrise. Birdsong trilled on in the distance. She’d gone about the usual rounds already and reserved herself to relaxing in the autumn sun. She yawned, tipping her head back and shaking herself slightly.

Her calm was short-lived, though.

“..Hello?”

Duchess whipped around, falling back in surprise. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came. As she gathered her bearings, she took a long look at the stranger. He was almost a foot taller than her, with green eyes and a striped pelt. She instinctively shrunk back at the sight of him.

The tom cleared his throat, shifting around a little as he did so. He looked almost… bashful.

“I’m, uh- I’m Aristotle.” He extended a paw in greeting. “I know who you are. Everyone does.”

“Then I suppose you’ve come here to confess your undying love?” At this, the tom laughed softly. He fidgeted with the grass, pulling clumps out and tossing them aside.

“I didn’t, actually,” he looked up at her now, “I just live around here.”

Duchess licked her paw, smothering a smirk as she responded. “I didn’t know they let cats like you in the neighborhood.”

As they talked, Aristotle watched the she-cat intently. He rested his head on his paws and looked up at her. Duchess got quiet as she talked about her mother, who had died when she was a few months old. The tom sympathized, as his own mother had died when he was young.

“It’s- it’s nice talking to you, Aristotle.”

“Please, my friends call me ‘Ari’.”

“It’s nice talking to you, Ari.” Duchess purred.

And, curling up beside Ari, Duchess knew this wouldn’t be the last time they’d see each other.

#this is kinda a retcon of the last time i did their first meeting #prepare for yule guys #i might post some of my other writing here

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