Casper wakes with the sun. A few of yesterday's pains linger on, but, otherwise, he feels like a new person. He'll need his strength. There's a long day ahead of him and a longer to-do list. There's no time to waste. The sun's up only for so long. He gets out of bed and puts on his shoes. He's prepared for what today brings.
The first item on Casper's list is breakfast. To that end, he pops into the kitchen. The pheasant leg is untouched on the table. He devours it, then tosses the bones and scraps out the side door and the plate into the wash basin on the counter. He revels in the sense of accomplishment. One item down, god knows how many to go. And that's not counting whatever burdens Balor has in mind for him.
Speaking of Balor, where is he? Casper expected him to have materialized by now. In spite of the long minutes spent mulling about the kitchen, the man still fails to show himself. Casper is bored of loitering. He gives up on waiting for Balor and his commands, opting instead to get a head start on his own tasks.
Casper returns to his bedroom. He pulls the quilts off the beds he isn't using and shakes them out before fleeing from the ensuing dust storm. He escapes to the hall and coughs the silt out of his lungs. He forgot about the colonies of murderous dust bunnies in the blankets.
He contemplates the gritty miasma from a safe distance. Until it airs out, being in the room and breathing are mutually exclusive. He could pillage the other bedrooms for their covers while the dust settles, but, from what he saw yesterday, they're as unclean as his own was during his first day here. Whatever he does, it's guaranteed to trigger another dust storm thicker than this one. This means he'll have to grapple with his cruddy window again, plus the ones in the other bedrooms since he plans on pillaging them too.
That's three generous servings of splinters, coming right up. Oh joy.
Casper groans at the thought. He watches the dust swirl and stares at the window beyond. There's got to be a better way to do this...
Inspiration strikes. Casper's eyes spark. He returns to the kitchen and rummages around the wash basin, then inside it. He shoves mouldering, dirty plates aside to sift to the bottom and finds what he's looking for sandwiched between two saucers. It's stiff and smells bad, but what else do you expect from a wash rag?
Casper pries the cloth loose and tries to bend it. It doesn't give. It's as fossilized as the potted plants in the house. Any suppleness it once had disappeared with its moisture. He bangs the it against the side of the basin, seeing if he can knock some flexibility into it. That doesn't work either. It's like swinging around a piece of wood. Casper squints at the rag. How long has this thing been sitting here? He looks back at the wash basin full of neglected dishes.
On second thought, he'd rather not know.
One trip out his trusty side door, plus a puddle dip for the rag, and Casper easily wraps the cloth around his hand. Thus armoured, he soldiers back into his room to do battle against his nemesis: that stupid window.
The dust has settled. The arena is prepared. Casper clambers onto his bed, braces his rag gauntlet upon the frame and lifts. The frame screeches. It squeals. It gives ground in stops and starts. It surrenders entirely. Casper is victorious! And not a splinter suffered for it.
He grins at his improvised glove and the slivers of wood embedded in it. His plan worked like a charm. He shakes the cloth out, dislodging most of the debris. One window down, two to go.
The second window puts up less of a fight than the first. The third, on the other hand, refuses to admit defeat, digging in its heels at half-way open and not budging an iota farther. Casper gives the it a look of exasperation. Ehh... Half open is still open. He'll take it. Two and a half out of three is a pass.
With these new victories under his trouser straps, Casper proudly stuffs his rag (it, too, is his property) into a pocket and returns to what he was doing before picking fights with the old house. He goes back to shaking grit out of quilts and covers to use as bedding for the dining room. The small breeze wafting in from outside does miracles in dispersing unruly dust bunnies. The door is left open for better ventilation. Aired blankets are lumped into a pile beside it.
Casper looks at his work. He's satisfied, both at this morning's progress and the amount of bedding he has so far. He gives his current bed a once over. He won't strip it, not while there's a chance he'll use it tonight. Then again, he could move into one of the other rooms. The change in location would keep him more hidden at night...
He yanks the quilts off the last bed, shakes them out, and adds them to the heap. He surveys the room to check for anything he missed as he dusts off his hands. Whatever he's looking for, he doesn't see it. Excellent. Thus satisfied, Casper leaves what was once his room. He'll come back for his quilts and covers, never to return again. But that's later. For now, he scouts the path to the dining room.
He's halfway down the hall when he stops and frowns at the floor. The floorboards are a squeaky nuisance, but that's old hat. It's not why he's troubled. The problem is that the floors are as dirty as they are noisy. Whether it's small footprints in dust or the trail of filth Casper's been bringing in from outside, it's a clear transcript of where he's going and where he's been. That's how Balor traced him to his sleeping quarters.
Casper sighs at the muck. Unless he wants his future bolt hole to be found, before moving in no less, he needs to do something about this mess. And wipe his feet when he comes inside, but that's besides the point. As loathsome as it is, Casper has to clean up after himself.
"'Cause of course I got abso-bloody-lutely nuthin' better to than to clean house like a bleedin' scullery maid. Oh, no sir. 'Cause to do this nice an' proper, I gotta do that, an' those too." Casper slams the coat room open. Myr be damned, Casper's too fed up to care whether the drunk wakes. "Fuck my life," he hisses. He thought he saw a broom tucked in here yesterday. He's not wrong. The broom's right there, nestled cozily in a cradle of cobwebs. "Fuck my life."
He takes the broom handle with a finger and a thumb and pries it away from the webby nest. He takes it slow, praying for no spiders. The broom comes free with minimal resistance. No eight-legged abominations are out for his blood. That was... easier than expected.
Casper gives the broom dangling from his fingertips a once over before he draws it towards him. He nods. About time something went right.
He closes the coatroom door and reappraises the mess. He scrapes the broom hard across the floor, swearing all the while.
You know, when he heard the toff go on about his 'new beginning', he didn't think doing housework would be part of the bargain. He's no stranger to it. He did lots of it in the workhouse and did more in the homes. He just didn't think he'd be doing it again so soon after he left. Or at all.
Casper practically shovels the lump of filth around as the layers of crud pile up. He shoves all of it into a corner of the hall, just to the side of the kitchen doorway, and considers himself done for the day. If the dirt's off the floor, it's in no position to tattle his whereabouts and is, therefore, not his responsibility. Cleaning isn't his job. Leave that for the scullery maid, who's been on leave since forever and a day... much like the rest of the staff, come to think of it.
He plants the broom bristles into the floor and leans on the broom handle, resting, thinking. Fancy houses like this have servants crawling out of the woodwork. There's always someone cleaning, polishing, cooking, watching, and doing every other thing needed to run a mansion. So, what is it that the occupants of the manor do? Balor watches the house. Myr drinks, sleeps, and makes life more difficult than necessary. Casper... He does what he needs to. That's a grand total of three people living in this huge building.
Casper considers his former bedroom and its identical triplets. One of those rooms can board everyone in the house. He has no idea how many bedchambers are upstairs, but there should be at least one given that Myr sleeps there most of the time. Casper flicks the sum across his fingers. That's three and three and three again... add one and who knows how many more after that... and the total comes to... His hand drops to his side. Casper's no good at fancy maths, but he doesn't need big numbers to tell him this doesn't add up.
He coasts to his old room and walks to the foot of one of the beds. He flings open the chest of drawers before him. He stares hard at the pantyhose inside. He doesn't recoil from it this time. He picks it up firmly, turns it over and back, studying it. He notes every moth hole. He notes the pungent scent of neglect dyed into the threads. He notes the same smell everywhere in the chest's compartments, where the neatly folded uniforms of a scullery maid lie forgotten.
A throat clears in the hall behind him. Casper drops the ladies' underwear into the box, closes the lid, and spins around.
It's Balor. Of course it is. Nobody else can sneak up and scare the living daylights out of a person like the exotic butler. Except he's not a butler. He wears a butler's uniform and speech, but he's not a butler. Casper's sure of it. There's no such thing as a manservant that wouldn't give Casper a tongue lashing for the mess he's been leaving.
"You have been busy," Balor begins. He's watching Casper carefully. He always watches, is always careful. Careful in the words he chooses. Careful in how he moves. He's not a butler. He's Casper's warden.
Casper puts as much thought into what he says as Balor does. He can play word games too. He refuses to be bested, to be beaten. "I'm always busy."
"I have noticed." A grin chips at the edge of Balor's poker face. Casper's suspicions are confirmed. The not-butler is enjoying himself. If Casper's entertaining enough, the man may not notice he's onto him.
He leans forward onto his broom, making a deliberate show of nonchalance. Act natural. Act casual. "Got those errands ready for me?"
Balor nods. "Indeed... May I come in?"
Casper shrugs. "'S not like I own the place. You go where you want." He watches the man for his reaction.
Balor doesn't disappoint. He bristles. "I ask out of courtesy, a thing sorely lacking in the present day. "
Casper rolls his eyes. That jab could be pointed towards any number of things he's done. He can't tell for the life of him which one Balor is referring to. He changes subject. "You came to give me something?"
Balor gives Casper a once over. "Whatever would give you that impression? You appear content to help yourself to whatever you may require."
Casper matches Balor squint for squint, stare for stare. That better not be a quip about that time he 'borrowed' the silverware (as if it could be anything but). "How else're you gonna give me those errands if you don't go givin' me instruction?"
Balor blinks. "... A fair point." He pulls a fist sized, drawstring bag from his uniform's coat pocket, holding it up for Casper to see. "You are to deliver this to Joe Smith in town. In return, he will give you a sum of funds."
Casper's eyes bug out at the mention of money. Has Balor lost it? Who in their right mind gives a thief money?
"Rest assured, I'm well aware of what amount is to be expected." Balor gives Casper a very pointed look. Guess he hasn't lost his head after all. "Be that as it may, you are permitted to spend one pound of the sum, and no more than one pound. The rest must return with yourself by nightfall."
With that, Casper has his orders. Balor hands the bag over with a warning about its weight. Casper brushes him off until he nearly drops the thing on his foot when he takes it. Balor fails to appear surprised.
Casper's soon out the front door, on the trail to town. Again. He glances back to the old house disappearing among the trees. He hopes Alicia's found a home for him. He hopes this is the last time he'll lay eyes on the eerie place. Something's off about the manor and its inhabitants and even he has more sense than to poke his nose about that bizarre business.
Or so he tells himself.
The moment the mansion disappears from view, Casper unties the drawstring. He dips his hand inside the bag, fingers closing around something hard, cold, and the size of his thumb. He pulls it out and opens his fist to find an egg cast in solid gold daintily nesting in his palm.
Casper drops the gold egg into the bag where it clunks heavily against the others within. Not for the first time, he wonders what occurs in behind the walls of his home when he isn't looking.