~

Boston, Early August 1931

Duncan tugged at the neck of his uniform, and shifted on his feet. "You look wonderful, dear, quit fussing." He felt feminine hands smooth down the sleeve of his jacket, and looked down at Teresa O'Leary with uncertain eyes.

"You'll do fine.” The white rabbit doe smiled up at him. “They’re mostly nice people, and the rest of them are at least civil.”

“I don’t feel fine. I feel like a damn eedjit.”

“No cussing, now. Remember-”

“Aye, aye. Best manners.”

Duncan swallowed. Normally he disliked the blue shell-jacket that the school insisted cadets wear, but on this occasion he was grateful for it, and for the grey gloves they had provided him with. A pair of lighter blue trousers completed the outfit, along with shoes polished to a startling shine.

“There,” Teresa smiled, stood back, and sighed. “...I wish your ma and pa weren’t in Canada, Duncan, and so do they.”

Duncan nodded simply. “Aye. Me too. They said how it’s goin’, yet?”

“Last cable said they’d hacked through most of the legal nonsense Birkwell & Co. have thrown up. One or two sticking points, but they’re managing.”

He grunted at that. It had been a trying last three years, but mother was well at last. He still remembered when they had been reunited, at that airfield in San Francisco. There had been many tears shed there.

“Now,” She nodded to the mirror. “What do you make of that?”

Duncan had to admit it, Mrs O’Leary had done a magnificent job. Standing there in the mirror was a tall, handsome young otter in the immaculate Union blue uniform of a Boston Military School Cadet. He looked back at his own face, and stared. The scars were almost invisible. Brown flesh paint (not makeup of course, not for a teenage male), carefully matched to his fur, had turned thick lines of pink scar tissue into mere bumps.

Gloves and long sleeves would have to suffice for concealing his father’s heritage. Everyone knew, of course, but that was no reason to draw attention to it. He looked over as Teresa withdrew to the adjacent room to finish getting dressed. In the old days a maid would have helped, but the O’Learys were a modern family. They did have a cook and a new housekeeper, though the latter was more a matter of assisting a young immigrant who’d gotten embroiled in an attempted prank on Duncan and Sean Junior by some less than friendly classmates.

When she emerged, Duncan couldn’t help but smile slightly. Teresa had shed her austere day-suit for a green satin evening gown and opera gloves, conservatively cut but hugging to her body just enough to make good use of her natural gifts.

Sean O’Leary Senior certainly seemed to think so. The moment he entered, the rabbit grinned and strode over to his wife, planting a kiss on her lips. “I was hoping you’d bring that one out again.” Sean himself was in an immaculate black-tie evening suit, highlighting his athletic frame and clean jawline. Teresa smiled and tapped his nose. "Now now, darling. You're not getting it off me yet."

Duncan shifted uncomfortably, and Sean Sr. looked up and smiled at his godson. He stepped forward, and clasped the boy's hand. “Duncan… seeing you in that uniform reminds me of my grandfather’s time with the Irish Brigade."

"Like a soldier from seventy years ago?"

"Not as such. Like a soldier of liberty from his generation. Now, come along. It’s time to introduce you to Boston society.”

~

Duncan had been in ballrooms once or twice before, but he still found it an uncomfortable experience. He had no problem with crowds, but there was something about the sheer amount of gold on display that made him… uneasy. He had seen the underside of life, after all, and he knew where money came from.

He could feel eyes on him as he entered at Teresa’s side and heard nearby guests break out into whispers - mostly regarding his nearly seven-foot height. There were a variety of races in the room - whitetail deer, wolves, dogs of various types, felines, and even a few avians or lizards here and there. Duncan towered over all of them, even the white-tail bucks and their seasonal antlers.

Not far away, just out of earshot, a swan leaned over to her mate. “Who’s that, darling?”

“Hmm?” He snapped his gaze away from a young maid who was serving drinks. “Oh, that’s Kholyawsky’s sprog. You know, the one staying with the O’Learys.”

“Oh.” She sipped her glass delicately. Alcohol was technically forbidden, of course, but there were alternatives. “The half-breed. I must say, he doesn’t look a bit like it.”

“Looks can be deceiving, dear. I have it from a friend, whose boy is in his class, that he has raven forearms and forelegs.”

“Oh, the poor boy.” She sighed. “Mind you, that’s what happens when one mixes the races. All the same,” She watched through half-lidded eyes. ''He is very impressive.”

“Careful now, dear.” Her mate smirked. “I hear divorce papers rustling.”

“Only if you catch me.”

Duncan was in the middle of his first introduction, a glass dwarfed in his massive hand. The couple in front of him were as well dressed as everybody else. But whereas the ewe was smiling kindly, the ram stared fixedly ahead.

“Mr. and Mrs Windthorpe, I’d like you to meet Cadet Duncan Kholyawsky-Gunn, our godson. Duncan, Mr. and Mrs Windthorpe.”

Reflexively, Duncan extended his hand to Mr. Windthorpe, fingers open. An awkward silence followed, before the ram slowly gripped it, shook it once, and withdrew. “You look well, young man. I trust you are finding our fair city to your liking?” The words were spoken with icy formality. Duncan met them with a stony grunt of his own.

“I do, sir. I have been warmly welcomed wherever I have walked.” That of course was a lie, unless you counted wishes to visit a very warm place indeed, but he was satisfied to see Mrs Windthorpe give Teresa an apologetic glance, before turning to her husband. “Teresa tells me young Duncan here has done very well at the Military Institute, is that not so?”

“He was eleventh in his class last year, and I’m expecting him to do at least as well this year. And he is the captain of the hockey team, as well.”

"Ah, a man of brains and brawn, how wonderful." Mrs Windthorpe smiled at Duncan, before giving Teresa a look that said "and how very rare, too."

Mr. Windthorpe gave the closest he could to a smile, one that Duncan returned with equal reluctance. The conversation ended there, and Duncan found an excuse to break away.

“Just grin and bear it, Dunk. The ones that don’t wanna be friendly aren’t worth it, anyway.” Duncan looked down to find a male rabbit, the mirror image of his father, next to him in the same Union blue uniform as his own. “Hullo, Junior. When did ye get here?”

“Right when you did. You didn’t see me?”

“No. And ye’ve been followin’ us the whole while?”

“Technically, I’ve been right beside you the whole time.” He grinned. He had a reputation at school for unnatural stealthiness. The first-generation Irish immigrants were convinced he was actually a pooka.

“Ye scare me sometimes, Junior. But I’m glad ye came. This place…” He looked around. Teresa was chatting to a pair of elderly skunk females, while Sean Senior had become bogged down in an animated discussion over the state of Wall Street with a badger who could only be, judging by both his attitude and attire, a banker.

“...I dinny belong here.”

Sean Jr gripped Duncan’s shoulder, or as close to it as he could reach, and squeezed slightly. “I don’t think any of us do. C’mon, let's meet some folks our own age, huh?”

Duncan allowed himself to be pulled over to where a considerable crowd of young people had gathered. There were several young men, but the bulk were women - the eligible debutantes of Boston and Canadian high society.

“Ah! Juny, zere you are!”

Duncan could just barely suppress his grin as a young wolfess, half a foot taller than Junior and wearing a blue gown that left very little of her curvaceous body to the imagination, embraced the young rabbit and kissed him on both cheeks.

“It is so good to see you ‘ere.” She turned to Duncan, eyebrows raised, before looking back at Junior with a sly grin. “And zis is Duncan, non? Votre frere-en-dieu? You ‘ave been ‘iding him, mon petit monsieur - shame on you.” She extended a hand. “Lucille Normand.”
Hoping he remembered his etiquette lessons, Duncan took the hand, bent down as far as dignity permitted, and kissed it. "Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

That drew one or two smiles, and a few bashful giggles, from the onlooking group. “Ah, anozzer gentilhomme at last! And I zought Juny ‘ere was ze only one left.”

“Statistically speaking, there have to be at least one or two others, Lucy. I’ve been giving him lessons. And you’d have met him before if you’d attended any of the hockey games.” He gave her one of his disarming grins. “Besides, I’m pretty sure it would take two or three of me to be able to hide him.”

“Oh, you. You know what it is I mean, mon lapin rusé.”

The group quickly broke up into a series of conversations in which Duncan played no part. He simply stood there by Junior’s side, listening and watching a bit uncomfortably as the wolf continued flirting with his friend until a soft, enquiring voice interrupted his thoughts. “Monsieur Gunn?”

He looked down, and found himself looking into two bright, brown eyes. A blunt-muzzled face, with delicate features in spite of impressive fangs, looked up at him from just below chest height. Light shone off a full head of blonde hair, swept back in a simple chignon.

“Aye - er, oui Mademoiselle?”

The wolverine - at least, that was his first impression - looked over her shoulder at the wolfess. Duncan caught a glimpse of a smile, and what might have been an encouraging nod. The wolverine turned back to him, stuttering slightly. "Je suis… I am Fleur Le Carcajouz."

Duncan couldn't help the slight smile that crossed his lips, even as it tugged on his scars. He took her hand and kissed it.

"Enchanté. Ye are from Quebec, mademoiselle?"

"Oui!" She nodded vigorously. "My parents are in Boston for business, and zey brought me wiz zem. Madame Brandeis insisted we should attend tonight when we dined wiz zem on Wednesday."

"Aye? I was born in Nova Scotia myself. I'm stayin' in Boston while me folks take care of some business back home." He noticed an uneasy look in her eyes. "Are ye alright, mademoiselle?"

She shifted on her feet, and Duncan noticed her outfit for the first time. A warm burgundy dress, opaque but clingingly thin, rested on a body that was oddly slight for her kind, yet undeniably feminine. He smelt lilac perfume, and pine needles. She blushed a little, and looked at the floor. "My friends dared me to come and talk to you, Monsieur."

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realise I was that daunting."

"Oh non! Non, I think you are quite handsome…I mean…I am just…"

Duncan was lost for words, until he saw the look in her eyes. "I…" He started. "I think you look quite lovely, Mademoiselle Le Carcajouz. And…I understand. It's scary, talkin' tae new folk. If I'm bein' honest…I'm a bit scared here, tae."

Fleur cast a gaze around. "Je comprends." She murmured softly. "At 'ome, I do not care if I am called mademoiselle or just Fleur. I played with girls from ze village. Around 'ere…" She flushed slightly. "It is like ze people 'ere make things up just to stop women from doing things as other people do."

The otter shifted, and glanced over at Junior. Finally, he grit his teeth, closed his eyes, and
leaped into the breach. "Mademoiselle Le Carcajouz, would ye care tae dance?"

The eager light in the wolverine's eyes struck him where he stood. She nodded quickly. "Oui, Monsieur!"

Duncan swore he saw Lucille and Junior share a triumphant smile. As Fleur took his hand in hers, his massive fingers dwarfing her palm, he muttered in Junior’s ear. "I'll deal with ye later, ye wee sneak." The rabbit just grinned, a glint in his eye as if to say ‘Not now that you’ve warned me.’

Duncan knew better than to expect jazz music at a ball, and so it proved. No Charlestons or Collegiate Shags would be seen here. The orchestra, at a nod from Mrs. Brandeis, broke out into a waltz.

"You 'ave danced before, Monsieur Gunn?" Fleur looked up at him as they moved through the crowd. He couldn't meet her gaze.

"Only in classrooms."

Fleur's shy smile returned. "Moi aussi."

Hoping she wouldn't see the sweat breaking out on his forehead, Duncan led her onto the dance floor. He felt a small hand clasp his and pull it, with surprising strength, down to her waist. Duncan felt his blush return with a vengeance. His hand engulfed her whole left hip, and she pressed her body against his. He could feel her heat through their clothes, and the movements of her muscles. A pleasant scent, faint but unmistakable, hit his nostrils, and he looked down to see that Fleur was blushing furiously, a look of embarrassed mortification in her eyes. His face matched hers as he felt blood rush downwards, and saw her eyes widen as something bumped against her abdomen.

“Aw jeez,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Non.” Her slight, shy smile returned. “...I want to go on.”

Dancing the waltz with a partner barely two-thirds his height was no easy matter, but Duncan had practised dancing with both Teresa and Brigid. It was just a matter of adjusting here and there, even if it meant deviating from the original. Fleur had evidently had similar experiences, for she quickly caught on and began to mirror his moves perfectly. The twirl was simple - all he had to do was lift her up ever so slightly, just enough that she could clear his feet without seeming inelegant.

Not far away, the elders were observing the dance and chatting amongst themselves. Colonel Harcourt, a tall and barrel chested walrus, had turned up in the regimentals of the 44th Srinjavis, and had managed to corner both Sean Sr and a stocky, middle-aged wolverine.

“Now see here,” The colonel puffed. “-I hold that this whole Bonus Army business would be best served by some good drilling and public works. Discipline, sir! Put some spirit back into them, what?”

Sean demurred. “They have spirit enough, Colonel. What they *don’t* have is an army big enough to let them all serve again. And I’m sure they’d be happy to be paid to do public works, if that idiot in the White House would be willing to spend the money to do it. I swear, if he doesn’t do *something* about it, I’ll vote for the Democrats next year. But since he won’t employ them, they are asking for their pensions early, so they can feed their families until the economy improves. Considering what they went through in the War, I hardly think it is an unreasonable request.”

“Bah! Bolshevism.” The Colonel muttered mutinously.

The rabbit buck snorted. “Bolshevism is what you’ll get if you *don’t* negotiate in good faith. Nicholas didn’t lose his throne - and his life - by being too *reasonable* about demands from his subjects.”

The Colonel grumbled, trying to come up with a rebuttal. The wolverine, who had been watching the dance, turned and gave a quick grin. “Careful, O’Leary - I zink I see a wolfess stalking your eldest. I 'ope he’s prepared.”

Sean glanced in the direction of the younger set. “Oh, that’s just Lucille. They’re friends, known each other since they were pups, and they always do that when her parents come down from Quebec on business. She’s been teasing him for ages. I don’t think she’s serious about catching him.”

The wolverine grinned. “Lucille Normand? Ah, monsieur, you ‘ad best be wary - I know her mother. Once she ‘ad the urge, there was no stopping her. Of course,” he added. “Those were different times.”

Colonel Harcourt glanced at the wolverine, then gave Sean Sr a sly smile. “Oh ho, hmm? Well in that case I think she may have taught her new friends some family tricks, Monsieur Le Carcajouz. It looks like yours is after some rather bigger game.”

Le Carcajouz’s head snapped over to the dance floor. “Quoi!?”

The Colonel simply shrugged slightly, and took a swig from a flask he had secreted in his blue regimental jacket. “More power to her, I say. A splendid young man.”

Sean Sr. started as he saw who the girl was partnered with. “Oh, my. Now that’s an interesting development, indeed.”

The wolverine turned to the rabbit, suspicion flaring in his eyes. “You know zat boy, Sean?”

“His parents are good friends of mine. And I am currently *in loco parentis* while he is at the Academy. His parents are currently embroiled in a lawsuit, up in Canada.”

“Ah, yes.” The Colonel grumbled. “Birkwell and Company Shopyards. Disgraceful case. Stole the property of a young woman while she was in the captivity of savages, and deprived her boy of his rightful inheritance.”

“You mean that is the son of Moiré Gunn? Sacre bleu!”

“Bah.” The Colonel puffed. “I see no reason for complaint. Fine stock, sir, fine stock. Met her meself. A femme formidable, I believe you’d term her. Father’s a decent chap too. Jewish, raven too would you believe it. Brains in spades.”

“Merde! My wife will kill me!” The wolverine made a subtle but quick foray as the dance ended, weaving his way through the onlookers with quiet urgency.

Sean Senior gave his friend an admonishing. "Colonel, you're a very wicked Englishman."

The old walrus gave a fulsome chuckle as he watched. “Better he finds out now. It’ll make her keener to bag him, you’ll see.” He winked at the rabbit. “Anticipation, old boy. The getting is as much fun as the having. I learned that in India.”

~

“<Oh, Lucille!>”

Fleur le Carcajouz burst into the shared room with a broad grin plastered all over her face. “<Isn’t he handsome!? And did you see how big he is!? And those scars, too! He was hiding them, but I saw!>”

Lucille smiled at her younger friend, the wolfess undoing her hair and letting her brown tresses flow down her back. “<What is it with wolverines and scars? I thought you’d approve, though. He dances well, too. That’s always a good sign.>”

The wolverine flopped back on the bed spread eagle, still grinning at the ceiling. “<He was so gentle and sweet. And when we were dancing, I felt it through his clothes. Lucille, he’s hung!>”

The wolfess flushed, just a little, and glanced at her companion. “<All right, all right. Do you have a plan?>”

“<Hmm?>”

“<A plan, silly! How are you going to get him?>”

“<Ohh. Well… I need to think about it. I’ve only just realized I want to, after all.>”

Lucille grinned. “<You do that. In the meantime...>” She pulled on a robe and sprawled across her bed, head propped up on her elbows. "<I'm hunting rabbit.>"

~

A collaboration between me and  Kythra, and our first foray into the Spontoonverse created by  Heywulf. I decided that I wanted to see what it would be like to try out a setting that I've been following for a very long time indeed.

Duncan, Moire, Marcus, Col. Harcourt and Lucille Normand: Me
Sean Junior, Sean Senior, Teresa:  Kythra

Fleur, Henri, Michelle and other characters are joint creations.