“I’ve got a little money in my pocket — in euros.” Delphine was helping herself to bread and butter now. “We could leave some here as payment. People usually don’t mind you taking things as long as you pay.”
They sat in front of the fire and ate their strange little meal in the strange little hut. Their first sip of the rich juice in the horn cups made them smile.
“It’s … it’s … cherry!” Marianne laughed.
And when they saw Marianne’s crimson mustache, it made them all feel better.
“This hut …” Sophie began, thinking. She looked around. “It reminds me of somewhere. A photograph … no, a picture.” She frowned, trying to secure the half-remembered image. “It’s as if a woodcutter is going to appear out of a forest.”
Marianne glanced nervously at the door. “I hope he’s a friendly one.”
“Yes, now I remember,” Sophie said slowly. “There was a picture in a book I had when I was little. My father read it to me. The hut was just like this.” It made her feel safe to talk about her father and the book and the stories. “He would sit on the edge of my bed and read to me until I fell asleep.” She felt a lump form in her throat. “When I started living with Rosemary, that was the hardest thing to get used to … I really missed his voice at bedtime.”
Why was she saying this? What was she thinking? She put a piece of bread in her mouth, as if that would help get rid of the lump in her throat. She needed to stop thinking about how things had changed since he had died.
“I don’t see my father much,” Delphine shrugged. “And even when I do see him, he doesn’t really seem to see me.” She smiled as if she wanted to make herself believe she didn’t care. Sophie put her arm around her friend. Delphine dropped her head onto Sophie’s shoulder. “Sorry about the phone,” she mumbled. “And saying you’re mad …”
“Argh!” Marianne dropped her cup and ran to the door.
“What’s the matter?” Sophie and Delphine cried.
“There’s something under the table!” she yelled, her hand on the door handle.
But before she could wrench open the door, a large black cat appeared from beneath the thick white tablecloth.
“Marianne!” Delphine laughed. “It’s a cat! A big, beautiful cat!”
The creature rubbed itself against Sophie’s legs, allowing her to stroke it behind its ears, and then lay down in front of the fire.
“He’s not dangerous, Marianne,” she said.
Marianne came back to her seat, looking slightly foolish.
“It’s not so bad here, is it?” Sophie said. “Anyone who can have a cat as splendid as you must be all right.” As if the cat had understood, he stretched one large, square paw across Sophie’s foot.
“I wonder what he’s called?” said Marianne.
“Something serious, like Alexey, or Sergei,” Sophie decided.
“Don’t Russians always have two first names?” Delphine said. “I’m sure that’s what Miss Ellis said.”
“You’re right,” Marianne smiled. “The men’s second names always end in ‘ich.’ That’s the name they take from their father.”
“So if this cat’s father was called Dmitri,” Delphine said, “he’d be called Alexey Dmitrivich.”
“Oh, let’s call him Sergei Sergeyevich,” Sophie said. “Doesn’t that sound magical? It’s the sort of name that would make anyone sound important, even this big, fat black kitty cat …”
They were quiet for a few moments, wriggling their toes in the warmth.
“Doyouhave any other names … other than Sophie?” Marianne said. She took a sip from her horn cup.
“Of course not. Just plain old Sophie Smith.” Sophie wrinkled her nose. “But then, I don’t have any extra anything, do I?”
“No extra money …” added Delphine.
“No extra sweaters …” Marianne caught the mood.
“Definitely no extra sweaters,” Sophie agreed. “Just holey ones. No extra family, either.” She gave her friends a half smile.
