“It took months,” Fox added quietly.
“And we named it for you,” Cosmos said, unable to keep the pride from his voice.
Petunia’s eyes widened. “You did not.”
“We did,” Cosmos replied. “Lady Petunia.”
For a moment, she was silent, overwhelmed.
Then she threw her arms around them both at once. Cosmos caught her easily. Fox endured the embrace with stoic tolerance, though his mouth twitched in a way that suggested he was pleased despite himself.
Petunia regained her composure quickly, because gratitude, while important, must not be allowed to disrupt ceremony.
She continued opening gifts—thanking each giver with solemn earnestness, as though she were bestowing honors for loyalty and service. Even the smallest trinket received careful appreciation. Even a set of sweets prompted a lecture about moderation.
And all the while, I noticed something.
She did not touch Steele’s parcel.
It sat slightly apart from the others—neatly wrapped, plain ribbon, no flourish. As if its giver had wanted the gift to speak for itself.
Each time Petunia reached for a new present, her gaze flicked to it.
Each time, she passed it by.
At last, when no parcels remained except that one, Petunia drew a slow breath and straightened as though preparing herself for something momentous.
Silence fell—not because anyone had commanded it, but because everyone sensed the change in her.
Petunia picked up Steele’s gift with both hands. Her expression turned intent, almost reverent.
“This,” she announced, looking directly at Steele, “is the one I have been most eager to open.”
She tore the paper free.
Inside was a basket.
And within that basket, a very small, white, exceedingly fluffy kitten blinked up at her.
For one long moment, the room went utterly silent.
Petunia stared. The kitten mewed.
Her breath left her in a rush. “She’s perfect.”
Then she flung her arms around Steele’s neck with such force I expected him to lose his balance.
“It is acceptable then?” he asked, voice carefully neutral, though wonder shone in his eyes.
“This is the best present anyone has ever given me,” Petunia declared. “Ever.”
“Well, that’s a fine how-de-do,” Laurel murmured. “I spent hours picking out the right book.”
“Hours?” Fox echoed. “Cosmos and I spent months.”
The kitten was named immediately—after much debate—and tucked into Petunia’s arms as though it had always belonged there.
Steele watched her, wonder plain on his face.
