“You speak awfully modern English, for a Tudor politician,”Sherry said. Her heart rate was starting to slow. She couldn’t feel that frightened ofLord Thomas. Once she’d had to rescue him after he’d gotten his head stuck in a soup can. “You talk like a Tudor whose dialogue is being written by a bad American screenwriter.” She was starting to suspect that, whatever sort of creature was responsible for the goings-on in Winesap, itdefinitelywatched too much television.
“You’re pert above your station, woman,” the cat said. Then, more mulishly: “And I want my supper.”
“Are you actually the real Lord Thomas Cromwell?” Sherry asked. “What was being executed like?”
“Never you mind,” the cat said. He was speaking without his mouth moving, which was a relief. She didn’t want to see how the demon puppeteering her cat would attempt to adapt his lipless little mouth to accommodate human speech. “You ask questions above your station, too. Why are you talking when you could be preparing food or investigating murders?”
“You’re a cat,” Sherry said. She was starting to feel less worried and more as if she was enjoying herself a little. “You don’t have astation. You can’t operate the can opener on your own. If you want to eat, you’ll have to behave yourself. Why would the tormented spirit of Lord Thomas Cromwell be interested in a murder investigation in Winesap, New York? Are you sure that you aren’t just the same…individualthat I was speaking to earlier, in the sheriff’s office?”
The cat was silent for a moment. She couldn’t glean much from his expression, because he was a cat. It was possible that he was trying to scowl at her but failing due to a lack of eyebrows. Eventually he cleared his throat, which struck her as somehow an even stranger thing for a cat to do than speak English and demand murder investigations. The sound wasdefinitely too deep to have come from his precious weensy little throat. “It’s a bit complicated,” he said. Then he stood up onto all four paws and said, “And what of my supper, woman?”
“You won’t get any supper if you keep calling mewoman,” Sherry said. “It’sMiss Pinkwhistleto you.”
“Do you really see yourself as fit to make demands ofme, woman?” the cat said.
“Yes,” Sherry said. “Don’t you test me, Lord Thomas. I might run the vacuum cleaner.”
As far as a cat could be said to ever look alarmed, Lord Thomas Cromwell did. “There’s no need to resort to violence!” he said. “I’m sure that we can come to some satisfaction, Miss Pinkwhistle. What do you want from me?”
“What doyouwant fromme?” Sherry countered. “I’m not the one possessingyourcat. You can’t just come into a woman’s home, possess her cat, demand supper, and then demand that she issue demands. Who are you, and what are you doing here?It’s complicateddoesn’t count as an explanation.”
“Convincing you to investigate the murder,” Lord Thomas said. “Why won’t you justdo as you’re told?”
“Because I don’t want to,” Sherry said. “Why do you care so much? What’s going on here? Whoareyou? Is it some kind of—human sacrifice cult? But why do you want me tofind the murderer?” It sounded insane. Itwasinsane. She wastalking to a cat.
“Idon’t care about your petty human murders,” said the cat. Then he lowered his voice. “This is all at the behest ofher.”
“Her?” Sherry repeated. She found herself almost whispering, which would have probably felt less ridiculous if she hadn’t been whispering to her cat. “Who do you mean?”
“She doesn’t have a name,” Lord Thomas said. “To call herheris a mere convenience. Creatures like her don’t have a sex. When she takes a form, it’s often that of a beautiful young woman, but sometimes it’s an old man or a lost child. She’s an old thing, and a cruel one. She used to steal pretty children or handsome young men and take them as her playthings. Now she has found a new dollhouse to amuse herself with.”
“Winesap?”
“Winesap,” the cat agreed. “And you, Miss Pinkwhistle.”
Sherry resolutely didn’t allow herself to shiver. “And where doyoucome in?”
Lord Thomas shifted uncomfortably. It was adorable. Then he said, “She has conscripted me into her service after I, through no fault of my own, unwittingly earned her ire.”
Sherry raised her eyebrows. No one used that many words to say that something wasn’t their fault when they were completely innocent. “What did you actually do, Sir Thomas?”
He did more shifting back and forth between his sweet little orange paws. Then he muttered, “I tried to eat her.”
Sherry blinked. “What?”
“She had taken the form of a gleaming white moth,” Sir Thomas said with enormous dignity. “I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
“Are youusuallya cat?” Sherry asked, momentarily distracted from trying to find out more about the malevolent spirit who’d taken over the town. Cats did seem as if they struggled to resist trying to eat moths, gleaming white or otherwise.
“I amLord Thomas Cromwell,” Lord Thomas Cromwell said grandly, then lowered his voice and said, “I am more frequently a Lord of Cats.”
“Oh,” Sherry said. She didn’t feel as if there was much elsethat she could say, really. The cat was looking at her expectantly, though, so she tried: “You must be very important.”
“I am, yes,” the cat said, and took a moment to polish his ears. Then he lowered his voice again and said, “Have you any more of that salt?”
Sherry started to say yes. The cat hissed at her. Sherry blinked. “What—”
The cat shook his head, then nodded, then, surreally, held his paw up to his lips.
