I relate to the frustration, but the cat needs something, so I tug down my dress and duck beneath his arm to turn on the table lamp, ignoring my cane now that I’m in the smaller space of our room. If I need to hold on to furniture or sit, I will.
For a moment, Henry remains as he is, facing the door, then he scoops up my cane to prop against the wall and turns.
Mama Cat, a calico, remains cuddled with her babies on the towel we placed with her. Her food and water dish aren’t empty.
Doing my best not to frighten her, I approach slowly. “What’s wrong, Mama?”
Henry comes close and drops to a crouch, his forearms resting on his thighs. Understanding what I don’t immediately, he springs to stand and pivots, his gaze sweeping the room. “One of the kittens is missing. The little black one.”
I scan the room. “How? Isn’t it too little to toddle off?”
Henry shakes his head. “I don’t know, but they’re pretty squirmy. I’m going to wash my hands. Be right back.”
YOWL.
“I won’t step on him,” Henry says gently. “I’ll be careful. We’ll find him.”
While Henry is in the bathroom, I check to be sure the kitten isn’t hidden somewhere in the base of the lectern, but no luck there. Then, I scan every exposed corner of the floor. I slide the curtains aside to see if a little ball of fur is trapped behind one.
Henry returns and uses his phone flashlight to check under the bed. “Not here.”
“How can he not be there? We’ve looked everywhere else.”
“Hmm.” He strides to the closet door and opens it. “There you are,” he murmurs.
Frowning, I join him as he scoops up the little guy and cradles him against his chest.
My heart rate accelerates. “How did he get in there? Did someone come into our room and move him?”
Henry shakes his head. “There’s no indication of that.” He nods toward the bottom of the door. “The gap is big enough for him to fit. The question is—” He lifts the kitten to eye level. “Why are you off adventuring when you should be snuggled up with your mother?”
The tiny ball of black dandelion fluff cupped in Henry’s hands gives a high-pitched imitation of his mother’s plaintive cry. Mama Cat rubs anxiously against Henry’s shins.
“All right then. Let’s get you back where you belong,” Henry says.
He gently settles the kitten next to its siblings, then considers the lectern with his hands propped on his narrow hips. He turns to one of the bedside tables. The drawer inside it contains nothing but a notepad and pen. Without a word or fanfare, he removes the drawer and positions it on its side in front of thebase of the lectern. It won’t block the mother cat, who can easily step over it. And it wouldn’t stop the kittens if they were even a week older, but for now, it works to keep them confined.
The four larger kittens immediately converge on their mother, looking for milk, but when the little one noses forward, squirming ineffectually for his turn, he gets nowhere.
I glance at my watch. “It’s time for another feeding.”
Henry scrapes his palm over the fresh stubble on his jaw. “I’ll feed him. You get ready for bed. I’ll join you as soon as I’m done here.”
I don’t offer to feed the kitten instead. Henry would only say, “Rest. Please.”
So I close myself in the bathroom for long enough to do what I need to, then return wearing my nightgown. Only a single low-wattage table lamp burns in the otherwise dark room. Henry has pulled the curtains closed.
He looks up from where he sits with his back to the wall and his knees raised, the kitten cuddled against his chest.
“Considering we only have time for one orgasm session now, the Victorian Bride Nightgown is cruel. Very, very cruel. I’m rolling over the remaining orgasms to tomorrow.” He lifts his chin in demand, and I bend to press my lips to his. He groans in exaggerated misery into my mouth, and I laugh.
Henry has always said this white cotton nightgown reminds him of a Victorian bride on her wedding night. And for some reason that turns him on. I told him it’s not historically accurate, but, for once, he doesn’t care about accuracy.
I tug back the coverlet, crawl into the four-poster bed, and lie on my side, watching Henry as he feeds a tiny feline with a syringe, my world in soft focus without contact lenses.
Henry’s voice is a gentle rumble, like thunder in the distance, as he tells the kitten how clever and strong he’ll grow up to be.
When the kitten puts its paws on the syringe, holding it like a baby bottle, Henry glances my way with a delighted grin, to see if I see it too.
