The little being gives a shiver. William’s hand loosens its grip on the bony creature and it latches on to William’s coat, burrowing into its ragged depths, fleas and all. William cringes and attempts to pry the treacherous toenails loose from his worn sweater. Another pitifulmew,then it keeps still. He dares not even flinch, lest those tiny weapons reappear. “Sure, I’ll uh…I’ll handle the problem,” William says. “It’s time I’m off home anyway.” Darkness cloaks the shore and the torches do little to illuminate the work, which means it will soon be unsafe to continue.
“That’s the most words you’ve said at one time,” says one of the men, and the others laugh.
Shoulders hunched, William turns toward land where he can dispose of the troublesome creature and head home. It isn’t squirming anymore.
William walks, strides lengthening, and soon he’s moving toward the road, and this tiny bundle—which is now oddly vibrating—has only burrowed in deeper. And he hasn’t disposed of it. It has created a warm spot through his clothing.
Soon William takes off at a run again, hunched against the moist air that promises more rain, and he realizes he’s taking the creature home. There’s no better place for the small bundle of fur and bones, for Dunn Cottage is, as the inheritance letter stated, the perfect sanctuary. He cannot wait to be back to it. Cool and dark, remote, forgotten. Low and close like the hug a body sorely needs. Not a companionable hug, but the sort that holds together brittle, fractured pieces.
Which is him, now.
And the rat-kitten.
In the humid darkness, William sprints through the German countryside, dodging splintered wood as the bridge detonates behind him. He drops the mallet and the flint that had caused such devastation.
They are the enemy, those men. He’s stopping the Germans.
Screams sound in the night, shrill and panicked, as more fuses ignite under trusses. Objects and men tumble in the air,mere shapes highlighted by moonlight. Fourteen bridges he’d detonated. Three with men still on them.
He bursts through the forest, batting like mad at the branches attacking him. No…thorns. Brambles. Rising up to slice his flesh.
He strikes again and—
Mrewwww.
A suckingthwwwwipof pressure and he’s jarred awake. He’s in his bed. In Dunn Cottage, drenched in sweat, swatting at tiny paws.
Panting, he grabs the kitten and dangles it before him, smoothing back his damp hair. There are thin red slashes across the backs of his hands. A few that are bleeding. He shoves out a forceful breath as his heart pounds, trying to calm it. “You rotten bugger, you.”
He sets the creature on his quilt but it climbs his nightshirt, swatting at his face, claws retracted now. “Why not show a bit of gratitude for the roof over your head, eh?” He rises, still trembling from head to toe. Tucking the kitten into the crook of his arm, he trots down to the main level, fully aware that the tiny creature has saved him from the recurring nightmare.
But then his gaze falls upon the crumpled newspaper on the refectory table. He jerks with the sudden stab of guilt and dislodges his small guest. The claws come out again, clinging to his clothing…and the skin beneath.
Unhooking the tiny daggers and settling the tiny new master on the newspaper, he smooths a damp cloth over the kitten’s eyes, removing the new layer of crust that has built up, and feeds it bits of fish from a can. “Rather spoiled, demanding food in the middle of the night. I suppose you’ll require a drink to wash it down now, won’t you?” But the creature handles that matter itself, jumping down from bench to floor and trotting over to a curved pottery shard. Bracing its paws on either side, it laps upthe water that’s dripped from the leaky roof and purrs, drawing immense comfort from the discovered drink.
A broken thing, put to use.
It shakes its head and, before William can move it to safety, steps delicately between the remaining pieces of pottery, unscathed and unconcerned. Then it makes a dash and crashes into William’s boot.
“Resourceful little thing, aren’t you?” His voice is gruff.
The pathetic fella looks up, twisting its head to the left.Mew?
William scoops up the creature, who isn’t even big enough to climb his trouser leg, and peers into its dirty face. “I suppose you can stay. For now, at least. Until you go and cause me too much trouble.” But he knows, looking at the tiny tufted black ears, the eager face, that it’s unlikely to come to that.
William bathes the kitten in a dented pot and discovers the gray paws are actually white, as is its chest. “A fine gent, are you? White gloves and livery.”
Scrubbed clean, fed, and warmed, the tiny creature looks decidedly charming and cozy. That’s likely how it then ends up allowed into William’s bed, which he makes up on the couch this time. Sometimes the nightmares are less powerful down here. He offers it a spot beside the couch, then by his feet, but the creature happily romps to his pillow and curls in next to William’s head, kneading the fabric and rumbling its appreciation.
As William’s mind begins to fold down into sleep again, the kitten rubs its face along William’s whiskered cheek. He jerks at the touch, then braces himself and allows it to continue nestling into his beard that suddenly bends and flexes against his skin in new ways. It’s odd, having his beard disturbed. Delightfully so. “You wouldn’t be so keen on me if you knew.”
But the bonny creature continues shoving its head harder and harder into William’s jaw, nuzzling the underside of his chinand purring. “You’re a soft little thing,” he croons into its fur, and the kitten nose-bumps his face a few times. “How Helen would love you.”
He pictures her snuggling the kitten, holding it to her cheek and speaking softly. How many lost and bedraggled orphans did she bring home throughout their marriage? Too many to count—including himself.
He stirs and realizes there’s a smile on his lips, but it fades into the shadows of his cold, lifeless home. Memories can drown a person—the good ones, even, because they’re gone. He’s looking instead into Merryn’s soulful gray eyes casting a deeply understanding look down at him from the portrait. They share a lostness.
And there is a distinct feeling, in those moments when he can nearly hear her voice, that he knew her once.Shouldknow who she is.
