Five
THE CAT’S NAME IS SIR
“What did you just say?” I repeat, fumbling to form the words.
“I said, it took you long enough. Do try to keep pace.”
I blink, then blink again, certain my ears or my mind is playing tricks on me. The cat sits perfectly still on the counter, his blue-grey fur immaculate against the wood surface, like a living piece of art positioned just so. His one white paw remains lifted delicately as he continues his slow, methodical licks, each stroke precise and unhurried.
“You can talk?” My voice comes out as a squeak. I know . . .I know I should be able to communicate better than this, form coherent sentences like the grown woman I am, but the cat is talking to me. Actually talking. Or thinking. Or whatever this is.
“Evidently.” The response comes with a weight of infinite patience, as if he’s been waiting his entire life for me to catch up to this obvious fact.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “No, I mean, you’re a cat.”
“Astute observation. You may call me Sir.” His tone drips with disdain, though his mouth never moves, his whiskers barely twitching. The voice in my head carries a distinctly British accent, crisp and proper, like he stepped out of a period drama.
Panic flutters in my chest as I spin around, searching the shop for hidden speakers or projectors, some rational explanation for what is happening. Maybe this is some elaborate setup, a joke Lucien is playing on the new shop owner. The space stretches before me, cluttered with curiosities that seem frozen in time, each item placed with deliberate care. Glass bottles of various sizes line mahogany shelves that reach toward the pressed tin ceiling, their contents shimmering with unnatural colors, deep emerald, liquid silver, something that looked like captured starlight. Leather-bound books with cracked spines and faded gold lettering fill floor-to-ceiling bookcases, their titles in languages I can’t identify. Display cases house trinkets that seem to hum with barely contained energy, amulets carved from stones I don’t recognize, crystals that catch the light from impossible angles, and objects I can’t even name. Curved metal implements, small wooden boxes with intricate inlay, tiny glass globes filled with what looks like miniature storms.
Bundles of dried herbs hang from the exposed wooden beams overhead, sage and rosemary and something sweeter, maybe lavender, creating an atmosphere that is both comforting and otherworldly. The wide-plank hardwood floors sparkle despite their obvious age, and every surface is clean, as if someone has been maintaining this place with obsessive care.
Unfortunately for my rapidly deteriorating sanity, there are no speakers, no wires, no hidden cameras. No rational explanation. This was no trick.
I squint at the cat, then check the front door to make sure no one is about to burst through laughing, announcing this is all an elaborate prank. Yes, let’s punk the newbie to the town.
“Okay, Sir.” His name feels strange on my tongue, formal and weighty. “Either I’ve finally lost my mind, or?—”
“You have not.” The cat situates himself into a perfect loaf position, his paws tucked neatly beneath his chest, tail wrapped around his body with mathematical precision. “Though your processing speed is concerning.”
He licks his paw again with infuriating calm, as if we were discussing the weather rather than his apparent ability to communicate telepathically.
“How are you doing that?” I demand, moving closer to the counter, close enough to see the individual whiskers on his face and the way his eyes seem to hold depths I can’t even fathom.
“Doing what?”
“Talking in my head!” I say, tapping my temple with two fingers, probably looking half-mad to anyone watching.
“Because that is where I am,” he replies, opening his mouth in a wide yawn that reveals sharp white teeth and a pink tongue.
I stop dead, my hand gripping the edge of the counter hard enough that my knuckles are white. “You’re what now?”
“We are bound. You and I. Blood and magic. Our communication does not require air.” He sounds like he is explaining something painfully obvious to a particularly dim child, the kind of tone teachers use when they’ve repeated the same instruction five times.
I tap my throat experimentally. “So, you’re not actually. . . speaking? Like, with words?”
“I am not vibrating vocal cords, if that’s what you’re asking.”His tail twitches once, a single dismissive movement. “It is telepathic. Mental communication through our bond. Only you can hear me.”
To test this theory, because I need proof, need something concrete to hold onto, I say aloud, “This place is nice and tidy. I assume you’re the caretaker?”
The dust motes floating in the golden sunbeams continue their lazy dance, undisturbed. The old grandfather clock in the corner kept its steady rhythm. Nothing reacts to my words. No one burst through the door asking who I’m talking to. The shop remains peacefully, eerily quiet except for the soft ticking and my own breathing.
I lower my voice to a whisper. “So, I’m the only person who can hear you?” I ask, still struggling to believe this is happening.
“Do you see anyone fleeing in terror?”He yawns again, exposing those sharp teeth, completely unbothered by my existential crisis.
I straighten my shoulders, trying to regain some semblance of control over the increasingly bizarre situation that has become my life. The shop around me is beautiful and impeccably maintained, I have to admit. The wide-plank hardwood floors show the warm patina of age. Intricate woodwork frame the windows and doorways, carved with symbols that seem familiar but just out of reach of memory. A spiral staircase in the back corner, wrought iron with wooden steps worn smooth by countless feet, leads to what appears to be a loft filled with even more books and artifacts.
“Okay. So. You’re. . . what? The shop’s mascot?” I laugh nervously, the sound too bright and brittle in the quiet space, remembering Lucien’s cryptic comments about things being more than they seem.
