The cat freezes mid-lick, every muscle in his compact body going perfectly still. His pupils narrow to thin slits, and he gives me a slow, deliberate blink.
I’m pretty sure slow blinks are meant to be affectionate in cat language but the expression on his face suggests he’s already reconsidering every life choice that led to meeting me.
“I am the Thorne Familiar.”His tone shifts from merely condescending to something ancient and dignified. “Do not diminish me.”
The words press against my consciousness like a physical thing, heavy with implications I am only beginning to understand. This isn’t some cute shop pet who happens to be unusually intelligent. He is so much more.
“I have served the Thornes for generations,” he continues, rising gracefully to his feet and stretching each leg in turn, his movements fluid and purposeful. “I am bonded to the bloodline, not the building. This shop has functioned because I maintained it. I preserved it. I waited”.
His eyes cut to me, sharp and unimpressed.
“My duty is not a matter of preference. I am placed where I am required. This shop sits at the threshold. So here I remain.”
“Maintained it how? You don’t even have thumbs.” I gesture around the room, sweeping my arms wide to encompass the pristine shelves and spotless surfaces. I was clearly putting my foot in my mouth because you can practically eat off the floor in here, every surface gleaming, every item in its proper place. “I mean, you’re clearly, well, you’re a cat.”
“You would be amazed what one can accomplish without opposable digits.” He jumps down from the counter, landing without the slightest sound. “Magic has its uses.”
The word hovers in the air between us, loaded with meaning I’m not ready to examine too closely.
He circles me, his movements precise and clinical, like a doctor conducting an examination. His paws make no sound on the hardwood as he moves, and I find myself holding my breath.His eyes seem to look through me rather than at me, as if he can see layers of myself I didn’t even know exist.
“Stand still,” he commands.
“Excuse me?”
“Stand. Still.”This time he emphasizes each word with a gentle but firm swipe of his paw against my leg.
Something in his tone, authoritative, ancient, absolutely certain, makes me comply, though I fold my arms defensively across my chest. He continues his circle, completing one full revolution, then another, his tail occasionally brushing against my ankles. The contact sends small shivers up my legs, not unpleasant but definitely not normal cat-fur sensations.
I feel small under the weight of his scrutiny, diminished in a way that has nothing to do with his physical size. This small creature somehow makes me feel two feet tall, as if I am being weighed and measured and found wanting. I am being evaluated, judged, assessed, and I know exactly what he sees. A dud of a Witch, a disappointment, someone who holds the Thorne name through familial ties only, lacking the power that should have been her birthright.
His ears tilt slightly, swiveling toward me like tiny satellite dishes. “That is. . . incorrect.”
“What is?” I ask, though something in my chest already knows what he is hinting at, some buried instinct finally stirring to life.
“Your magic.”
The word hangs between us like a physical thing, shimmering with possibility and threat in equal measure. I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears, sharp enough to cut.
“I don’t have magic.” The words tumble out like stones in my mouth, heavy with the weight of thirty-five years of disappointment and failure.
“Incorrect.”He steps closer, then sits at my feet, head tilted up to study my face, his whiskers twitching as if he can smell something I can’t detect. “You are saturated with it. Absolutely drenched. It pulses through every cell of your body.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. A lifetime of disappointment flashes through my mind. The failed spell attempts, pitying looks from my parents, the gradual acceptance that I was the broken branch on a powerful family tree. Every birthday wish blown out on candles, every shooting star I’d begged to give me what everyone in my family seemed to have naturally.
“But it is restrained,” he adds, his eyes never leaving mine, bright and unwavering as he delivers this impossible news. “Bound. Locked away. Hidden.”
I go completely still, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I am sure he can hear it. The distinction feels monumental, earth-shaking, but I can’t allow myself to believe it. Hope is a luxury I abandoned long ago, too dangerous to entertain.
“Don’t say that,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
“Why?”He tilts his head, studying me with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.
“Because it’s easier to be nothing than to be almost.” The truth of it burns my throat, raw and honest. “Almost magical. Almost powerful. Almost enough. Almost is worse than nothing because it means you came close but still failed.”
Sir processes this, his tail swishing once, twice, the only sign he is considering my words. When he speaks again, his tone has softened a fraction. Not kind, exactly, but less sharp around the edges.
“Authority was assumed in your absence,” he says carefully. “Though control was taken long before your dear grandmother passed away.”
