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The musings of Beruthiel's white cat, who is more than she seems. A double drabble, rated General Audiences. Features nods to various other literary felines.
The anger-queen thinks me her spy. The others crawl as possums would, going where she bids, turning their lamp-like eyes into the corners of the city and returning to whisper, whisper in her ear.
Oh, I play my part prettily. I will balance a saucer and teacup to keep her amused, and melt into the air when she wants me no longer. She sets me to spy on my fellows, and I go, and come back, and I tell her some tales – but one secret I keep to myself. The others, craven, wicked, can speak to no-one but her. I, the white cat, speak to the King, and now the King begins to plot. He builds a ship by night, a vessel to bear her away, so that laughter and colour may flower in his kingdom once more.
I too will go, but not from fear or love. When the ship makes land I will leave her and roam her strange southern realm, learning the paths of the wilderness and shunning my fellows, for I am the cat who walks by herself - and I am in need of a new adventure.
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