Reserved for the Cat Read Online Free Page A

been around and about for as long as Ninette could remember—him, or at least, one just like him. In good times he got their scraps, and in bad, at least he was a warm companion in bed. Maria would never have allowed that, but the cat had always insinuated himself inside somehow, and out again before the morning fires were lit. And as he never had fleas, Ninette had been happy to share her blankets.
    So now she was hearing things . . .
    You are not hearing things. You are hearing me, the voice said.
    Again, she looked wildly about. “Who is there?” she demanded, her despair fueling her anger at this unasked for invasion. “Show yourself!”
    You are looking at me, Ninette. The tomcat jumped down off the sill and strolled up to her. It is the cat. Call me Thomas if you like.
    Her mouth dropped open as the cat jumped up onto the little table and sat down again, curling his tail neatly about his feet. She shook her head a little wildly. “No, no, this is impossible—”
    Clearly not, since you can hear me speaking to you. So do not cry, Ninette. I will make things right for you. I should have spoken to you when Maria died, but I was afraid you would never believe—I have watched over you all your life.
    She stared into the cat’s unblinking eyes. “Oh? And so fine a job you have made of it!”
    Did you ever starve? Was there always money to pay the rent? the cat retorted. Do you remember the sausages, the cheese, the fish that were left on the table that you thought were from your artist friends? The little purses Maria just “found” in the street when the rent came due? Maria would never have believed in any of the other things I could have done. I had to confine myself to what she would believe in.
    Ninette bit her lip, her mind a whirl. She felt as if her entire existence had been turned upside down. Talking cats! Talking cats that claimed to have been taking care of them! And yet . . .
    And yet there had been those mysterious gifts of food when they needed them the most. Maria was incredibly lucky when it came to finding windfalls on the street. Even the artists had remarked on it, saying that she must have a good fairy looking out for her.
    A good fairy. . . .
    Not exactly, the cat said wryly. But close enough. Ninette, will you trust me? Will you put yourself in my hands?
    “Paws,” she corrected absently, still feeling her mind reeling. If this was madness then—so be it. She might as well be mad. What did she have to lose? If she was truly mad, then none of this was happening, and someone would find her wandering about and take her to an asylum where she would continue to live in her fancy. Or she would fall into the Seine and drown, and all her problems would be solved in that way.
    All right then. You have to say it out loud. That’s the way these things work. It’s like a contract. The end of the cat’s tail twitched, restlessly.
    “I trust you. So go and do whatever you want. I won’t go to the Folies just yet, I will give you your chance—”
    Stay right here, the cat said, fiercely. Pack a small bag with anything you do not want to leave behind. Change into your good gown. I will be right back.
    Abruptly, he stood up and whisked out of the window so quickly he might have been enchanted. She was left staring at the spot on the table where he had been sitting.
    Pack a bag. With anything she did not want to leave behind.
    She bit her lip and stared out at the evening sky. What in the name of God could this all mean?

    As sunset turned to l’heure bleu and became dusk, then dark, she waited. Through her open window she could hear the sounds of the street—artists arguing at the little café, someone with a guitar, children, released from whatever job they did during the day, finding a little energy to play. Through the window came cooking smells; cabbage, the eternal cabbage, the staple of the poor. Sausages frying. Her stomach growled, and she finally got up, lit a stub of a candle, and rummaged