Cat Playing Cupid

25

AS DALLAS AND LINDSEY headed for the Pamillon ruins, down in the village, in Wilma's garden, the tortoiseshell cat crouched beneath the Icelandic poppies, scowling angrily at Sage, who, impeded by his bandages and cast, had backed, hissing, into a pink geranium bush. From beyond the blooms Dulcie watched with dismay the two young cats whose argument had turned hurtful and rude.

They had come out to wait for Charlie to arrive in her SUV, to take Sage up to the ranch for the remainder of his recovery. Kit had meant to go with him, had longed to stay close to him, but after three bad-tempered confrontations this week, and then this angry bout this morning that had nearly come to teeth and claws, Kit didn't know what she wanted.

The argument had started during breakfast, which Kit hurried across the rooftops to share with Sage and Dulcie. As the three cats crouched on their cushioned chairs enjoying scrambled eggs and bacon, Sage told Wilma with amazing boldness that Thomas Bewick's book should be destroyed at once, that the pages must be ripped out and torn to shreds before they were seen by another human.

Wilma, despite her revulsion at destroying the rare volume, meant to do just that, once she and Charlie and the Greenlaws had enjoyed the small volume for just a little while-but she didn't have a chance to say anything, she'd barely opened her mouth when Kit lit into Sage.

"That book's too valuable to burn," the tortoiseshell hissed. "It's old and handmade and rare!" Wilma didn't know whether Kit had absorbed that biblio-friendly attitude from enjoying the library with Dulcie or from her two human housemates who would find it impossible to mutilate a book.

"A beautiful book was never meant to be burned!" Kit said, growling at Sage. "What do you know! You're feral, you know nothing, you don't understand!"

Wilma and Dulcie had watched her, shocked that she would be so hurtful. Sage stared at her then turned silently away, hiding his face. Though Dulcie had held her tongue for the moment, Wilma wouldn't stay out of the matter. Hastily she had fetched the Bewick book from her locked desk and shown the cats what else she'd found, during the small hours of the previous night.

Because the book's binding had puzzled her, she had examined it several times. The front cover was the traditional board with embossed leather glued to it, but the back one seemed slightly padded between the leather and the board. The edges of the leather were fixed in the traditional way beneath the gold-decorated endpapers, which were richly printed with a pattern of tiny paw prints among delicate ferns and leaves. But there was one place that seemed a little loose, as if perhaps it had been gently lifted, at some time, and then glued down again.

Late last night, while Dulcie and Sage slept, Wilma had risen from her bed, her curiosity fixed on that one small portion of the back endpaper. Slipping barefoot into the dark living room, turning on the desk lamp, she had examined the book again. As curious as any cat, she had carefully worked at the old, dry paper until she'd loosened it enough to peer beneath. This was a difficult thing for a librarian to do. Guilt had filled her because she was devaluing Bewick's work. But she was sure someone had already tampered with the endpaper, and she wanted to know why.

She had wondered, ever since she and Charlie retrieved the book, if Olivia had hidden it because, though unwilling to let anyone else see it, she couldn't bring herself to destroy it. She still had no real idea of the book's value, though she had researched Thomas Bewick on the Web and in bound catalogs in the library. The highest price for any edition had been a little over a thousand dollars. But this title had not been listed among those auctioned or for sale, had not appeared in any source she could find.

From the writing style, the typeface, and the style of bookmaking, she was certain this was truly Bewick's work. And last night, when she'd peeked with infinite care beneath the loose endpaper and discovered a thin sheaf of papers hidden there, she'd felt a sharp wave of terrible excitement.

Carefully she'd drawn out the handwritten pages. She'd thought at first these were Bewick's letters, and wouldn't that be a find. The papers were yellowed and dry, the ink faded.

But though the letters were old, they were not by the author. She had read them through, then put the frail missives in a heavy envelope and tucked it into her lower desk drawer along with Bewick's book, and had carefully locked the drawer.

Now this morning, because of the cats' angry confrontation, she'd retrieved the letters and read them aloud. They chronicled the experiences by three generations of Pamillons with a succession of speaking cats. She wanted to show Sage that others had known about them yet had been careful to keep their secret. But she also wanted to show Kit that secrets did get passed on, that Sage was right to be wary-she'd shared the letters hoping to foster a better understanding between the two cats.

Once she read them aloud, she'd locked up the envelope and the book again and had gone off to work, leaving the three cats to wait for Charlie and praying they'd settle their differences.

But immediately the argument began. Sage wanted to try the lock, get at the book, and destroy it at once. Dropping awkwardly down from his kitchen chair, he'd hobbled through to the living room and attacked the drawer, clawing at the lock until Dulcie drove him back.

"This is my house! Wilma will take care of the book in her own time, in her own way."

"How can you be sure?" Sage hissed.

"I am sure. I trust her with my life-every day I trust her to keep our secret."

"Even if she means well," Sage had growled, "even if she means to destroy it sometime, if she doesn't do it now, someone could find it. If it's so valuable, someone could steal it, to sell. Maybe someone's already looking for it-Willow said there was someone searching among the ruins.

"If they find it and read it," he hissed, "they'll come looking for us, too, looking for speaking cats!" He'd glared at Dulcie, his ears flat, his eyes blazing, and he'd attacked the desk again.

Together Dulcie and Kit drove him through the house and out the cat door into the garden, both lady cats hissing and clawing at him. There he'd waited alone, crouched miserably among the poppies, watching for Charlie's car, waiting to be taken away from this place.

But then at last Kit had slipped out again among the flowers to make up and be with him; Sage was her lifetime friend, her dear companion, and Kit did not want to see him hurting.

Dulcie had followed her, but then drew back as Sage told Kit how Stone Eye would have destroyed the book. "That was why we attacked Willow's band," he said angrily. "Because they knew where the book was hidden. Stone Eye had known about the book for a long time, and he wanted it gone. He would have clawed it to shreds."

Dulcie listened, shocked. She had watched Kit race back into the house lashing her fluffy tail, and when Charlie came to pick up Sage and Kit, only Sage was there, alone among the poppies.

"Where are Dulcie and Kit?" Charlie asked, glancing toward the house and then kneeling among the flowers, lifting his calico-smudged white face to look at him more clearly. "What's wrong?"

"Dulcie's in the house," he growled.

"And Kit?"

Sage shrugged. "With her, I guess."

Charlie looked at him for a long time, then picked him up and settled him in the car. "Stay here, Sage. Be still and stay here." Her voice said she would brook no nonsense. And she went in to find the lady cats.

She found Dulcie sitting on the desk, but Kit was huddled behind the couch. When Charlie hauled her out, and got to the cause of the argument, she insisted Kit come up to the ranch with the young tom.

"I mean to show Sage my book, Kit, with the drawings of you. I'm thinking of doing some drawings of Sage, and of you two together." This was what Charlie called a white lie, but it forced Kit's attention, bristling with jealousy.

"You wouldn't draw him," the tortoiseshell whispered.

"Why wouldn't I? He's a very handsome young cat."

"Because…Because he's all in bandages. You don't want-"

"That might be quite interesting," Charlie said. "I might even do a book about Sage and how he was attacked."

"You wouldn't!" Kit hissed, flattening her ears, glaring up at Charlie. "You wrote a book about me. Why would you want to write one about Sage!"

"Well, of course if you don't want me to take him up to the ranch and take care of him…Don't want me to fix him a big bed and special treats, if you don't want to come up and share the nice shrimp I bought, and the roast beef and rum custard, and make sure I change his bandages the way Wilma does-if you want Sage to be all alone, to go back alone to the clowder and never see him again…"

Glowering at Charlie's blackmail, Kit stalked through the house and out the cat door to the car, her ears flat, her tail low. When Charlie opened the door, she leaped in past Sage like a streak, over the back of the seat and down onto the shadowed floor among a tangle of bridle parts and sketch pads. There, crawling under a strong-smelling saddle blanket, she rode in sulking silence.

Kit didn't know how she felt. She cared for Sage, but he enraged her. She wanted to be with him, but she didn't. She felt a terrible disappointment in him for wanting to destroy the beautiful book. And why did he have to admire and try to be like Stone Eye? Wasn't there more to Sage than that hard and narrow view? Hunched in the dark under the horse blanket, Kit put her chin down on her paws and tried not to think about Sage, and could think of nothing else.

And when they got to the ranch, the moment Charlie parked and opened the door, Kit leaped out and raced straight to the barn and burrowed in a pile of straw. There she spent the rest of the morning, wishing Sage would come out and apologize, and ready to tear him apart if he tried.