Not a lamp was lit, not a candle flickered. An alcove in the back seemed to lead to the kitchen and, presumably, the living quarters and the rest of the house. Light from the—now unshuttered—windows filled the main room, but Trix could not see beyond the dark doorway. And nowhere was there a cat to be found.
“Come to the light, boy.”
The words were wheezy like an errant breeze. The wall immediately to Trix’s left had two large windows. Each cast an equally large rectangle of light onto the floorboards before it. Trix squinted into the farthest rectangle, catching the faintest flicker of dust motes in the sun’s rays at the edge of his vision. Bit by bit, the sparkles of light resolved themselves into a squat, puffy shape.
Be it this life or the next, Trix thought to himself. Cats do prefer the sunny spots.
The spectral feline groomed himself, his flattened face making barely a dent in the voluminous fluff of his coat. His fur reminded Trix of smoke from wet wood or storm clouds, both black and white, the shades of gray between them soft and threatening. Just like smoke and clouds, Papa Gatto’s form seemed to shift in and out of tangibility.
Trix boldly stepped forward into the closest rectangle of light. Papa Gatto might have intended the intense rays of the afternoon to add to the feeling of scrutiny, but Trix felt safe in the sun. He clasped his hands behind his back as Mama had taught him—fiddling fingers were distracting, she said, and made boys look idle.
Mama had also taught Trix the importance of speaking only when spoken to, in such situations. As Trix waited in that silent square of sun, he came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be unusually rude of him to get on with the conversation, so long as he’d already been spoken at.
“It is an honor to meet you…” Trix knew this was Papa Gatto but suddenly felt odd speaking so familiarly. How might the departed patriarch like to be addressed? Trix considered what he knew of cats and went with “…your majesty.”
Papa Gatto ceased his constant cleansing and looked up at the address. His head was wider than the cats Trix had encountered in the Wood, his ears more gently curved than pointed and set far apart. His muzzle was also far less pronounced. His whiskers pulled down both sides of his mouth, giving the impression of jowls and a permanently stern look, as if he were unhappy with everything. Lizinia had mentioned that Papa Gatto had grinned down at her beneath the apple tree, but Trix honestly couldn’t imagine this cat ever cracking a smile.
The smoky fur was black as pitch around Papa Gatto’s nose and mouth, a feature that enhanced the cat’s large silver-green eyes. Trix had encountered mist that same color in the Wood and had avoided it along with the rest of the animals. Magic ran wild in that mist, adding an element of madness to everything it touched.
“What is your name, child?” the cat’s words were a wheeze and a hiss, as if his voice, too, was only able to half-materialize in this world.
“Trix Woodcutter, your majesty.” He bowed low.
Papa Gatto let out a mumbling rasp and coughed a little. Trix wondered what a semi-incorporeal hairball might look like. “Why did you, Trix Woodcutter, lie to my goddaughter Lizinia?”
Trix furrowed his brow. Of all the things he’d not expected the cat to say, this hadn’t even made the list. Trix had been accused of many things in his life, but lying was not among them.
“Forgive me, your majesty, but…I don’t actually know what you’re talking about.”
“I see all and know all,” the cat said hoarsely. “Now more than ever.”
Trix was happy for the cat’s new abilities and appreciation of such, but he still didn’t see what any of it had to do with him. Still, the cat seemed to be waiting for Trix to admit something. “Yes, sir.” It was all he could think to say.
The cat sighed and shifted his fluid, ethereal girth. His long tail swept across the floor like Mama’s mop, stirring more bright dust into the shaft of light around him. The edges of his soft coat faded in and out of existence. “You introduced yourself to Lizinia as ‘a poor boy.’”
“But I am a poor boy,” said Trix. “My family and I live in a humble cottage on the edge of the Wood.” Assuming it was still there after the floodwaters rose. “There used to be a treehouse too, but it got swallowed by a beanstalk. We don’t even have a cow because…well, I sold her and bought the beans that created the beanstalk.” Trix continued to rack his brain. “Mama and Papa have a goose now that lays golden eggs, but I wouldn’t say that classifies us as rich.”
Papa Gatto coughed again, many times in succession. If the cat hadn’t been dead already, Trix would have called out for help. And then he realized Papa Gatto was laughing. At him.
“You are yet a child, but I would never call you poor, Boy Who Talks to Animals.”
“Ah. That.” Perhaps if Lizinia had been an animal he might have introduced himself as such, not that he ever needed to, since this blasted prophetic reputation obviously proceeded him. “I’ve only been told that tale recently—it’s definitely not how I think of myself. I would not presume a sophistication I do not feel I own.”
A cloud moved over the sun; the cat faded out of existence and then back in as the shadow passed. When he spoke again he mumbled, as if his cheeks were filled with cotton. “You do think of yourself as a brother, do you not?”
“Seven times over,” Trix said proudly.
“And who is your sister?”
Trix opened his mouth to ask the cat which sister he meant, and then shut it once more. From the way Papa Gatto had phrased the question, only one sister mattered. When Trix took a moment to think, he realized the answer was obvious. He exhaled in defeat. “The Queen of Arilland.”
Which I reckon makes you a prince.”
Trix shook his head. “That it does. But the title is still new to me—not so new as that other one, but new all the same. I do not live in the palace”—Trix shivered at the thought of being cooped up in a place like that, no matter how sprawling—“nor do I present myself as a prince to anyone. Ever.”
The cat scoffed. “Prince or no, I cannot send my dear Lizinia off in the company of a liar.”
Trix squinted at the cat. Papa Gatto’s edges were fading again. “With respect, your majesty, I don’t believe that’s your decision anymore.”
Papa Gatto hissed and pranced about on his short legs. “Impudent scamp,” he wheezed.
Trix pointed at the cat. “Now that’s more like it. I’ve been called that often enough to answer to it when summoned.” By Mama no less, and everything Mama said was true. “Surely a fine cat such as yourself can appreciate those qualities. You can’t tell me you weren’t an impudent scamp in any of your lives.”
“In all of them,” the cat rasped proudly. And then he did that thing Lizinia had sworn she’d witnessed under the apple tree: Papa Gatto grinned.
It was one of the most frightening sights Trix had ever seen.
“Well then, Trix Woodcutter. Now that the formalities are out of the way, you must prove to me that you are worthy of my goddaughter.”
“I’m not sure that I can,” said Trix.
“Then you must be unworthy,” said the grinning cat.
“I’m worthy of a lot of things, your majesty,” Trix countered. “I just don’t know your goddaughter that well. We’ve only just met. I’d feel uncomfortable speaking on her behalf.”
“Wise words from a body of so few years.”
Trix slid his hand down to where the tooth of Wisdom rested in the crude pocket at the bottom of his shirt. Friday had altered a few of his shirts thusly so that he might collect certain herbs and stones and other precious trinkets while on his daily jaunts through the Wood. He was still not sure what use the trinket would be to him, but he was glad of its company all the same. “Thank you, your majesty.”
Papa Gatto had not yet instructed him to drop the affectation so Trix maintained that overly polite air. He did notice a sound not unlike a gravelly purr coming from the spectral cat, and he took that as a good sign.
�
��All right then, Scamp. Let’s measure your suitability, shall we?” Papa Gatto’s face faded away momentarily, but Trix still nodded his readiness at the smoky ball of fur. “You do seem a bit scrawny.”
“I’m not fully grown,” said Trix, “and I have fey blood. It makes me look younger than I am.”
The cat regarded him with those haunting green eyes as he faded in and out of sight. “Can you make a fire?” he asked when enough of his mouth returned to form words.
“Yes, your majesty,” Trix said with confidence.
“Do you know which plants are poisonous and which are not?” asked the cat.
“I know of many,” said Trix, “but I have not traveled the world enough to know them all. I trust the animals to let me know when I might be making the wrong decision.”
Papa Gatto harrumphed his disdain. “Could you survive on your own with no help from animal friends?”
“I believe I could, but I hope I never have to find out.” Trix narrowed his eyes at the cat. “I hope Lizinia never has to find out either.”
Papa Gatto preened, a gesture that told Trix that the cat did intend to stay with Lizinia in spirit well beyond the confines of this cottage. “I would have you perform three tasks for me,” the cat said, in between bouts of grooming his soft, smoky locks.
Trix resisted rolling his eyes at the ridiculous suggestion. What did his performing tasks have to do with Lizinia finally getting away from this comfortable prison the cats had forced upon her? But cats were cats, for better or worse, and as this particular cat seemed determined to stick with his goddaughter as long as possible, it couldn’t hurt for Trix to keep things sailing smoothly for as long as possible. Trix knew enough about cats to know that if one of them wanted to make life difficult for you, you could end up wishing you’d never been born.
“What would you have of me, your majesty?”
A golden square of light appeared on the shadowed floor between them. “Take that magic cloth you see before you,” said the cat. “I want you to clean this house from top to bottom.”
Trix clenched his jaw, stepped forward, and lifted the rag. It was as insubstantial as the cat, its silvered edges fading whenever it lost the light. Trix wouldn’t be cleaning anything with this! He looked around the cottage. The spotless cottage. He imagined Lizinia had little else to do in the countless years she’d been in residence.
“Yes, your majesty,” Trix said into the bow. He raised the spirit-cloth high into the air and spun about, pantomiming a swipe across the windowsill and shutters directly to his left.
By the time Trix had pretended to clean the living area, Papa Gatto had begun to clean himself again. By the time Trix was done waving his arms around the kitchen, Papa Gatto had curled up into a fat, fluffy ball in his square of sunlight, snoring as he periodically winked in and out of oblivion. Trix took the opportunity to investigate the cottage in its entirety.
The bedrooms beyond the kitchen were small and equally clean as a whistle. Had he not heard the story from Lizinia herself, Trix would never have thought this place was once inhabited by a hundred cats. Nor was there much evidence that a girl lived here. There were no flowers in pots, no looms, no paints. No sticks, no stones, no pretty leaves nor fragrant herbs. Trix discovered no other instrument besides the piano in the front room. Trix had never before considered a life without mementos—now that he had, he deemed it a rather sad life indeed. More than ever he looked forward to traveling with Lizinia and introducing her to…well…everything.
There was no true “top” to the house but Trix found the bottom, through a small cellar door opposite the pantry. Even this room was spotless, every jar on every shelf arranged just so and turned so that the labels—written in Lizinia’s very neat hand—were visible. There was an enormous vat where presumably the girls had been dipped in their deserved rewards. It was empty of either magical gold or magical pitch.
Even the feyest of cats had limitations, it seemed.
When Trix was through sating his curiosity, he made his way back up the stairs to where Papa Gatto still slumbered. Trix took his original spot in the other window’s square of light, now slightly fading. He sat cross-legged on the floor and watch the cat a while. Instead of Papa Gatto’s image blurring at the edges, the outline of the cat seemed crisp and clear. It was the bulk of the animal that was hazy now, smoke curling in and around on itself to the sound of slow and even cat snores.
Trix let the magical dust cloth slip to the ground. “Finished!” he announced.
The cat snapped back into reality with a cough and a scowl. Trix tried to look a little less proud of himself than he was feeling. For an all-seeing, all-knowing entity, Papa Gatto didn’t seem to be aware of how little dirt was in this place. Not that he would check anyway—Trix had a feeling that Papa Gatto could not travel beyond that square of light from which he currently reigned.
“Imp,” said Papa Gatto.
“At your service, your majesty,” said Trix. “What would you have me do next?”
“You must fluff the mattresses,” the cat said without pause. “Beat them until the feathers fly.” With a stretch and a yawn, he curled about himself and became smoke on a sunbeam once more.
Trix shrugged, got up, and walked back to the bedrooms. These must have been the tasks the cats had set to Lizinia and her sister all those years ago. A decent enough interview for a housemaid, perhaps, but none of this gave the cat an ability to gauge Trix’s fitness for travel. Papa Gatto was playing with him, that was obvious, like a mouse on a string. And Trix didn’t mind going through the motions, however ridiculous, he only wished he could peek his head out a window and keep Lizinia informed as to his status.
Trix shook out the mattresses and then reassembled them as they had been before. He collected the feathers and brought them back to the main room, where he dropped them in a quiet pile atop the magical dust cloth.
“Finished!” he exclaimed, and again the cat reappeared in a huff.
“Scamp.”
“That’s ‘Prince Scamp,’ if you don’t mind,” Trix said playfully.
Unexpectedly, Papa Gatto did not frown at Trix’s jest. No, the grin was back, as disconcerting as ever. The silver green eyes sparkled with delight. Three balls of yarn materialized on the floor before him.
“Your third and final task,” said the cat. “You must choose which ball of yarn is my favorite.”
Trix smirked. If the other two tasks had been senseless, this one was positively laughable. How in the world was Trix expected to choose the right one? And even if he did, who was to say that Papa Gatto wouldn’t lie, or change his mind?
“What does it even matter, anyway?” Trix asked brazenly. “You cannot stop Lizinia from traveling with me, no more than you can stop the sun from shining right through you.”
“Nor can I dip you in gold or pitch for your insolence.” The cat’s eyes seemed to glow brighter. Trix placed a hand over his chest, as if to keep his soul from being examined by those giant, haunting eyes. “But I have allies in the corporeal world, allies that can see that you find your way into a barrel full of snakes and boiling oil and never find your way out. You won’t see my goddaughter—or anyone else—ever again.” The grin returned, and it was just as terrifying as ever. “First rule of the forest, my boy: Never cross a cat.”
The hairs on Trix’s neck rose, and gooseflesh covered his arms. He knew that tone of voice—it was one Mama had only used on him once or twice before in his life. Trix had thought himself clever enough to call the spectral cat’s bluff, but that raspy tenor meant business. Trix might not know when or how or by whom Papa Gatto’s threat might be carried out, but it was indeed very real, and very hazardous to Trix’s health.
It was time to call in reinforcements.
Trix pulled the tooth of Wisdom from his pocket.
Papa Gatto reared up on his short legs with a hiss. “Where did you get that?” he spat.
“From a friend,” Trix said. He held the tooth out before the b
alls of yarn and said politely, “Dear Tooth, which of these is Papa Gatto’s favorite?”
The tooth said nothing. The tooth did nothing. Trix moved in front of each one of the balls. He pointed the tooth at them. Waved the tooth above them.
Nothing.
Trix pursed his lips in thought a moment, and then came to a decision. “I can only conclude that your favorite ball of yarn is not among these,” he said.
The tooth glowed at that, brighter than the afternoon sun’s light. This time, it was Trix who smiled.
“Cheater!” wheezed the cat.
Trix slipped the tooth back into his pocket. “I do not believe it’s cheating for me to use the tools I have at my disposal. In fact, I’d think less of me if I didn’t use those tools. Wouldn’t you?”
The cat huffed and preened.
“I thought so,” said Trix.
“You may now claim your reward,” the cat said, though Trix had no idea how. A cloud had gone over the sun. The words were there, but the cat wasn’t. The cloud moved and the cat returned. Beside him was a small vial that looked as ghostly as its giver.
Trix picked up the vial. It was made of light, weighing nothing and containing nothing. The label on the vial read KanaLuna in fading script. Trix had no idea what he was supposed to do with this gift, assuming it retained physical form once removed from the square of light cast by the window. “Um…thank you?”
“Drink,” said the cat.
“But there’s nothing in it,” said Trix.
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
Trix smirked at the cat, wishing nothing more than to be done with this nonsense so he and Lizinia could get on with their journey. He lifted the phantasmal vial to his lips and pretended to consume its absent contents. “Are we done now?”
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