by K. M. Shea
Gabrielle sniffled and petted the cat, its throaty purrs soothing her. “What am I going to do, puss?” she whispered, her voice hoarse from all the crying. “I can’t do this. I can’t marry a barely-domesticated hulk only interested in me because I’m beautiful.” Gabrielle shifted and caught sight of her reflection in the pond. She slapped the water, disrupting the image. “I hate the way I look!”
The stray cat meowed and climbed into her lap, thrusting his black and pink nose in her face. She pushed him off her lap and pulled her knees to her chest. “How could anyone be happy with this life?” She stared past the pond, but no answer came to her. Instead, desperation and anxiety tightened around her, paralyzing her and holding her in place.
Just as her marriage would.
A choking gurgle broke her musings. The stray cat was trying to scratch under its fine collar and, as a result, had pushed the collar high up on its neck, so it bit into the poor cat’s throat. Gabrielle tried to tug the collar back down, but the cat wriggled the wrong way and batted at the leather strip with its paws.
“Stop fighting it,” Gabrielle said.
The cat yowled and gurgled.
Afraid for the stupid feline’s life, Gabrielle pulled on the collar’s buckle, intending to loosen it. Instead, it came off entirely when the cat scrambled backwards, its head popping free of the confinement.
“Freedom!” the cat yelled.
“You talk?” Gabrielle said a very naughty word. “Get back here!” She scrambled after the cat, determined to get the collar back on.
“Never! I have finally regained the ability to talk after months of forced muteness. I will not be silenced! Words are the sweet nectar of life,” the cat said as it ran around the pond.
Gabrielle repeated her naughty word. “You’re eloquent—that makes it even worse!”
“Why, drippy human, are you not dazzled by my stunning verbiage?” the cat demanded.
She lunged for it and missed. “Because five years ago, a circus with a talking cat came through Ilz. When it left, dozens of batches of talking kittens were born. All night long they talked! Only four months ago, we finally stuck the last of the cats with a mage. If Gregor finds out I’ve loosed another talking cat on the village, he will kill me.”
“Peasant, you have no hope of catching me,” the cat scoffed as it started another circuit around the pond. “And I am much displeased that you dare to compare me to a circus tomcat!”
“You do have a much larger vocabulary,” Gabrielle said. She leaned back as if she were done chasing the cat and studied the handsome feline. “The circus cat only knew two or three dozen words, and its offspring could only say ‘hello,’ ‘blast you,’ and ‘dolt.’”
“Of course. That scraggly animal was probably a reject. I am a magical cat,” the talking cat said.
Gabrielle lunged for the feline again. “And I’m a princess of Arcainia.” She scowled when the cat darted around her.
“I am magical, I will have you know!”
“If you’re magical, why did you have a collar on that kept you from talking?” Gabrielle folded her arms across her chest.
“As if I would tell you, less-intelligent being that you are.” The cat sniffed.
“Uh-huh. Someone wanted to shut you up.”
“And what if they did?”
“Then I would be better off if I copied their plan,” Gabrielle said, leaping like a coyote. This time she managed to grab the cat, her fingers sinking into his soft fur. She was prepared for scratching, clawing, and biting, but besides trying to wriggle out of her grasp, the cat did not fight.
“I cannot believe you,” the cat said, his paws paddling the air. “Here you complain about your boring life, yet when a talking cat drops into your lap, you seek to silence it!”
She almost dropped the cat at his astute observation. He was right. Besides the circus cat and his irritating offspring, Gabrielle had never heard of a talking cat. And while the circus cat had a limited vocabulary, the too-well-fed-to-be-a-stray cat spoke more eloquently than Gregor.
As if sensing her indecision, the cat continued. “You said you cannot be happy with the life set before you—I assume you mean marrying whatever thuggish, slow-minded man who carries you off as his bride. What is it that you seek?”
“Adventure,” Gabrielle said, the word heavy with reverence.
“You wish to rescue damsels in distress?”
“No. I want excitement. I want to sail in the ocean and touch a unicorn.” She tucked the cat against her chest, so he no longer dangled. “I want to meet pirates, see elves, and dance to the enchanted music of Torrens. I want to experience life!” She sighed and set the cat down on the ground. “I’ll never do any of that. But I will not censor you, not when I’m being forced into a life I don’t want.”
“Have you ever thought of fighting it?” the cat asked. Instead of running away, he sat down and curled his black tail around his white paws.
“What?”
“The life to which your family has sentenced you. Has it ever occurred to you that you could claw your way out of it?”
Gabrielle raised her palms in the air. “Only about a thousand times, but there is no one who would come with me, and I couldn’t do such things alone. I’m just the miller’s daughter. What could I do?”
“A great deal more than you think,” the cat said, his bronze eyes narrowing. “Listen to me. Thus far, you have longed for more but forced yourself to be content with the scraps of this less-than-lustrous life. If it is adventure and excitement you seek, leave this place, and set out on a journey.”
“And how would I survive?”
The cat’s lips morphed into what looked like a smile. “Leave that to me.”
“To a talking cat?”
“Yes. I shall accompany you.”
“How generous.”
“I am glad you see that it is so.”
Gabrielle shook her head and turned to go. “I haven’t got time for this. I’ll leave you uncollared, but I had best return to the mill.”
“If you don’t leave, you will regret it,” the cat said.
She froze on the border of the thicket. “What?”
“Your inaction, your willingness to sit in your home and forego all adventure and excitement…” He twitched his tail. “You will regret that you gave in to your apprehension and passed on an adventure. I have roamed this village for a short time, and even I can see that you spurn the bridle your family—and your village—expects you to accept.”
Gabrielle chewed the ends of a jagged lock of her hair. “How could we possibly survive? I don’t have much money.”
“I am a magic cat.”
Gabrielle rolled her eyes. “Please, not that bosh again.”
“It is not bosh; it is fact.”
“I don’t even know if you’re a boy or girl.”
The cat ignored her and continued, “I am a cat capable of magic, and in my veins flows the bluest of feline bloods for I am—UNHAND ME!” he yowled when Gabrielle plucked him up and inspected his behind.
“So, you’re a boy,” she said.
“Inelegant vagrant,” the cat hissed as his hair puffed up. “Uncouth troll!”
“Tell me, how did a magic cat end up in Arcainia, much less in Ilz? Magic is forbidden here.”
“To humans, perhaps,” the cat said, still recovering from the slight against his pride. “What brought me to this quaint village is of no concern. I help you because…I wish to. But before we begin our partnership, I need proof that you will trust in my words and listen to what I say.”
Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Indeed. We shall set out on our journey tonight. But first, you must purchase for me a pair of boots.”
Chapter 2
Boots for Puss
“Boots,” Gabrielle said.
“Yes.”
“For you.”
“I did say that.”
“A talking, magic cat who walks on all fours.
You want boots?”
“Do you trust me or not, human?”
“My name is Gabi.”
“Lies. Your name is Gabrielle. I will not use such a foolish nickname when you have a beautiful, eloquent full name.”
“Let’s get back to the part about the boots. Why do you want boots?”
“This is an exercise for you, human. Complete it, or we shall go nowhere.”
“I’m not getting you boots until you prove that you’re magic,” Gabrielle said.
“I suppose that is a fair request. Very well, I shall disappear,” the cat announced. And then he disappeared.
She rubbed her eyes, but the cat was gone. After a moment he popped back into view, still sitting with his tail curled around his paws.
“How did you—?”
“Magic.” The cat’s voice was insufferably smug. “But I suppose that might not be enough for you, so here,” the cat said. He returned to the pond and pawed at the water. Droplets and ribbons of pond water levitated in the air. Minnows swam in the middle of water bubbles that floated like feathers.
“Okay, you’re a magic cat.” Gabrielle stared wide-eyed at the display.
“That is so. Now, complete your instructed task,” the cat ordered.
Gabrielle didn’t reply; she was still gawking at the floating minnows.
The cat twitched its whiskers, and the water bubbles burst, falling back to the pond like rain droplets. “Go!”
“Fine, fine, fine. I’ll get you your stupid boots.” Gabrielle shook her head at the pond before pushing her way into the thicket.
The cat minced along behind her, picking his way through the undergrowth. “They must be leather.”
“Leather? Do you think I can afford to buy leather boots, for a cat?”
“You will if you want to go on an adventure.”
Gabrielle dusted off her clothes when she popped out of the thicket. The mill and her family’s cottage were arranged past the hills like a child’s playset. “I have some money saved,” she admitted. “But I won’t have any left after purchasing boots for you.”
“That is fine.”
“We won’t have money for food,” Gabrielle said.
“We will manage.”
“Or clothes.”
“It is summer. I suspect you will survive.”
“Or a room at an inn.”
“You will not need money if you follow my plan.”
“How? Everyone needs money. The country runs on money!”
“When you are graced with the presence of a magical cat, silly things like money become unimportant.” The cat sniffed.
Gabrielle squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m losing my mind. That must be it. I’ve had an emotional breakdown after the family meeting.”
“Purchase the boots, Gabrielle,” the cat advised, walking ahead of her.
She watched the cat with a pained expression before she shook her head. I have to take this chance. Even if it ends in foolishness, that cat is right. I’ll regret not trying for the rest of my life. She exhaled and squared her shoulders, then turned in the direction of the mill.
She kept her money—coins she had saved since she was a child—hidden there, away from Jana’s prying eyes and grabby fingers. The mill was open again, but Rupert was busy with the mules and grinding the flour, and Gregor was handling the customers. The rumblings of the mule-powered machinery covered Gabrielle’s entrance to the mill and her footfalls within.
She crept to a back room that was filled with sacks of flour. Gabrielle used a rickety ladder to shimmy up a support beam and snag her tiny bag of coins from its hidden spot in a notch. She cast a thoughtful look around the back room and approached her makeshift bed. During the summer nights, she slept in the mill. There was more room—it lacked young Trudi’s nightly cries—and it was cooler, thanks to the lack of bodies crammed into it like fish caught in a fishnet.
“He might be a magic cat, but I bet he can’t make blankets from nothing.” Gabrielle gathered her worn but well-made blanket and folded it into a square. She stuffed it in a burlap sack and tossed it over her shoulder before she slipped out of the mill where the talking cat waited for her.
“Recovering your treasure?” he asked between licking his front left paw and scrubbing his face.
Gabrielle stashed the burlap sack under a bush. “Watch my bag.” She rolled her shoulders back and headed for the heart of Ilz. She looked cautiously around her as she walked down the dirt road that led her past several houses. She always had to be on her toes when she journeyed into Ilz, lest she meet a jealous girl or a too-friendly boy.
She spotted Jochim and gave him a wide berth. He was harmless compared to most of her tormentors, as he never grabbed her or tried to force his attentions on her, but she hated the slick, oily way he acted around her and the fact that he took special care to flirt with her whenever the baker’s youngest sister or the blacksmith’s daughter was within hearing range. She ducked behind a team of oxen and passed him on the opposite side of the road without his knowledge.
Eventually, the houses turned into shops and stores. There was the blacksmith, the tinsmith, the small market, the cooper, two merchant stalls, the baker, and more. Gabrielle, however, was looking for the cobbler. His dingy store was tucked between the baker and the potter, half-hidden behind an arrangement of pots.
She ducked inside “Hurst?” she called as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.
“Gabrielle, what can I do for you?” a cheerful voice asked.
Hurst the cobbler was one of the few villagers Gabrielle genuinely liked. The man, who was perhaps in his early forties, lived alone. His wife had died giving birth to their second child. As Hurst couldn’t watch the children and mind the store, the children spent their days with Hurst’s sister—the ropemaker’s wife.
“I’m wondering if you have any boots.”
“For you? Or has Rupert busted another pair?” Hurst asked, looking up from a shoe he was shaping.
“Neither. I need something much smaller.”
Hurst’s brow wrinkled like cracked ice. “Smaller?”
“Yes.”
The cobbler shrugged. “I’ve got a couple pairs made in the display.” He gestured to the far side of the store.
“Thank you. I’ll just take a look.” Gabrielle’s words were awkward and stilted. Dang that cat for making me do this. I can’t tell Hurst I want cat boots. He’ll summon an apothecary!
She inspected the boots, even though she could tell they were all too large. There were several pairs of men’s work boots, two pairs of slippers that had fancy stitching around the edges, and there was a pair of silken shoes that looked too small for anyone, except, perhaps, a baby.
“What are these?” she asked, holding up the pair of silken shoes.
“Ahh, I just purchased them from a wandering craftsman not an hour ago. They’re…he said they’re toddler shoes.”
“Why would toddlers need shoes?”
“I don’t know,” Hurst grumbled, his voice low and embarrassed.
Gabrielle looked from Hurst to the shoes. “They would look adorable on Retta.” She mentioned the young daughter his wife had died giving birth to.
Hurst didn’t say anything, but he perked up, his shoulders regaining their starch, and his hammer sounded happy again as he tapped a nail into the shoe.
“When did the wandering cobbler come to Ilz? I didn’t hear anything about his arrival,” Gabrielle asked, studying the shoes.
“I’m not surprised. He was here for only a few hours. He was getting ready to leave when I bought the shoes from him,” Hurst said. “And he wasn’t a cobbler. He was a craftsman. He had everything from blankets to charmed jewelry. He even had a pair of leather baby shoes.”
“He what?” Gabrielle yelped.
“I know. I couldn’t understand it either. Why waste leather on a tot?” Hurst shook his head.
“Where is this craftsman?” She scrambled across the hodgepodge of Hurst’s shop, so she
could stand in front of him.
“He’s already left. He was heading to Loire. Perhaps you can catch him—”
The rest of Hurst’s words were lost when Gabrielle burst from his shop, scattering chickens as she sprinted through the streets. She ran west, skirting a large wagon of first-crop hay pulled by a pair of draft horses and barely avoiding two chattering girls her age.
She kept running as she left the village behind, even though her lungs burned. After several minutes of running, she got a stitch in her side and her feet began to ache with every step, but she made herself run farther. This might be my only chance to purchase small boots!
After what felt like an hour of running—but was probably only fifteen minutes—Gabrielle saw a spot of brown on the horizon.
“Wait!” she tried to shout, but it came out as a wheezed gasp. She stopped running and took several moments to suck in air. “Wait!” she repeated, this time putting more force behind her words. “Please!” By some miracle, the brown spot stopped. Gabrielle forced herself to keep jogging, but she was out of breath by the time she caught up with the wandering craftsman and his mean-looking donkey.
“Can I help you?” The man held tight to his donkey’s lead when the animal tried to rip it from his hands.
The craftsman was handsome. Handsome enough to make her forget for a moment what she wanted him for. His eyes were the bright blue of the sky with circles of royal blue that sliced through to his pupils. His hair was blue-black like a clear night. He was, she imagined, the kind of man that princesses fell in love with and ballads were told of.
Gabrielle snorted in disgust with herself and batted her notice of his looks away like it was a pesky vermin. She had no use for beauty—in either gender. As far as she was concerned, it was a sign of vice. “A friend told me you had—you have a pair of baby shoes for sale,” Gabrielle said.
The craftsman tilted his head and studied her as she discreetly rubbed her waist, trying to relieve her side-ache. “I have them, still. Although I will be frank: they are expensive. I planned to sell them to a lord or lady.”
