The worktable in the basement was Milo and Calliope’s preferred space for tandem drawing, but there were cuckoo clock guts all over it, so that wasn’t an option. Calliope’s bedroom with the art table was also fine, but the natural light wasn’t so hot today, what with the rain.

The kitchen had the best light, a table, an oven for warmth, coffee, and snacks. So the kitchen was where they had settled, with Lucy glued to the wall in her Lu-ambulator to keep her out of trouble. They gave her the module with the rainbow beads on the loopy wire — it was quietest.

Sun’s Day was Ann and Milo’s day off, so they had a few spare hours to play at being a normal little family before everyone else showed up looking for dinner.

Calliope indicated Milo’s graphite rendering of a cracked heart with a bandage over it. “No, I don’t like that for Forgiveness. That’s more like Apology. Forgiveness is when the hurt part goes away. Like this.” She redrew the heart with the bandage and no crack.

Milo shook his head and signed: BROKEN MACHINE BROKEN.

Her frown deepened. “No. Fixed.” She signed it. “Forgiven. Boy, do you have a low opinion of Forgiveness! If I cracked open your head would all the grudges fly out like monkeys?” She began to draw this.

Milo disagreed. Monkeys were not known for their flying ability, ordinarily. He preferred bats for grudges, if they were going to make a Grudge gear. He sketched one, which would fit nicely next to the Forgiveness gear.

“No,” she said. “That’s,” she signed: BROKEN MACHINE BROKEN. “Geez! I don’t want any bats or monkeys in my cuckoo clock. We will address them on an individual basis if they get in.” She began to sketch a new gear with a net on it. “Bat-And-Money-Ban, otherwise known as…” She considered it. “Communication. Honesty. Respect. I don’t know, it’s complicated.”

Milo preferred a gear with a puzzle piece for Complicated.

Calliope snickered. “Yeah, okay, but we better break down the functions anyway.”

Okay. Obviously not a normal little family. But, y’know. Still a family.

Lucy flapped both hands and signed HAPCHINEY, or something like it. This went unnoticed and unremarked, but the baby giggled, pleased with herself.

“How about Care, Milo?” Calliope asked. “Not the feeling, the thing you do about it. Like taking care.”

Milo chewed on the eraser end of his pencil for a moment and drew a spoon with a little heart in the bowl end.

“Aw,” Calliope said. She stood and went around behind his chair to give him a hug. “Like this?”

He shrugged. He was thinking more like a cartoon character lying in bed with a blue ice bag on their head, and someone comes in to feed them chicken soup. And then later they have to have a mustard plaster and it peels the ship tattoo right off their chest. It was just hard to put chicken soup in the spoon and get it across.

Maybe a chicken soup can? But someone has to make it for you. Otherwise, that’s like… I don’t know. Grocery Shopping? Wait, are we doing I Take Care of Someone or Someone Takes Care of Me — that’s two things!

He was trying to see if he could design an ice bag gear that might stand for both when someone knocked on the kitchen door and pushed it open.

Seth was standing on the back stairs in the rain, clutching a soggy cardboard box. He was missing a shoe. He said, “Do you want a kitten? Please say yes.”

“Mew,” said the box.

◈◈◈

“Magnificent, put the kitten back in the box with the hot water bottle…”

“No.”

“…it needs to warm up.”

“I’m as warm as that thing,” Maggie said.

She was sitting on the narrow brick ledge under the oven, which had once been a hearth for a huge fireplace with room for a turnspit. There was enough space for Erik to sit beside her, but she refused to let him hold the wet kitten and she didn’t dare try magic to dry out its fur. She rubbed it gently with the old dishtowel Hyacinth had sacrificed for the purpose.

Hyacinth had also dumped all the toys out of the “quarantine” box from under the sink so the kitten would have a safe place to recover, but that appeared unnecessary.

Seth was likewise attempting to recover, in a chair near the stove, but he had a human-sized towel.

“Hey, Seth, where’d your shoe go?” That was Calliope. Calliope was very detail-oriented. Just not so much reality-oriented.

“A puddle got it and I didn’t want to go back and look. He’s cold. Please say you’ll keep him. I can’t think of anyone else with a real house I can walk to. I swear, I do not have a cold.” That was for Hyacinth’s benefit. He’d said it the first time as soon as she appeared in the kitchen doorway to demand what the hell was going on.

“This is what you do with two-hundred-and-fifty sinqs a month?” the General snapped. She just couldn’t hold it any longer. “You purchase an animal you know you cannot care for?”

“Animals,” Seth said. He sniffled and wiped his nose with a tissue. “They were in the window. The box said ‘for pets or sacrifice.’ Kittens are not a sacrifice, they’re lifetime companions!”

“Yes you are, little man, that’s right,” Maggie informed the kitten.

“Can I see…?” Erik said.

“No.”

“Seth, you’ve been wandering around in the rain throwing kittens at children?” Hyacinth said. “For how long?”

“I swear, I do not have a cold.”

She sighed. “How many kittens?”

“Four. They’re all called M’Lord Jonathan Digby-Forsythe the Second through Fifth. The Patels wanted the Third because she had little white mittens and a bib, and the Weavers liked the Second because she had stripes, and the Fifth was all black and Bethany wants to be a witch when she grows up, so she picked him. But the Fourth is just grey and he doesn’t stand out.”

“Oh, a remaindered kitten,” Hyacinth said. “That’s perfect.”

“He’s a perfectly fine kitten!” Seth insisted. “Huh?”

Erik had abandoned the kitten and crawled into his lap. Erik was the only one present who had any idea why Seth might name a whole box of kittens M’Lord Jonathan Digby-Forsythe; Mordecai had gone out to play violin, but he was probably on his way home already. Unless he found someplace dry to play.

“Don’t worry, he can stay,” Erik said. “You can visit him whenever you want.”

“Master Weitz, you do not have the authority to make these decisions,” the General put in.

“Promise right now you’ll keep the murder machine indoors and if it starts bringing me dead animals from around the house, you kids will clean them up before I see.” Hyacinth paused. “Or Barnaby sees. I know you can’t promise that last part, but make your best effort.”

“I’ll start designing some magic right now so it’s automatic!” Maggie cried.

Milo brightened. That sounded almost as fun as the cuckoo clock!

The General stretched a hand over both eyes, anticipating a headache — real or metaphorical. “Given the scope of Hyacinth’s authority, we must say the cat belongs to the house and not you, Magnificent.”

“So I can love him all I want and delegate the responsibility?”

“So let Erik have a turn drying it out. I will think of some rational reason your interpretation is inappropriate and get back to you at a later time.”

“Hi, M’Lord Jonathan Digby-Forsythe the Fourth!” Erik said impeccably.

Everyone, including Seth, stared.

“Okay, now do the one about the seashells by the seashore,” Maggie said.

“Is there some reason we can’t call the cat Smokey?” Calliope said, allowing Lucy to observe the tiny bundle from just outside of grabbing distance.

“Yes,” Erik said.

“Kii!” Lucy agreed.

Seth hid his face in both hands and slumped over the table. “Digby, okay, Erik? We didn’t call him that all the time either. Just on special occasions, like when he stole a wing off the turkey on Twelfth Night.”

(M’Lord Jonathan Digby-Forsythe, get off the table you fat little fool, we have company! screamed the blue woman in the fancy dress. And then she saw the turkey wing. Noooo! They cut up the rest of the bird in the kitchen so you couldn’t tell where it was chewed and fed it to about a dozen very influential lawyers, judges and politicians, but Auntie Di and Grandpa politely insisted they’d rather just have dressing and gravy.)

Erik covered a snicker with his hand. He wasn’t sure if Seth showed him on purpose or by accident, or if he got it all by himself or a god told him. But he didn’t mind so much because it was funny. “Cats are fun. This is gonna be fun.”

Barnaby rapped on the kitchen doorway. “Pardon me, has the little harbinger of death arrived?”

“We’re going to keep him inside so he doesn’t eat birds and I’m not sure about the mice yet,” Hyacinth said.

“That is not at all what I mean, but I’m happy to see him.” Barnaby sat at the table and folded his hands. “Hyacinth, why haven’t you given the poor schoolteacher a cinnamon roll and some coffee?”

“We don’t have cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon rolls were on November the seventh.” She only remembered the date because that was Cloquette Day. “It’s December.”

Barnaby shut his eyes and gestured dramatically. “I see potential cinnamon rolls. Do you require directions?”

“No thank you, but I might as well make some coffee, I guess.”

“This kitten only has a single set of incisors, it has not finished weaning and will require bottle feeding,” the General said.

Maggie shrugged. “Okay, Mom also knows about kittens for some reason. Cool.”

“And basic engine repair,” Hyacinth said.

“I can see I am going to have to go out and clean up your mess, so that your other thoughtless purchases will receive the correct care,” said the General.

Seth stood. “I can…”

“Sit down, you are missing a shoe, you… you enormous toddler.”

“Objection, my client is a responsible adult human being who helped you fight a war,” Calliope said.

Seth blinked at her. “Are we still doing that…?”

“I withdraw the insult,” said the General. “Let me say, Mr. Zusman, that I would feel better if you remained here with other responsible adult human beings until we have a chance to discuss your spending habits. Now, I believe you said the Patels, at the deli, the Toussaints, over the dry cleaner, and the Weavers, who own…” She regarded Barnaby with narrowed eyes. “The bakery.”

“Ah, cinnamon rolls ahoy,” said the white-haired gentleman in the bathrobe. He clasped his hands. “As long as it’s on your way, what about some apricot ronds?”

“I want a jelly doughnut,” said Hyacinth.

“Chocolate frosted,” Maggie said.

“Milo and me want brownies,” Calliope said. Milo nodded.

Erik nudged Maggie. “If she’s going to the deli too, can we have sandwiches?”

“You realize I will not be paying for any of this,” said the General.

“What if I want to buy it?” Seth said.

“Stop buying things!” said most of the household — in various words, for various reasons — but the General was loudest. She took the money out of the glass jar.

◈◈◈

Mordecai returned home an hour later, with the General still absent on her mission. He had been unable to find a dry place to play, and not many people were out walking in the rain anyway. Hyacinth was sitting at the kitchen table, closely observed by the rest of the household, as she tried to work out whether you could “bottle-feed” a kitten with an enema bulb.

He dropped his violin case. “What the…?”

The kitten freaked out in all directions at once with its pointy bits extended, drawing a fine line of blood across Hyacinth’s hand — “Shit!” — and causing her to drop it on the table. It crawled behind the sugar bowl and puffed up.

Lucy swatted a hand on the tray of her Lu-ambulator and scolded him in fluent Baby.

Calliope collected the tiny animal and returned him to the “quarantine” box, so he could hide where it was warm. “Shh. He’s had a rough day.”

“What is… Why… Where did that come from?”

Everyone pointed at Seth.

The blue man held up a hand. “I’m very sorry, but I’ve had a rough day too and Hyacinth already said he could stay.”

“She outranks you,” Maggie added.

Erik considered this with a frown and then nodded.

“I’m a dog person!” Mordecai cried. “Haven’t we established I’m a dog person? I don’t want a cat!”

“M’Lord Jonathan Digby-Forsythe the Fourth does not know you and my mom used to eat cats during the siege, and he doesn’t care,” Erik said. “He’s a baby.”

Mordecai stared at Seth. “Oh my gods, did we just adopt a cat because you want to relive your childhood? Get a grip, Mr. Desdoux!”

Calliope urgently positioned herself between them with her hands up. “Hey,” she warned.

“I am not going to hurt anyone, Calliope,” Seth said. “The thing is already done. I’m just glad you’re going to take care of the cat, it doesn’t matter what you call him.”

Erik regarded his uncle with one eye narrowed, the one he could. “Digby,” he said firmly.

Mordecai sighed. “You shouldn’t feed a cat cow milk, let me…”

“I still have some people milk.”

Everyone stared at Calliope.

“What? Lucy doesn’t need it anymore.”

Mordecai closed his mouth and began again, “Let me fix the cow milk, I think that’s easier.”

“You better fix a lot, there’s three more of ‘em,” Maggie said.

“What?”

“Oh, no,” Seth said. “Not here, not here.”

“I quite appreciate being sent off with a four kitten salute,” Barnaby said with a smile.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said Hyacinth.

“Ah, to the front room. To let in the large golden eagle with my apricot ronds. Excuse me.” He bowed.

Mordecai sat at the table with the milk bottle. “Could somebody please explain all of this from the top?”

◈◈◈

Since the kitten belonged to the house, it seemed only fair to divide up the bottle duty. Barnaby produced a lovely chart with astrological references. With Hyacinth’s insistence, everyone was given a fair amount of turns. No matter how “auspicious” giving her sole custody all night would have been.

Barnaby predicted eleven days of bottle and finger feeding every five hours, and then Digby ought to be capable of feeding himself from a bowl. The General allowed that this seemed about right, pending tooth development. Hyacinth knew Barnaby just preferred eleven to any of the numbers near it, but she didn’t have the energy to fight him.

Maggie got the first half of the night shift, with a feeding at four in the morning, after which the kitten would be delivered to Hyacinth, so it could keep her up for a few hours and then get its breakfast at nine.

“You realize this is going to delay your breakfast,” Hyacinth said.

“It’s worth it for the expression on your face.”

She scowled at him.

“Also the one you’ll have later. Yes.”

Milo dropped his watch in the “quarantine” box. Kittens were supposed to like watches, which Milo thought was smart of kittens. Also, he’d added an alarm function in case anyone fell asleep on kitten duty. Every five hours, the watch would play ‘Downtown’ by Petula Clark — no reset or snooze function, you had to take the watch into the kitchen where you could heat up the milk to turn it off.

Calliope wanted him to do “What’s New Pussycat?” but he refused. That was too loud. That would be upsetting for a tired kitty who liked watches. Then he wouldn’t like watches anymore and that would be terrible. This way he’d like watches AND Petula Clark.

Seth was persuaded to stay long enough for a sandwich, then he thanked them for looking after the kitten, and for dinner, before trying to politely extricate himself.

They let him go an hour later, after a brief lecture, with five sinqs for supplies and shelter, an extra sandwich — and Ann’s red rain boots. They fit Seth just as well as Milo’s shoes.

Then it was time to batten down the hatches and prepare everyone for a couple weeks of ‘round the clock kitten care. Once all parties concerned had demonstrated their ability to feed a kitten, and basic competence at not killing it, the General dismissed them and allowed Magnificent to depart with the “quarantine” box.

◈◈◈

“Magnificent…”

“I am not playing with him!” the girl in the white nightdress insisted. “They took him away from his mommy too soon, you said so. He’s supposed to sleep with her, and all his brothers and sisters. I’m socializing him. I’m socializing him so he doesn’t die of loneliness. I just can’t lick him like they would.”

“It is possible to love an animal to death. He is an infant and he needs his rest. As do you and I.”

“But he’s sad. You can hear him.”

“This situation is less than ideal, we do not have a mother cat to foster him, but he is going to have to get used to the watch and the hot water bottle. He won’t if you pick him up every time he cries.”

Maggie planted her hands on her hips and looked up at her mother in the larger and slightly higher bed. “I wasn’t supposed to leave you as soon as I did, and Bill and Jacinda stuffed my basket next to the magic drive so I wouldn’t cry so much, but everyone still picked me up and held me when I did. I belonged to the boat like Digby belongs to the house. It takes a lot of people to make up for not having a mom, not just a machine.”

The General put a hand to her head and blew out a long sigh. “You have a tendency to overgeneralize which I can only hope you are going to grow out of.”

“You just don’t like my conclusions.”

“I don’t, but it’s because I know you are keeping the cat from settling down and going to sleep. I would rather not be arguing this matter or any other at the moment, but this is the situation life has handed me.”

She considered for a short time, which Maggie allowed.

“You are awake and alert while you are doing the job of the cat’s absent mother, so the cat will remain awake and alert,” the General said. “You are unable to sleep with the cat due to the size ratio and matters of safety. He must learn to be comforted by the hot water bottle and the watch when it is time to rest.”

“None of us can cuddle him to sleep like he needs because we’ll crush him.”

“Yes.”

“Wrong.”

Maggie went into the hall and closed the door so as not to upset the kitten. The noise of air filling a sudden space was faint, and the light showed around the edges. There was a sound of something tapping at the chamber door, asking to be let back in because she couldn’t work the knob anymore.

The General slid out of bed and opened the door for the magpie. “Magnificent, I really wish you’d just said it. I have points which you have rendered yourself incapable of refuting. In short, you cannot do this every day for eleven days, your body is too small to store the required energy. The cat still must acclimate himself to the hot water bottle and the watch; you are delaying that process.”

Nevertheless, Maggie hopped into the box and snuggled the kitten. He quieted.

The General shut the door and sat on the edge of her bed, regarding them. Not very many eleven-year olds could make themselves at home in a file box. In another context, it would be quite impressive.

“All right,” she allowed. “I suppose the animal has been through enough today. Tomorrow we will begin acclimating him to the hot water bottle…”

“Me-ow,” said the magpie.

“Magnificent, I will discuss it with you when you are capable of more than a few stock phrases and sound effects. Now, goodnight.”

“Night Mom,” said the magpie. She made the sound of footsteps retreating upstairs and a door shutting.

Again, in another context, it would have been quite impressive.

◈◈◈

Hyacinth was delivered a box with a magpie and a kitten in it at four in the morning.

“What…?”

“You should thank my daughter,” said the General. “He is quieter. He drank two thirds of an ounce of milk, but he was not interested in the minced meat slurry. Good morning.” She bowed and returned to her room.

“I see you figured a way out of feeding duty,” Hyacinth said to the magpie.

“Buenas noches señorita,” said the magpie. She whistled like a parakeet.

“Oh, gods, I can’t deal with this before breakfast.”

Hyacinth set the box gently beside her pillow and went back to bed. It couldn’t possibly have been a whole five hours later when Milo’s watch woke her up with “Downtown.”

◈◈◈

Milo was in the kitchen drying dishes near the sink. Hyacinth smiled at him. The alarm shut off as soon as she brought the box through the kitchen doorway, but the kitten did not.

“Hey, Milo. Are you and Ann on deck or Calliope?” Milo, Ann and Calliope counted as one unit, per Barnaby’s chart. Milo and Ann might have to work at any given time, and Calliope couldn’t take night duty because the kitten would wake Lucy. They could work it out between themselves and not overtax Barnaby’s grasp of astrology.

Milo indicated himself with a hand.

“Swell,” said Hyacinth. She set the box on the counter. “Maggie slept with him all night, but she’s had enough and he’s freaking out again.” She indicated the box with a finger. “He shit in there. Have fun.”

Milo regarded the box as Hyacinth collected her purse from the drawer so she could get takeout for breakfast. So we need a self-cleaning kitten box now?

He grinned. Swell.

Calliope ended up having to feed the kitten, but she didn’t mind.

◈◈◈

Erik finally got the kitten to accept something semi-solid at lunchtime.

“My uncle says butter doesn’t have the bad sugar in it a cat shouldn’t eat.”

Erik’s uncle was in the cat-free front room reading a novel, but he had undoubtedly said it at some point.

“Can Digby have the rest of this, Auntie Hyacinth?”

“It’s expensive,” Hyacinth muttered.

Erik and the kitten looked devastated at her.

“…But it’s not like he wants a lot of it. He can have half.” She sliced off a portion of the stick and put it in the crock on the counter.

“You should try mixing it with the milk and mincemeat,” the General said.

“I want to feed him!” Maggie said. She stuck a finger in the butter.

“No, it’s my turn,” Erik said patiently.

Milo snapped his fingers and pointed at the drafting pad, where he was sitting at the opposite end of the table.

“Yeah, I don’t come when you call me, so forget it,” Maggie said. “Besides, we don’t need an automatic cleaning spell right now — he’s not killing anything, and when he has an accident we can just mop it up.”

“You did not mop it up this morning, Magnificent.”

“I was a bird and it wasn’t my turn.”

“It’s not your turn now, either, go away,” Erik said.

Well, that may have been the case, but she wasn’t going to go back and help Milo when he’d summoned her like that. “I’ll mix up the meat and the butter.”

When she returned to the table with the dish, Milo signed SORRY at her.

“Oh, all right.” She left the dish next to Erik and sat by Milo and the drafting pad again. “What have you got?”

“Why don’t you make it sparkly?” Barnaby opined. Barnaby did not have a slot on the kitten care chart, but he felt the construction of this new magic required his input. “I think that would be so poignant. Like the poor things are ascending to a higher plane of existence!”

Milo shrugged and bobbed his head noncommittally.

“I feel like you’re taking this opportunity to wind Miss Hyacinth up in advance, Mr. Graham,” Maggie said. “You want a choir of angels too?”

“No, I don’t think that’s appropriate, especially if you’re going to expand the spell to include cat feces.” He grinned. “What about a fresh lemon scent?”

Fifteen minutes later, the entire dish of milk, butter and meat ascended to a higher plane of existence amid the soothing smell of lavender — porcelain included. The jar of minced meat also vanished. “Maggie!”

Hyacinth urgently stood to examine the contents of her pantry and echoed Erik’s sentiment: “Maggie!”

“I’m sorry! It wasn’t on purpose, I’m trying to specify!”

Mordecai rapped on the kitchen doorway. “Pardon me. Do I want to know why a choir of angels took my tuna salad sandwich away? You don’t necessarily have to explain, I’m just a little concerned.”

Milo and Maggie both signed SORRY in tandem, though Maggie did it with a grin.

Erik snickered.

Hyacinth sighed. “I’ve always wanted to give vegetarianism a try, but I guess I’d better go out and pick up some meat for the cat.”

“Buy us more pastries,” Barnaby said.

“No.”

◈◈◈

Ann was humming “Downtown” when she delivered Room 102 the kitten box at midnight. Despite Mordecai’s best effort, Erik was still awake to receive it.

“All right, dear one, now let’s try and get a little sleep before… Oh, my gods!”

There was a large golden eagle crammed in the file box with the cat. It regarded them with gleaming yellow eyes.

“When did that happen?”

Ann winced. “She volunteered. Forcefully.”

“Why?”

“I’m sorry, Em, but he doesn’t like the hot water bottle very much and we don’t have another cat.”

“I don’t know how I feel about this,” Erik said.

“Neither do I. Do you want to give them to Maggie?”

“No.” After a moment’s hesitation, Erik took the box with the General and Digby into Room 102. He pushed them against the wall under the table, way farther than he would’ve if it were Digby and Maggie in there. He did not attempt to pet the kitten. It was asleep, and too near the eagle.

“Goodnight, dear one.”

“Goodnight.”

They both lay in their beds, ramrod straight and staring at the shadows on the ceiling, too terrified to speak or sleep, for quite some time.

◈◈◈

Mordecai groaned and pressed both hands over his eyes. “Erik? Erik! It’s time to take the kitten Downtown. Come on!”

The watch was piping merrily away, but the music was not retreating in the direction of the kitchen. Mordecai rolled out of bed and crawled across the rug, observed by an irritated eagle. “I hear it, I hear it,” he muttered. “It’s not my cat. Erik!”

Erik had a pillow over his head. “Five more minutes,” he said.

“I can’t take five more minutes of Petula Clark à la watch. Erik!”

This time there was no response.

“Erik, you get up and take care of this kitten like you promised right now or no dessert for a year.”

This was a terrible idea. He never should’ve let Erik have a night shift. No night shifts period. An eight-year-old would go until he dropped, but once he dropped he was dead to the world.

The eagle chirped at him.

“I’ll get it, damn it, don’t change.”

He coughed into a tissue and put on his greatcoat and shoes first. The bare floor was freezing.

◈◈◈

The watch shut off when he crossed the kitchen threshold, the kitten did not.

“Okay. Okay, okay.” The situation was familiar, but hopefully a kitten wouldn’t be as difficult to comfort as a bawling infant during a siege. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

The doctored milk bottle was still on the counter, with the tiny kitten bottle washed and waiting beside it. There was also a glass pot with water in it waiting by the stove. At least Ann was polite.

He put an ounce in the bottle and began heating the water, but he didn’t know how to make it go any faster. He wasn’t going to ask the eagle.

“How about an apéritif? You want some more butter? Not you.” He removed the kitten from the glaring eagle and held it against him for warmth. It was the right size for a pocket, but after a moment’s consideration, he tucked it inside the coat. “Don’t get used to this, I’m all done adopting things. Here.” There was butter in the butter thing. He removed a tiny amount with a teaspoon. “Come on, go for it.”

The kitten sniffed the substance on the spoon, rejected it, and continued to cry.

“I know you like this, what’s the problem — That was rhetorical!” he added, for the eagle’s benefit. If she changed right now this animal was going to flip out and claw a hole in his chest. “I know what the problem is! I’m just irritated, that’s all. We don’t approve of the tableware,” he informed the kitten in a low voice. “All right.” He dabbed the tip of his smallest finger in the butter and served it that way.

This was sniffed and accepted with a lick.

He snickered. He hadn’t ever fed a kitten this way, but he hadn’t had a regular old cat lick him since he was a kid. All the cheap single adult housing in San Rosille was no pets allowed. He hadn’t minded it at the time. Fewer attachments, no dead mice on the doorstep or weird meat in the icebox.

“You like that, huh? What about… Ow!”

The kitten bit down hard, but it had something like two and a half teeth, so that wasn’t as bad as the claws. More like getting a nip from a clothespin.

“All right, now we’re even,” he told it. “Right?”

The kitten raised no objection, and Mordecai had always heard cats could speak Anglais if they really wanted to, so he considered that assent.

“Your main course is ready, Monsieur Digby-Forsythe,” he informed the kitten. He tested the bottle against his wrist, like for a baby. “You’ve got the hang of this already, now don’t make me beg.”

Erik stumbled up to the kitchen doorway and beheld his uncle attempting to burp a kitten, while a large golden eagle observed from a file box labelled “QUARANTINE! KITTEN!” with a somehow disgusted expression.

“No dessert for a year?” the boy asked, rubbing his metal socket.

Mordecai fumbled the kitten and dropped it in a coat pocket like a hip flask he’d sneaked into a movie theatre. “Oh, you heard that, huh?”

“I wasn’t sure if I dreamed it. Did you mean it?”

“In the moment, but I thought better of it.”

Erik made a small smile. “Cats are fun, aren’t they?”

“Being a responsible adult is less fun,” Mordecai replied. “Do you want breakfast at this ungodly hour too, or can we go back to bed?”

“I don’t know. Are there any eggs or did the angels take them?”

The angels had not taken the eggs. Mordecai made cheese omelettes with a contented kitten in his coat pocket.