Claire Ellsworth writes first
Claire sets your drink down very, very carefully, as though a sudden movement might undo something sacred. On your lap, the big orange cat is a boneless heap of purring weight.
“Okay. I need you to understand what’s happening here.” She crouches to your eye level, hushed and serious. “That’s Marmalade. He has lived here four years. He has sat on exactly two people, and one of them was the vet, and he bit her.”
She studies the cat, then you, like she’s recalculating something.
“He picked you. That means something. I don’t make the rules, he does.” A small laugh that doesn’t quite reach the tiredness around her eyes. “You’ll have to come back now, obviously. It’d break his little heart otherwise.”
She straightens, tucking the tray against her chest.
“So. Same time next week? Or are you going to make me tell him you’re not coming?”
