Ferdon sighed. "Well, out with it. It won't grow any better for being postponed."
"Doucette has gone away, for good. She's never coming back."
There was silence in the magician's kitchen, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the faint sound of the stew bubbling in the pot. Ferdon sat down heavily at the table. "Gone."
The girl stirred the kettle and spooned some of the contents into a bowl. A curl of half-burned paper drifted out onto the hearth and she stepped on it, sweeping it back into the fire. The fingers of one hand moved in a curious gesture as she set the food before him. "Here, eat," she said. "You will feel better for it."
"Did she say why?" Automatically, he put a spoonful of the stew into his mouth. It was very good.
The girl shook her head. "I believe she felt this town was unworthy of a woman of her immense beauty. There were larger worlds waiting for her."
"So she sent you to tell me."
"Actually, it was my idea to come." The girl's cheeks grew redder. "Please, forgive my forwardness. But she never cared for you, not after she got what she wanted from you. And I-" She bit her lip.
Ferdon put down his spoon. Frowning, he studied the girl face, trying to remember where even if-he had seen her before. There was something, though he couldn't put his finger on it. She had a heart-shaped face, brown hair, a slender figure-the velvet dress, laced to its tightest, was loose on her-and, he now noticed, the loveliest blue-green eyes tilted at the corners. "No," he said. "I have never seen you before. If I had, I would have remembered."
The girl smiled a bit sadly. "How could you know? You never even looked at anyone but Doucette."
He had to smile with her. "That's true. Ede -Where is she? Have you seen anything of an Egyptian cat? She's not been around much lately, but the smell of this stew ought to bring her hurrying back-"
"Doucette said to tell you she'd taken Ede with her."
Ferdon lurched to his feet, almost upsetting the table. "She took Ede? That's impossible! Ede detested her!" He paced angrily across the room, calming himself by an act of will. His infatuation with Doucette evaporated as abruptly as it had begun. He bowed his head. "I never thought she would steal my Companion. She must have done it for spite. I will miss Ede. I-I loved her a great deal." He drifted off into thought, remembering.
With an effort, Ferdon brought himself back to the moment. The girl stood quite still in the firelight, only her fingers moving in the folds of her skirt. She swallowed hard. "Though I know you, you don't know me. I am called Edanne."
Ferdon opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure of what he wanted to say. At that moment, something thumped against the window. He hurried to open the shutter and see what the trouble was. A ginger-colored cat squirmed through immediately and landed with a heavy thud on the floor. It shook drops of water off its fur, then stood up and snagged its claws in Ferdon's leggings, miaowing loudly and showing its sharp white teeth, as if it wanted to tell the magician something.
"Hello, yourself," he said. He knelt and picked the cat up in his arms. The lamplight caught points of green and blue fire from the jewels on the rings in its ears. Ferdon stared in disbelief. Then, slowly, he began to laugh.
"What does this mean?" Edanne said.
"It means that I am lucky beyond measure!" Ferdon exclaimed. "In the space of one hour I have lost a treasured Companion, regained my senses, another Companion has come to me-not as fine a one as Ede nor as well-trained or clever I daresay, but a Companion nonetheless-and I have found you." He set the cat down and folded Edanne in his embrace. "I have found you, haven't I?"
"Yes. I love you. I always have."
Outside, the rain began pelting down in earnest. The cat, an unfathomable expression in its greenish-brown eyes, stared and stared at the two of them. Then it sneezed.
Clara's Cat by Elizabeth Moon
The old lady was almost helpless. She had never been large, and her once-red hair had faded to dingy gray. Behind thick glasses, necessary since the surgery for cataracts, her eyes were as colorless as a dead oyster. She had always had a redhead's white skin that freckled first, then burned at the least touch of the sun. Now the duller brown spots of age speckled her knotted hands.
It was going to be easy. Jeannie had a blood-claim-the only claim, she reminded herself. Her mother had been the old lady's niece; the old lady had never had children. So it was simple, and no court could deny it. Besides, she was going to spend a while convincing everyone that she had the old lady's best interests at heart. Of course she did. They knew that already. She had come to take care of dear old Great-aunt Clara, left her job in the city-a pretty good job, too, she had explained to everyone who asked. But blood being thicker than water, and her the old lady's last blood relative, well, of course she had come to help out.
"Did I ever tell you about Snowball?" The soft, insistent voice from the bed broke into her fierce reverie. Yes, the old lady had told her about Snowball… every white cat in creation was probably called Snowball, at least by senile old ladies like Great-aunt Clara. Jeannie controlled herself; there would be time enough later.
"I think so, Aunt Clara." Just a little dig, that implication of careful patience.
"He was so sweet." A vague sound meant to be a chuckle, Jeannie was sure, then…"Did I tell you about the time he clawed Mrs. Minister Jenkins on the ankle, when she scolded me about wearing my skirts too short?"
Oh, god. Jeannie had heard that story on every visit-every reluctant, restless visit-since childhood. It was disgusting, that someone of Great-aunt Clara's age remembered the juicy side of youth, remembered rolling her stockings and flirting with a skirt just a bit short… that she could still enjoy the memory of a minister's wife's clawed ankle, that she still thought a stupid cat had defended her. But there were visitors in the house, Clara's friends, people Jeannie had not yet won over completely. Clara's lawyer, Sam Benson, stocky and grave and not quite old enough to fall for any tricks. Clara's old friend Pearl, still up and walking around-though Jeannie thought it was disgusting for anyone her age to wear sleeveless knit shirts and short skirts which left knobby tanned knees all too visible.
Jeannie let out a consciously indulgent laugh. "Was that when you were courting Ben, Aunt Clara?"
Again that feeble attempt at a chuckle. "I wasn't courting him, dear; we weren't like you girls today. He was courting me. Very dashing, Ben was. All the girls thought so, too." Clara's eyes shifted to her friend Pearl, and the two of them exchanged fatuous grins. Jeannie could feel the smile stiffening on her own face. Dashing. And did this mean Pearl had been one of the girls who thought so, too? Had they been rivals?
"I didn't," said Pearl, in the deep voice Jeannie found so strange. Little old ladies had thin, wispy voices, or high querulous voices, or cross rough voices… not this combination of bassoon and cello, like a cat's purr. "I thought he was a lot more than dashing, but you, you minx, you wanted him to play off against Larry."
"Ah… Larry." Clara's head shifted on the pillow. "I hadn't thought of him in…"
"Five minutes?" Pearl conveyed amusement without malice.
"He was so…" Clara's voice trailed off, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Jeannie was quick to blot it away. "The War…" said Clara faintly. Pearl nodded. The War they meant was the first of the great wars, the one to end wars, and Jeannie was not entirely sure which century it had been in. History was a bore. Everything before her own birth merged into a confused hash of dates and names she could never untangle, and why bother? The lawyer cleared his throat.