Reserved for the Cat

they wish that all the men would be kind, would not beat them or try to cheat them. They count the money and wonder how long it will last them . . . or they count the money and cry because they must give it all to their procurer, and then give themselves to another stranger, who might not be kind. You do not think of these things . . . yet in your hearts, you know them, in your hearts, but your minds shove them away so they will not be disturbed.

The cat took this moment to jump into the conversation, which was just as well, seeing as she was on verge of saying these things out loud.

When she was all alone, hungry, and facing being put on the street, I knew I must intervene. That was when I stepped in, and I took advantage of her. He then took up the narrative, describing exactly how and from whom he had stolen purses and tickets. Telling how he had herded her onto the Metro, then the boat-train to Calais, onto the ferry, then to the train to Blackpool. How he had found her the boarding house, and how he had devised the little charade of the shipwreck.

When he paused, she spread her hands wide. “And there you have it, for everything else, you know what happened, except that I am Ninette, not Nina.”

Ninette, the cat interjected, who convinced your new ballet-master that she could not benefit from lessons given by him. And you know his credentials are impeccable. Ninette who has been dancing every night, sometimes taking two turns more than anyone else, to increasing acclaim. Ninette, who convinced all of you by her talent to base an entire show around her. Ninette, whose dressing room is thronged every evening by fans and well-wishers, and full of flowers. Who charms the gentlemen of the press and the little girls who give her sticky nosegays of violets.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ninette noticed Jonathon frown a bit at that. But the magician said nothing.

Nigel ran his hand over his hair. “You have me there,” he said. “It isn’t Nina Tchereslavsky that our audiences are coming to see. They come to see the dancer they’ve all heard about, from other people who’ve seen her. Good heavens, I doubt if one in a thousand has ever seen a real ballet-dancer before, much less an entire ballet, and they don’t give a farthing about some ‘Rooskie wench’ who danced in front of people they openly make fun of, like the French and the Germans and the Russians. It might be different if we were the Royal Opera Company—”

“But we aren’t,” Arthur said firmly. “We don’t have a Royal Circle, we don’t have titles and famous writers and famous painters in our audiences. We’re nothing but entertainment for the masses. We have Bertie and Mary from Worcester, we have Sally and Tommy from Liverpool, on holiday, looking for a good time and getting it. They see the dancer up there and they know someone who’s good, even if they don’t know a jette from a plie. And if we throw Mademoiselle Ninette out on her ear, they’d be tearing the curtains down to hang us with them.” He looked from Nigel to Jonathon and back again. “I don’t see we have a choice. And I don’t see where anyone is being harmed by this. I say let the charade go on. Ninette isn’t taking a shilling out of Miss Tchereslavsky’s pay-packet, and no one east of London is ever going to know there’s two of them.”

Nigel grinned. “I’m glad to hear you say that, old lad, because I was going to propose the same thing. But tell me,” he continued, turning to Ninette, “How did you learn to speak Russian? For that matter, how did a poor little ballet girl from the Bohemian parts of Paris learn how to speak English?”

Oh, that was my doing, Thomas the cat said smugly. I just found a bannik in the bathhouse of one Alexei Balonovich that had come over with his master. He and I struck a bargain, and I got him to whisper Russian in her mind while she slept. You might be amazed at all the Russians who live here. Russia is not an hospitable place if you aren’t a friend of the Tsar. And as for the English, there are plenty of brownies in England to teach her English the same way.

Jonathon looked at the cat sharply. “That isn’t supposed to work unless you’ve got some magery in you.”

Well, she has. Her father was an Earth Master; that part is true enough. And she has a touch of it, enough for her to hear me, enough for her to learn languages. . . . The cat looked slyly at all of them. And enough to enchant an audience. And don’t tell me you haven’t seen her do it. Charm. Charisma. It’s magic, right enough, opens up a connection between her and them. It’s all there, what they used to call “the glamourie.” And that’s all of the magic there is in her.

“Huh,” said Arthur, and Wolf chortled. Nigel just shook his head.

“This still doesn’t tell us why there’s an Earth Master trying to kill her,” Jonathon said sharply. “We’re no closer to unraveling that particular riddle than we were before.”

But at least you won’t go barking up any Russian trees, the cat replied. Nor, I advise you, any Parisian ones either. La Augustine may be a witch, but she’s not the sort with magic, and so far as I know, there’s not a soul Ninette ever came across that has a jot of magic in him—or her— other than me. I won’t say that she never made an enemy, though I don’t know of any, but I do know that there was no one around her that I ever sensed that had magic enough to light a candle.

The men exchanged looks of resignation. Finally Nigel shook his head. “I’m curious about one thing, cat,” Nigel said slowly. “Why Blackpool? Why not—Bath, or Birmingham, or Plymouth? I can understand not wanting to try your trick in London, where someone might have seen the real Nina Tchereslavsky, and there are a lot of people there who know about the famous ballet dancers in the rest of the world, but why come all the way up into the North?”

You, Thomas said instantly. How many impresarios are there that are also Elemental Masters? I had to find someone who could hear me, didn’t I? That was the only way to make the trick work.

“Impeccable logic,” Wolf said, and chortled again. “Keep on like this, and I might even start to like you, cat.”

Jonathon scowled. “Shall we have done with this love-fest?” he asked. “We need to find out who is behind these attacks, and put a stop to them, before someone—probably our star dancer—is murdered.”

Ninette shivered at this timely—and unwelcome—reminder. She kept shivering though, feeling very cold, and rather empty inside. The secret was out, and now . . . now she did not really know what she should do. And there was still someone, some terrible magician out there, who wanted her dead. Ailse got up and fetched a shawl and put it around her shoulders. “There noo, ma’amselle,” the maid said in her no-nonsense tone. “Ye’ve got t’dance tomorrow, an’ there’s naught going to happen more tonight.” Ailse looked at Nigel, Arthur, and Jonathon sternly. “You lads, be off with ye. Worrit yer heads about it all ye like, but not here. Ma’amselle Ninette needs to sleep.”

“Gad.” Nigel shook his head. “You’re right as rain, Ailse. Curse it all though . . . if only we could concentrate on either the magic or the theater, one or the other, and not have to deal with both at the same time.”

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Ailse quoted primly. “Go along with you.”

Ninette stopped shivering, but immediately felt as if she could not keep her eyes open anymore. Perhaps it was the unreality of the situation; despite how she had felt when she first clapped eyes on the horrid little monster, she could not seem to think of it as menacing, much less life-threatening, now. There had been a strange little— thing—in her sitting room. It hadn’t even been as big as the cat. Ailse had clapped a cooking put over it—how absurd was that? So absurd no one would even write a ballet about it. She yawned, stifling it behind her hand, and Ailse pounced on her.

“That will be enough of that,” the maid said firmly. “To bed wi’ ye. And oot with yon gents!”

A word with you, Jonathon, Ninette vaguely heard the cat say, as Ailse hustled her back into the bedroom. I’ll walk you home.

For a moment she was moved to protest—she needed Thomas here! Who else would protect her if another of those things put in an appearance? But then she realized that if Thomas wasn’t worried, then there probably was no need to worry at all. She followed Ailse meekly into the bedroom, quite as if it was Ailse who was the mistress here, and she the obedient maid.

The cat had had mixed feelings, watching the Fire Master’s expressions change over the course of Ninette’s confession. At first, Jonathon had been angry at Ninette’s deception, that much was clear. Thomas could only assume he was angry because he had been tricked, and not for any “moral outrage.” Ninette had only been doing what Jonathon did every night on the stage—tricking people into thinking that what was in front of them was