Reserved for the Cat

But we didn’t! We only—I mean, I only—I was nearly killed. If you hadn’t—”

“Nearly does not count,” she replied and closed her eyes again. “Besides, it was a good plan. It should have worked. It might just as well have. And I wish Monsieur Jonathon to continue to look at me as if I were La Augustine, and not as if I were Jeanne D’Arc. N’cest pas?” She yawned. “Therefore . . . I have . . . lost my sword.”

For now, she barely heard Thomas say. For now.

EPILOGUE

The production of Escape from the Harem was an enormous success. Tickets were sold out for the next two months, and it appeared very much as if they would continue to be sold out well into the next season. The little dancer around whom the production had been staged seemed to have a magical way with her audience; even grown men wept at her solo of despair, and were more than half in love with her as she entreated the wicked sorcerer to help her and melted his heart. No one left the theater without a smile.

Therefore it was with extreme disappointment that two of Blackpool’s leading lights, the very wealthy financier Bascombe Devons and his—well, she was not his wife, but no one was likely to tell his wife that she was with him—companion then, discovered that they were to be crowded into a box with three other couples, none of whom they knew, or particularly wanted to know.

“See here!” the man complained to the usher, “What about that box? I know for a fact no one is in it! We’ve been watching the door for a quarter hour now, and not one person has gone into or out of it!”

“Ah, I’m sorry, sir, but that box is taken,” the usher said apologetically.

“Nonsense! The nameplate says—”

“Sir!” The usher bent a look of reproach on him. “What would you put on it if the party that was taking it didn’t want to be known?”

The financier paused for a moment in his bluster, then grew thoughtful. “You don’t mean to say— royalty?”

“So to speak . . . I shouldn’t say any more.” The usher led them past the unopened door, both the man and his lovely “friend” much more content now, with the knowledge that they would be seated a mere partition away from a crown. As to which crown it might be—English? Some visiting prince? It hardly mattered.

Behind that closed door, Thomas the cat pushed the dish of sardines over to his lovely companion, whose white coat gleamed in the dim light from the theater beyond. Please help yourself, my dear.

The white cat purred and accepted the token. I am so glad you invited me here. I have never seen a performance from a proper seat before.

Thomas smirked. Strangely enough, the Troll had done him a very great favor. It had never occurred to him until that moment that there might be other shape-shifters out there. But once he knew—

A quiet word with the Brownie, a hint to Nigel’s Sylphs, a late-night talk with one of the Salamanders when Jonathon was engaged in trying to master the art of flirtation with Ninette—the Elementals were, on the whole, favorably inclined, and a week after the premier of the production, this proud beauty had turned up. She was, she coyly informed him, the offspring of a were-cat and the Afrit who loved her. An injudicious move on her part had locked her into this form.

Or so she said. The Masters at least vouched for her intent, which was benign, and her magics, which were as white as her coat. That was enough for Thomas.

Then I am happy to share this box with you whenever you wish to grace it with your presence, O Orient Pearl, Thomas said, with supreme satisfaction. And you can rest assured that no one will disturb us here once we have settled in.

Oh—really? she replied archly, purring with promise.

Oh, yes. Really. Thomas settled himself more comfortably. Didn’t you see the plate on the door?

I cannot read the writing of your people, O Troll-slayer. What does it say?

Thomas smiled. Why, O Cloud of Whiteness, I believe you must approve. It says, “Reserved for the Cat.”