Snow fell from the pallid sky as the clouded sun sunk beyond the city’s walls. It was dark; only the golden glow of the streetlights lit the powdered cobbles, and the streets thinned with people off to the warmth of their homes. For a cat, though, it was time to hunt.
From the darkness of an alleyway, she watched the road closely. A couple hurried to shelter, sharing a coat for an umbrella, but common folk were off limits. Two soldiers leaned against a stoney building as they smoked, the ends of their cigarettes glowing like two orange eyes in the dark. She supposed she could try her luck with them—the Verisians had been who she started with, after all—but with their backs against a wall it would prove too difficult to snatch her mark, and so she grumbled and looked for different prey.
No opportunity availed itself. As the night crept in, so too did its biting cold. Her ears and nose burned, she was losing feeling in her feet, and she shivered as each breath coalesced into mist, quickly vanishing in the grey air. Few people passed by now, and so she either had to make her decision quickly or go home without.
The snow marked the passage of time, her powdered head and shoulders were now blanketed, and the ground became uncertain. Patience did not always pay off, she had learned, and so she opted to cut her losses and return to her den before it became too arduous to do so. She slipped out of her hiding place, each step measured, careful. The snow gave beneath her with a squeak, still somewhat slippery, but her movement retained its confident gait and she made quick progress back toward the House of Lords.
Even for a cat, hunger is hard. The reality of it set in the further she walked. She would have to steal food again—no, she swore that off the day the baker’s daughter returned to the market with a blackened eye. It would have to be rats again, the ones scurrying around in her den in the city wall. The soldiers would mock her for it, maybe kick her fire over, but they had been the ones who first called her Cat, and cats are independent and brave, even when they’re hungry. That’s right. She would have to be brave, too. Her eyes began to sting, but she had to be brave. She had to.
The snow was coming down hard now, but it was not much further until she would be home where at least it would be warm. She crossed empty road after empty road, shivering, sniffling. One more corner and it would be straight down the way. She rounded it, almost tripping, but as she regained her footing and collected herself, she saw him.
Standing beneath a shrouded streetlight was a boy. His long hair was black like the soldiers’, but he was younger—only a bit older than Cat. He wore a heavy, beige coat which reached below his knees, and at his hip rested a pointed sword, shining silver like the full moon.
She was surprised how quickly the decision came to her, but she did not have time to think it over much. It didn’t feel right to steal from him, not in the same way it did to take from the soldiers who jeered at her, but the sword was clearly expensive, and it was true that she needed whatever money he had more than he did. But the peculiarity of her target and lack of surrounding people to blend in to meant she had to change her approach—she could not pretend to bump into him, that would be too conspicuous. She would need to sneak around, cat-like, and snatch his wallet that way. But which pocket would it be in? His coat? His trousers?
Her heart began to race as she crept around the road, slipping into an alley that traveled behind the row of buildings the boy stood before. She would be quick and quiet, and the snowfall would work in her favor. Soon enough, she was peering at his back, calming her nerves before
the decisive pounce.
Cats are brave, she thought. Cats are brave.
Her movement was decisive. She leapt toward him, gliding through the snowdrifts without making so much as a sound. He stood there unmoving, unnoticing. With her shaky hand, she reached into his coat pocket and felt the mass of cold leather she sought. Closing her fingers around it, she pulled away carefully. Just as it reached the cusp of his pocket, the cat turned to run, but before she could disappear back into the dark, a warm hand gripped her wrist, firm yet gentle, and stayed her. Cat froze. She had never been caught before.
“Hello there,” the boy said. Her fear paralyzed her, but his voice was kind. “I had a feeling you were going to do that.”
Cat said nothing. She couldn’t even look at him. Cats are brave. Cats are brave.
“Are you frightened?” she heard him ask. “My apologies, I’ve no intention of harming you.” He released her wrist, making no effort to retrieve the stolen property still in her hand.
Cat could not explain why she did not take off running. She was so frightened she could hear the blood in her ears, but nevertheless she stayed there with the strange boy in the snow. “I-I’m sorry,” she finally stammered, still unable to face him, and she thrust the wallet back toward
him with trembling hands.
He laughed in a way she hadn’t heard in a long time—wholly unlike the stinging cackles of the soldiers that looked like him. It was short, irregular in its rhythm, and filled with a quality of joy she had thought she had forgotten. It reminded her of her mother.
Cat turned to look at him. His features were sharp, but his eyes were soft and the color of a clear sky. He smiled. “What’s your name?”
“Ái— Cat. I’m Cat.”
“Cat, huh? That’s an unusual name, but fitting, I think. You’re very quiet, did you know that?”
She nodded.
“You can call me Petrel, then. Like the seabird. Would you like to be friends?”
She had never had a friend before. Cats are independent, but even cats have friends, don’t they? “Y-yes!” she said, louder than she had meant.
Petrel glanced at his wallet still in her hands. “Consider that a gift. From a friend to a friend.”
“But I have nothing to give you.”
He smiled again. “Then we’ll just have to wait until the next time we meet, whenever that may be. You can give me something then.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts’, it’s yours now. You should get home now, though. The storm is getting worse, and I’m sure mama cat is getting worried wondering where you are.”
She thought to tell him she didn’t have a mom—that she had left her the day the city fell. But if she told him that, he would realize how worthless she was, too, like her mother had, and she would lose her first friend and the gift he had given her. Instead, she just nodded, then, sensing tears, took off into the night so he wouldn’t see.
She ran as fast as she could back to her den, crawled under the cracked piece of the city walls into the hollow inside. It was still freezing, but at least it was dry, and she brushed the snow off her head and clothes onto the filthy ground.
Pale moonlight poured in from another slit in the ceiling, dimmed by the cover of clouds, but bright enough to see Petrel’s gift as her eyes adjusted to the dark. Cat started by removing some of the marks from the inside. It was a much thicker mass than what she was used to with the soldiers, the number displayed on the top corner seemed to have an extra zero, but then again it was difficult to see. She put the bills back into place, covered herself with a blanket, and laid down, still poking around the wallet. There was nothing much else of note—folded papers, notes, maybe a grocery list, but nothing identifying. And so it seemed Petrel would remain Petrel. She moved to put those back too, but as the myriad papers slid between her fingers, something stuck to the back of a note dislodged itself and fell into her lap.
It was a photograph. Her mother had told her about them once, but she’d never seen one herself. A younger Petrel stood on the right dressed in a fancy suit and beaming. There was a beautiful woman in the middle, probably Mummy Petrel, in a flowing dress with white hair falling in rings
to her hips. Her expression was ethereal and serene. To her left stood a young boy, even younger than her, in a suit just like Petrel’s. His expression was sour, and his tie had obviously been loosened. Surely this was Petrel’s little brother. This is what a family looks like, she
thought, and at the same time realized how important the object in her hand must have been to the boy that had given to her. I’ll need to give this back.
Tiredness began to take hold of her, and she put the photo back carefully before laying down on her side. She thought of her mother, as she always did on quiet nights, and how she wished she had a photograph of her too. If she did, she would never let it go. That’s why she would need to find Petrel again.
Sleep came as quiet as a hunting cat. I never said thank you, she thought as her mind slipped into that gentle void. But she had no reason to worry, for surely, surely, she would meet her friend again.
February 9, 2023
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