Part 9 (1/2)

senses. I've been trying for years, since the moment you lost your wits over that pimply-faced chap named Mad Dog McGee when you were twelve.” Garretts never whimpered. Abby thought moaning might not be a blot against her, so she did it thoroughly.

”No vapors, I beg of you!” Sir Sweetums exclaimed, holding up his paw.

”You're talking,” Abby said, hoa.r.s.ely. She shook her head. ”I'm talking to a cat. I can't believe this.”

”We've talked before,” Sir Sweetums pointed out. ”I have many fond memories of conversing whilst I

stalked the b.u.t.terfly bush and you puttered amongst the hollyhocks-”

”That was different. You were using words like 'meow' and 'prrr.' You weren't going on about me puttering amongst my hollyhocks.” Abby glared at him. ”This is unnatural!” ” Tis the season for giving, my dear, and this is the gift given to animals each year from midnight on the eve of the Christ Child's birth to sunrise the next morning.” ”But you aren't alive,” Abby whispered. ”I know you aren't.” ”Ah,” Sir Sweetums agreed, with a nod, ”there's the heart of it. I wished I could have come to you and told you, but once a feline enters the Guardian's a.s.sociation, he cannot go back. Unless he has further work to do.” Sir Sweetums c.o.c.ked his head to one side. ”And to be sure, I had further work to do with you, my girl!”

Abby leaned back against the stone and s.h.i.+vered once. When it had pa.s.sed, she took a deep breath and let it out again. ”All right,” she said. ”I can handle this.” She laughed, in spite of herself. ”I'm living in 1238. If I can believe that, I can believe I'm talking to you.” She looked at her very beloved Sir Sweetums and felt her eyes begin to water. ”I missed you so much.”

Sir Sweetums coughed, a little uncomfortably it seemed to her. ”Of course, my dear.”

”Did you miss me?”

”Of course, my dear,” he said, gently. ”Out of the mortals I had charge of during my nine lives, you were

my favorite. Didn't you know?”

Abby smiled through her tears. ”No, I didn't know. But thanks for telling me.”

Sir Sweetums smiled, as only a cat can smile. ”My pleasure. Now, on to the reason I am here. You

really must get hold of yourself in regards to The Miles. He is a perfectly acceptable human. Indeed, I would have to say he is the best of the matches you could have made.” ”He's a total jerk,” she grumbled. ”Strong-willed,” Sir Sweetums countered. ”Sure of himself and unafraid to speak his mind.” ”He may speak, but he doesn't listen. I told him my most precious dream yesterday morning and he didn't even acknowledge it!”

”Maybe he was giving thought to your words.”

”Hrumph,” she said, unappeased. ”If that's true, why did he leave?”

”When he returns, you'll ask.”

”I'm not going to be here when he gets back.”

”Tsk, tsk,” Sir Sweetums said. ”My dearest Abigail, you don't think I brought you all the way here just to have you leave, do you?”

”You?” she screeched. ”You're the one responsible for this?”

”Who else?” he said, with a modest little smile.

”Why?” she exclaimed. ”Why in the world did you drag me all the way here?”

”Because this is where you need to be,” he said, simply.

”Right. Without chocolate, my superfirm mattresss, and running water. Thanks a lot.”

Sir Sweetums shook his head patiently. ”Really, my dear. Those are things you can live without.”

”No, I can't. I'm going home.”

”Conveniences there may be in the future, dear girl, but who awaits there to share those conveniences with you?”

Well, he had a point there. Abby scowled and remained silent. She was not going to let a cat, no matter how much she loved him, talk her into remaining in miserable old medieval England.

”Abigail,” Sir Sweetums said gently, ”Miles is a dashedly fine chap.”

”He's a convicted heretic!”

”Abigail,” Sir Sweetums chided, ”you know the truth of that.”

”Well, then... he's always trying to kiss me into submission,” she finished, triumphantly. ”It's barbaric.”

”Consider his upbringing, my dear! The man is a knight. He is used to taking what he wants, when he wants it.”

”And what if I don't want to be taken?” she said, feeling peevish. Peevish was good. It beat the heck out of feeling hurt.

”Then tell him so. But I rather suspect you would find you like it.”

”I'm surrounded by chauvinists,” she muttered-peevishly.