He was in fine fettle, purring at me in the darkness while perched on the edge of my pillow. Actually, he sort of covered the pillow, but draped across it to tap my face with an indolent paw. Cats really understand the value of stagecraft. He wanted me to wake up for any incoming spells, but he was too proud to admit that he was hungry. It’s that kind of commitment to saving face that makes me think cats are the incarnation of Samurai warriors, but with a penchant for canned tuna. Through the trickle of moonlight, his profile was noble. Cats really achieve that whole regal thing without too much effort, although a couple years ago I accidentally torched his whiskers in a scrying spell that went horribly awry. It took him a month to forgive me—or at least until his whiskers were close to their former splendor. While his whiskers regrew, he had the ignoble look of a tattered stuffed animal. I kept that thought to myself, lest he swat me again, but a stifled chuckle that made him cut his eyes at me suspiciously.
