Spring 1823 – We Carry Our Kingdoms Lightly

The cat gave Naymin a bored glance and then, slowly, raised his face to look at us. He let out a slight huff. He said, in a formal tone, as if repeating a prepared speech, “Red Tailor, Son of Mother Spider, Grandson of the Night Sky; the King of the Cats thanks you for the many services that you have done him and asks that you indulge him one more time.”

Father cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you were the King of the Cats.”

The cat somehow shrugged.