The Catswold Portal

By the time Braden reached the house, the rain-damp paper bag was beginning to split. He wiped some juice off the seat, and carried the mess across the garden in both hands, cursing. He took it dripping through the studio to the kitchen and dropped it in the kitchen sink. The cat came yawning out of the bedroom sniffing the fish, winding around his ankles, her green eyes caressing him. He stood at the sink separating out bones and shells from potato skins—what the hell made the waiter think cats liked potato skins?

When he put the mess before her she set to with greed, holding a piece of lobster down with her paw and tearing at it. Finished, she gave him another loving look, followed him into the studio, and curled up by the easel so he had to step around her as he worked. When Chapman arrived around five, she jumped into Braden’s lap and went to sleep.

He sat petting the cat, prepared for Chapman’s long run-through of the mailing list, which was a lot of nonsense. But Rye always did this, as well as enumerate the kinds of liquor for the opening, champagne punch or whatever. He wanted to shout at Rye to do anything, just let him get back to work. But Christ, it made Rye happy. He had put The Girl in the Window in the bedroom before Rye got there to avoid making the rest of the work look dull.

That night the cat slept curled against his shoulder with her head on the pillow. And even though she smelled faintly of fish, he didn’t push her away.

Melissa woke at dawn. Rain drenched the windows, cascading against the glass. She was unable to move her legs, her dress was tangled around her knees. She jerked awake, alarmed, and rolled away from Braden and swung off the bed.

This was too unnerving, to go to sleep as cat and wake as a girl lying next to him. Someday he was going to wake before she did. He was going to find her there. Her common sense told her to go away from here, to leave this garden and go away.

But she didn’t want to go away. She had been a child here. If she remained in this house, she was certain she could recapture her lost memories. And, more powerfully, she didn’t want to leave Braden.

But if she stayed here, she would have to learn how to change from girl to cat only at her own pleasure. And she would have to learn to retain her human thoughts when she was cat. It was terrifying to know that as cat she remembered nothing about Melissa, that she was totally ignorant and vulnerable.

Braden stirred, and she stiffened.

But he only turned over and slept again. She slipped out of the bedroom and into the studio.

Rain drummed on the skylight. The room was dim. The watery light made her think of shadowed caverns. And then another memory fell into place: she knew suddenly that the changing was done with a spell. There was a spell to make her change, a magic as natural to her as breathing.

She remembered Siddonie’s voice, remembered the sharp pain of that first changing, felt herself jerked to the floor, could almost make out the cadences of Siddonie’s shouted words. But then the spell faded. Absently she studied the painting before her, straining to bring back the spell. The girl in the painting was turned away, standing before a red awning.

Shock jolted her.

The painting was of her.

It was an image of her, standing before the red awning of the tea room, turned away looking up the street. Her dark hair, her green dress. She felt stricken with fear at seeing her own image. But yet she was deeply drawn to the painting. Soon fascination overcame fear. She stood looking, seeing herself in a way no mirror could show her.

The painting was beautiful, the colors warping together so rich they took her breath. She studied the line of her cheek against the red awning, her skin reflecting red. How could he have painted her from only one glimpse? She felt tremendously flattered and excited. She stood lost in his work until she heard the coffee pot start. Alarmed, she pushed quickly out onto the terrace.

Chapter 34

She fled through the rain to the tool shed, and in among the garden tools. Her dress was soaked. She stood in the little earthen room shivering, straining to remember the words for changing from cat to woman. Through the crack where the door was ajar, thin watery light seeped in. She thought about Mag’s cottage: the cozy little room, the cookstove, the rocker and cots. And Mag’s spell book lying on the shelf. Standing inside the tool cave, leaning against the ladder, she imagined taking the heavy book down, holding it in her lap, turning the pages, and imagined an empty page. She tried to let words come onto the page, tried to let her memory open. She could smell the onions hanging from Mag’s rafters. She could feel the warmth of the cookstove, could feel the weight of the heavy book, could feel the thick, rough paper beneath her fingers. Slowly, as she stared at the blank paper, the words began to emblazon themselves, rising from the whiteness as if a licking flame drew them forth.