Plain Kate

She opened the box. It was no longer filled with the eerie, clotted darkness. It was just a box. There was a plain leather bag at the bottom. Remembering the weight, Kate drew open the purse strings. There was a scrap of paper, and—

The bag was full of thin, gleaming coins, mostly silver, but a few copper or—now that Kate looked—they were gold. It was a guild fee. A hundred times a guild fee. A thousand.

“Taggle,” she said. “Look!”

“Ca-ca-cat,” he stuttered. “K-Katerina. Cat.”

She knew it was the moment, and she turned to him. The cat looked up at her with the last trace of his broken heart, and then turned to look at the gold coins with simple gold-coin eyes. He said nothing. Forever after that, he said nothing.

“Taggle…” said Kate. Her voice broke. “T-Taggle…”

On the paper, in a hand so fierce it threatened to topple and break like a wave, Linay had written:

Kate. I hope you live.

Something flashed through her, surprising her with a sting of tears. She thought it was bewilderment, anger, fear—before she recognized it: grief.

“I did,” she told the paper softly. “We both did.” She picked up the cat, who whirred and purred and flowed up onto her shoulder. “And we’ll keep on living.”

And so they did, not always without trouble, but happily, and well, and for a long time thereafter.

acknowledgments

It took me six years to write this book, and in those years have accumulated many debts.

Let me start with my fellow writers. First among these are my dear friends at the Hopeful Writer’s Group: Susan Fish, Nan Forler, Kristen Mathies, Pamela Mulloy, Esther Regehr. Seeing me through between Hopeful gatherings are my online friends at the well: Thanks, guys. And thank you, R.J. Anderson, for reading early drafts and crying in all the right places.

And then there are the people who played midwife to this book, bringing it into the world. First is my agent, Emily van Beek of Pippin Properties. Emily, you changed my life. My editor, Arthur Levine, is a genius and a warm and wonderful human being. Thank you, Arthur—and thank you, Emily Clement, left half of Arthur’s brain. And I mustn’t forget my mother-in-law, Patricia Bow, who proofread this manuscript seven times.

Finally, there’s my family. Thank you, Wendell Noteboom, my dad; thank you, Rosemarie O’Connor, my mom. You’ve been supporting me since the day care days when I demanded to have my song lyrics written down. Thank you, Vivian and Eleanor, my own lovely lively little girls, for your patience with “Mommy is writing.” And thanks to my beloved husband James, fellow YA novelist, for endless idea bouncing, hand-holding, and coffee making. I could never have written this book—or any novel—without you.

This book is dedicated to my sister Wendy Ewell. Wendy drowned before she got to read the ending of this story, before she got to meet the niece she was looking forward to, before a lot of things. I could level a city out of grief. Instead I’ll say: Baby sister, I miss you. This, my first novel, is for you.

about the author

Erin Bow was born in Des Moines and raised in Omaha. She studied particle physics in college, eventually working at the cern laboratory near Geneva, Switzerland. She then decided to leave science in order to concentrate on her love of writing. She has since written two books of poetry and a memoir. Her poetry has won the CBC Canadian Literary Award, whose previous winners include Michael Ondaatje and Carol Shields, as well as several other awards. She lives in Kitchener, Ontario. This is her first novel.