Reserved for the Cat

He did not ask what a less self-centered man would have asked, which was “How do you know that?” He did not ask what a cleverer man would have asked, which was “Why should someone like that be interested in a man who has never so much as sent his card backstage?” And he did not ask what practically anyone else would have asked, which was “What business is it of yours?” He did not ask these things because he was under the impression that the comings and goings and doings of Terrance Kendal were naturally the interest of all the world. He had a fine appreciation of himself, and took it for granted that everyone else should. If anything, he took this as the signal that the world was finally paying him the sort of attention that it should.

Father Martin made a tsking sound. “I make it my business to keep an eye on the creature, since she ruined a good young man of my parish. I have learned her sordid history on the Continent.”

Terrance made a kind of shrug that said, without words, “Well! The Continent! What would you expect?”

Father Martin nodded at the shrug. “You would think that someone as fairy-like as she would have a kind heart, a sweet nature, but no. She is steeped in black evil.”

Terrance laughed, a bit uncomfortably, and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Oh, come now, padre, I think that is coming a bit strong for what must be the paltry sins of a young lady no better than she should be.”

“Oh no. I use the phrase with full knowledge,” Father Martin assured him. “She makes it her business to find good young men of fine breeding, like yourself. She smiles at them from the stage, lures them into coming to her dressing-room, first in the crowd, and then alone. She makes them fall in love with her, she exploits them for every blessed penny they have, and when they have exhausted their resources and are one step away from the workhouse, she casts them off.”

“Oh surely not—” Terrance replied, looking guilty and sweating more heavily.

“I have the proof,” “Father Martin replied. “She has left a trail of tragedy behind her from Russia to Blackpool; madness, suicide, poverty. I attend her every performance now, and I noted her interest in you. I came to warn you. Shun her! She will devour any young man that comes into contact with her as the spider devours a fly.”

To Terrance’s fascinated ears, Nina poured out a wealth of tales of “the dancing Jezebel.” The more she told him, the more his anger grew, especially as she waxed eloquent on the material possessions the dancer had seduced out of her suitors. He said nothing, but she read him like a book. Now he knew why she had never answered his note! Somehow she had discovered that he was not the possessor of such wealth as she required, and had spurned his advances. She deemed him not worthy of her attention, the hussy! The brazen slut!

When Nina was certain that the fish had taken the bait and the hook was well and truly set, she took her leave. She had what she needed; the entrée into his mind.

Now for the dreams.

She left Terrance with his rage newly roused. He would go to bed tonight in a fever of indignation made stronger by the fact that he had no one to speak to about this. If he’d had a friend, they could have commiserated over brandy in the library, or even over a pint at the pub . . . but he had no one, and as a result, he would stew over this and fall asleep after tossing and turning for at least an hour.

Nina had come away with something from that house: Terrance’s handkerchief, which he had patted across his flushing brow and left on the table. Now she had the link to him she needed, as well as the way into his mind.

So she waited until well after midnight, and then set up her preparations; small ones, so as not to cause any great ripples in the currents of magic. Just the handkerchief, a mirror, and herself, full to repletion of power siphoned from another round of vagrants. As before, she worked without shields or containment circles, putting out no more ripples to the currents of power than some serving-maid trying inexpertly to create a love-charm. In fact, that was the genesis of this spell, an Earth-magic love-charm.

She stared into the mirror, holding the handkerchief, and sent a tendril of magic across the city from herself to Terrance. When she saw his image in the mirror, sleeping fitfully in his stuffy bedroom, she knew she had him.

With a smile of satisfaction, she began weaving her dreams, sending them into his sleeping mind. Image piled upon fevered image, all of them reaching deep into his mind, past all of the conventions, the manners, the morals and into the deepest, most primitive parts of his mind.

In them, the dancer featured, tantalizing, tempting, seductive. The dream-Nina did more than seem to smile at him from the stage; she beckoned, winked, quirked an eyebrow. This time, Terrance went backstage, where the dancer, no more than half clothed, whispered promises, and allowed him certain liberties.