Reserved for the Cat

She got up from the chair in which she had been sitting, reading . . . she did not read easily—it was not deemed necessary for the little ballerinas to be very proficient in ordinary school lessons—but she enjoyed it, even if it was very hard work. For some reason, Nigel had a large collection of French novels, and she was making her slow way through them when she was not practicing.

She set the book aside and smoothed down her skirt with a feeling of great satisfaction. Nigel had been more than generous in the way of clothing. Since she had none, he had arranged for the costume mistress of the theater to take her measurements and get her a good wardrobe. Ninette doubted that the woman had sewn these garments herself, but she undoubtedly had friends or relatives that were seamstresses themselves and could use the work. And the work was very fine. Not the equivalent of a boulevard atelier, much less a great fashion modiste of the sort that someone like Nina Tchereslavsky would patronize, but it was finer than anything Ninette had even seen, much less worn. Even the underthings were exquisite, with lace and ribbons and embroidery. Nor had the wardrobe mistress limited herself to Ninette’s ordinary clothing. Her practice skirts and tights were of silk tulle and knitted silk. Her pointe shoes were of the sort that the etoiles wore.

In short, ever since the cat had come into her life, things had taken such a turn for the better that she still woke up thinking it was all a dream. And she did not want to lose this. So if the cat said to face them, then face them she would.

She raised her chin, put on the mask of the great prima, and sailed out into the hallway. She followed the sound of voices to Nigel’s library. The door was ajar, which she interpreted as meaning they did not mind being disturbed. She took a deep breath, looked down at the cat at her feet, and pushed it open all the way.

Nigel, who had clearly been just about to say something, looked at her with a startled expression, his mouth hanging open for a moment. He swiftly recovered though, and stood up.

“Mademoiselle Nina, were we disturbing you?” he asked, in French.

She shook her head. “Not in the least,” she replied in the same language, and then smiled. “I ’ave been studying zee English, but it marches better when I am hearing it.” She looked around the room as if she were the one that owned this flat, and not Nigel. “You ’ave brought a friend from the theater, oui?”

“This is Jonathon Hightower, a great illusionist,” Nigel said hastily. “Hightower, this is Mademoiselle Nina Tchereslavsky.”

The stranger rose, took her hand, and bowed over it. She accepted the accolade with pleasure, but also with an air that it was only to be expected. Exactly as La Augustine would have.

And what am I, an old boot?

“And this is the cat, Thomas,” Nigel added hastily.

Hightower, who looked altogether like a modern version of Mephistopheles from the Faust opera, looked down at the cat, who had sat down regally just to Ninette’s left.

“Maybe you should make him disappear,” Wolf put in, turning one evil yellow eye on the cat.

Really now, what have I done to deserve that suggestion? The cat glared right back. That’s rather rude.

“Well, you might stop looking at me as if you were deciding how many meals you were going to get out of me,” Wolf retorted.

I am a cat. I have certain instincts. If you will insist on fluttering and setting off those instincts, you have only yourself to blame. While the parrot fluffed his feathers angrily and glared, the cat turned his attention back to the newcomer. Greetings, Fire Master. Am I to presume you are not here by chance?

“Possibly. My friend Nigel had a business proposition he wished to discuss with me.” Hightower’s expression was as bland as could be. Or rather, he had no expression whatsoever that Ninette could make out. His faintly sinister, yet decidedly handsome face made an excellent mask for whatever it was he was thinking. Ninette had seen many opera singers with superb stage presence who used their faces in exactly that way. In fact, they were never really off-stage whenever they might be seen in public.

“Perhaps it ees about zis oh-so-mysterious theatrical venture he has hinted about?” she replied archly. She took a seat, remembering to do so as if she was center stage, with all eyes on her.

“Perhaps. You seem very much recovered from your tragedy, Mademoiselle.” The abrupt change of subject might have startled her if she had not already been wary of him.