September 2nd, 1868

Another day taking care of tiny kittens. I never get tired of this. For the past 700 years, all I’ve done with my life is raise cats. Other than that, I’ve read all the books in the library twice, some more than just twice. I practice my magic every now and then. (Practicing moving water and dirt and such.) Mother taught a bit of how to use my magic defensively, but I have no need to use my defensive magic skills. I guess the main reason I take care of cats is because I have nothing else to do.

Most of the cats I raise, I gift to my family members. Though, I can think of a few instances where my kittens have chosen their people, instead of my gifting them. Amongst one litter, born in the 1500s, there was a scruffy little black kitten with orange-yellow eyes that disappeared from the bed I'd made for them early one morning. I'd grown worried and fretful, and frantically searched every hiding place I could think of until Mother demanded I come to the dining hall for breakfast. There, in the dining hall, I found the little black kitten I'd searched for all morning. He was perched on one of Johnathan's shoulders, purring happily.

Delighted, I'd reached for my kitten, but John had placed a protective hand on the kitten and arched a questioning eyebrow at me. I'd frowned and began a negotation somewhat as follows:

"Where did you find him?" I'd asked. John had smiled down at the kitten, giving him a scratch beneath his chin.

"I didn't. I woke up with the little bugger meowing in my face." The kitten, as if sensing our discussion of him, had squeaked out a little meow. I'd smiled.

"Well, I'd like him back now, please." John had cuddled the little black kitten in his arms.

"I think I'll keep him, actually, if that's alright with you. I've named him Jabber." I'd blinked in surprise, then narrowed my eyes at Johnathan.

"Alright," I'd replied slowly, then crossed my arms, "As long you take good care of him, and keep him safe."

"Certainly," John had affirmed. "Jabber will be far from neglect, with me."

Even with his words, I'd kept close eye on Johnathan and his care of Jabber. Jabber had grown to an abnormally large size when he finally reached adulthood. I find it funny that John, the giant of the household, had ended up with a giant of a cat. Jabber had looked normal sized in John's thick arms. Jabber had a very happy life, I admit, and I'm glad he found the best perch in the castle: Johnathan's shoulder.

Sometimes, I wish I’d gone with Ophelia to America or with Lani and Rion to Ireland, but I only ever think that when I truly have nothing to do. One Christmas, when Bo and Ellen visited, they had offered me a position at the bookstore. I'd politely declined, but ever since then sometimes I wish I hadn’t. I suppose I could send a letter and ask if they have a position open. I’m sure they haven’t forgotten their offer; Ellen has an excellent memory and Bo can also hear others thoughts. My memory is terrible. Cory tells me I’m my true age on the inside. He also calls me a clutz. I’ve learned not to listen to Cory.

Maybe if I’d said yes to those that offered to take me outside, I’d actually be doing something productive with my eternal life. But no, I’m still here on the Isle of Britain with the cats. Hiding in a bubble. Like a coward.

You know what? I'll write to Ellen tomorrow morning about the bookstore.