Now that I’m at least more confident in my ability to keep myself from starving to death, I turn my attention to other matters. It may be impossible to figure out why I turned into a cat, but can I learn to harness the ability to choose when I shift back? Since I have no way of knowing if or when it will happen again, I let the King attend the afternoon’s council meeting alone and explore the grounds around the castle instead. Loath as I am to admit it, it’s a pleasant time—I haven’t had much time for leisure activities since moving into the castle, and never appreciated how beautiful it all is. And if a cat happens to walk into the garden maze and a woman happens to walk out, who’s to say they are one and the same?

That’s assuming I don’t get lost on my way out. Did I just make three left turns, or two? Oh dear.

“Come on,” I whisper, if only to remind myself I still can. “Concentrate!” Maybe I have to feel something. Happy or sad or excited or angry. But all I’ve been doing is sleeping. I’m none of those things when I’m sleeping. I don’t even dream, usually.

Is it sleeping that’s the key? I was asleep when I turned back into a human, and went to sleep again to wake up a cat. But I was wide awake when I first made the change, and the morning after, when Alvin discovered me, I was still a cat.

Perhaps it’s liquor that’s the key. I was drinking whiskey on the first night, and though no one thought to pour the cat any wine alongside her meal, goblets were shared. We sat at the same table. Perhaps I spent less time as a human because I wasn’t exposed to as much of the drink the second time. But if I somehow have a full bottle tonight at dinner and my theory proves incorrect, will it kill me? Can cats drink wine?

I sigh, craning my head up to look at the sky. It’s so much harder to look at things from all the way down here, but I can still tell the sun is on its way down. Back to the castle, then. After a minor struggle, I climb on top of the hedges to make my way out. Turns out some things are easier as a cat—very few and mostly impractical things, but still.

Since I can trust the end of the council meeting to bring the King directly to dinner, I make my way to his private table. He lights up when he sees me, my seat beside him already prepared. “Hello, Princess. Have a good day?”

“Just like a cat to show up only at mealtimes,” sniffs Alvin. “All they do is take and shed, take and shed.”

I can scratch, too, Alvin. Don’t think I won’t.

The King ignores Alvin, a skill I’m sure he mastered long ago from constantly being in his presence. In fact, I don’t think he notices much of anything past cooing at me, until Eveline appears by his side to clear away his untouched appetizer and set the main course.

“Is Lurina still ill?” he asks. I know the room doesn’t freeze, but it feels like it does.

Eveline’s poor brows vault off her face. “Beg pardon, Your Majesty?”

He turns to Gertrude, who’s trying her best to seem busy. “Didn’t you say she wasn’t feeling well?”

Alvin exhales louder than anyone has ever exhaled before. “Why are you so concerned about a maid?”

“I’m concerned about everyone who resides in my home,” the King replies mildly. “If she isn’t getting better, we should have someone come see to her.”

“I didn’t know she was sick,” says Eveline, not understanding what Gertrude’s pleading glances convey. “Poor thing. Do you mean to say she’s been in her room all this time?”

“What do you mean?”

It’s this moment, I can tell, that Eveline suddenly realizes she may have let slip something that could get me, Gertrude, or herself in trouble. “Oh,” she stammers, voice as faltering as her hurried curtsey, “pardon, Your Majesty. Only I thought she was missing. Hadn’t seen her in a few days, is all.”

Alvin rolls his eyes, and somehow that’s loud, too. “If you mean to say she ran away, say she ran away.”

“Oh no, sir,” Gertrude finally pipes up. “She wouldn't do that. She’s a good girl, Lurina.”

“I wouldn't blame her,” Alvin continues, the first time he’s ever said anything in danger of sounding in support of me. “After what she did to you, Your Majesty?”

“What do you mean?” asks the King.

Alvin stares blankly. “The gazpacho. All over you. It was a disaster. Has the trauma blocked it from your memory?”

The King stares blankly back. “Don’t tell me you truly think she’d run away over something so trivial.”

“She ruined your fourth best dining suit!”

“I didn’t even like that suit that much!”

Alvin looks wounded, as if he birthed that suit himself. “Well, there was no sense in keeping a maid who can’t even keep soup in the bowl,” he says. “She has one job, and it’s not a hard one.”

“She was good at her job, save for one mistake.” I don’t know why the King bothers defending me like this. Even I didn’t defend myself like this. Not only was I certain I’d be unemployed forever for that one mistake, I was certain I’d deserved it.

“I feel terrible,” he goes on. “If she ran away because she thought I was displeased, then I’m the reason she may be in danger now. Who knows where she might be?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Considering the drama, Demetria sounds bored. “Perhaps her running away had nothing to do with you.”

“Or she really might be sick, Your Majesty,” says Eveline. Even she doesn’t seem to believe it.

Still, the King is kind when he addresses her. “Let me know when you see her again, will you? I’d like to apologize.”

“What do you have to apologize for?” asks Alvin.

“You’re right. Alvin would like to apologize.”

“What do I have to apologize for?”

“You’re horribly rude to her, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Alvin sputters, which never gets old. Still, I’m too distracted to enjoy it—much. The King knows my name. He noticed my absence. He never intended to fire me. He regrets my leaving. He even thinks Alvin is rude to me, which he is, but I never would have expected the King to say anything about it. I hate to admit that for all his bookishness, I privately thought he might be a bit dim. Who misses meals because of reading?

But as it turns out, there’s plenty he’s aware of. Including me.