Before I had a chance to protest, he got up swiftly and nudged the door open with his nose. He slipped through and it clicked shut behind him. 

I felt a laugh escape my lips, a cat was going to make me a meal? 

I got up slowly, this time, and limped across the room to the mirror. I was a hideous mess. My unwashed hair had tangled itself into a bouncy curly mass of deep red brown. It was too much. My hair had always been odd and off-putting. It was brown like a mouse. A mouse that had drowned in mother’s velvety sipping chocolate. It brought back memories of safety and warmth from when I was a child. When mother had chocolate to broil and time to soothe my simple, childish fears. I loathed it. No man would have me with hair like this. My eyes were the same unsettling shade of blue green they had always been. My cruel, long dark lashes doing nothing to hide how bright and clear they were. I was still wearing my crumpled gown, the white linen now marbled with dirt and a bit of blood. But you could still see my petite, pathetic frame through the cloth. My naturally cinched waist and small perky breasts betrayed how malnourished I was. I would never have big beautiful bouncy bosoms like Andromeda. 

Pathetically, I now realized, I had dreamed of a day when I could live alone in the forest. Oblegaimon my only companion. But of course even a cat wouldn’t want to be the familiar of a lonely spinster with ugly hair and a small pouty mouth with full red lips. 

But a TALKING cat! I shook my head. I must’ve imagined it. Except that I smelled something wonderful coming from beyond the door. 

I peered out, cradling my injured arm. The door looked out into the main area of the cabin. It was neat though not tidy. There were careful piles of books pressed against every wall. A knobby table with four chairs, three of which held stacks of tombs and leaflets. Clay mugs were crammed full of pencils and quills, evidently used to take notes in the margins. The moth-eaten curtains were drawn, but I assumed it was night. I hoped I was right, and time to cauldron still alight. There might still be time….I stepped beyond the door and my eyes traveled to the hearth where the good food smell was wafting from. 

“GUHGUHG” I let out a weird guttural exclamation as I noticed the silhouetted form of a man standing before the fire. In my surprise, I stumbled and nearly ate shit. When I looked up again, there was only a cat, looking at me with golden-yellow bemusement, holding a knife in his two paws. Adrenaline rushed in my ears. I was seeing things and hearing talking cats and now I was going to be murdered by one. But Oblegaimon only let the knife fall on the wood counter and daintily picked up a slice of julienned turnip in his tiny black mouth and tossed it onto a bowl of stew. 

Bring these to the table, would you, dear? He said with a sarcastic flick of his tail. He hopped off the counter and padded over to the table. In one graceful leap, he landed upon one of the book-stacked-stools, giving me a patient look. 

In my youth I struggled with authority. I didn’t understand why I was being told to walk a certain way, to curtsey to men that reeked of whisky and cigar, to brush my teeth and hold my flatulence and pee inside, on the commode, instead of the beautiful estate lawns where you can feel the gentle breeze. But when a cat asks you to set the table, you do as you are bid, even if you only have one functioning arm. 

I sat down carefully, on the one empty chair, and stared at Oblegaimon. He was lapping up his stew with a small pink tongue. 

Eat up, scrawny, it’s pantry mouse. 

I bristled at the insult and more so at the main ingredient. 

I’m joking. It’s wolf… Don’t look at me like that. They would have eaten YOU without second thought. 

I examined the chunks of sinewy meat floating in rich gravy, flanked by carrots and potatoes. My mouth watered and my stomach gurgled like an angry baby. 

“Obie, what….what is going on?” 

Eat your soup and I’ll explain everything.