3. Cat
Chapter three
Cat
B ookstores smelled the best.
Coffee in hand, I wandered the aisles of the local bookstore before I had to be at the university. I should’ve been there earlier—the whole department would be in an uproar today—but frankly, if Dimmy was the one chosen to go to the summit, then they could do without me for twenty more minutes. I needed the books, I needed the coffee, and I needed the short walk through the neighborhood’s mishmash of modern, colonial, 1600’s English architecture, and everything in between.
I wasn’t looking through the shelves for anything in particular—I tended to acquire books before I knew I wanted them. So I strolled past the front display of otherworldly memoirs, including a bestseller written by a fae and another by a siren who had started a wellness company, and then found myself in the familiar classics section. What would the old authors have thought of the current situation, about how the creatures they used as enticing metaphors were now real? It was probably for the best that the authors were dead. For instance, John Milton, the author of Paradise Lost , would’ve had an aneurysm since he wrote an entire poem—dictated it, as disturbingly depicted by Fuseli—about humans being cast out of paradise—
My throat caught. There were stories here, old tales of people falling into other worlds, entire cities disappearing, and many of them were retellings of even older stories. The worlds had shifted before—it was theorized that Atlantis may have been a city lost in a previous shifting of the worlds. But what if these old stories carried a root of how this could’ve happened? Classics were classics for a reason—they contained memories that humanity didn’t dare let itself forget.
Before I could tell myself that I’d never have time to read it, and that I surely couldn’t have been the first to come to this conclusion, I snagged a copy of Paradise Lost . Besides being large enough to act as an efficient weapon, it was a tale of the fall of mankind and the subsequent exile from the Garden of Eden. The Garden of Eden was not the only ancient story of humans losing a paradise, but Paradise Lost was probably the most prominent version of the tale that was written originally in English .
Were the worlds shifting the origin of the story of the Garden of Eden? No, not necessarily. Probably not. But it couldn’t be ignored that mankind being exiled from a paradise or paradise-like state was not a unique theme. There were academics who studied the myths of the primordial paradise and drafted hefty tomes on the topic—but not this academic. My knowledge on this particular topic had its limits. Though, maybe reading this would give me some fresh insight for my dissertation—it was a bit of a stretch to connect the topics, but one worth considering.
Once I paid and left the bookstore, my new book shoved in my purse, I rushed to the department and was greeted by a particularly frantic Dr. Mulberry, his dark skin covered in a sheen of sweat. “Where were you?” he asked while gesturing wildly at an undergrad research assistant to get out of our way.
“I’m not that late.” I frowned. Despite my loitering, I was only five minutes late.
“We need to leave now.”
“Now? We ?” My eyes darted around the room. “Where’s—”
“Mr. Johnson has food poisoning,” Dr. Mulberry said, arranging the sleeves on his tweed jacket. “He can’t make it. He said he had some Lutheran sushi a friend made at home …” Dr. Mulberry grimaced, finishing the sentence without words .
Lutheran sushi? Yep, that would do it. I had no idea what Lutheran sushi was, or what would possess Mr. Dimmy Johnson to consume it, but it sounded … questionable.
“So I’m going?” I asked, evaluating my clothes. I was wearing black trousers and a purple cardigan. Professional-ish, but not nearly nice enough for the summit. The entire country would be watching and waiting for the results of today, and everyone else was wearing silk blouses, expensive blazers, and overpriced loafers. The clothes were just one problem. There was also my hair and makeup. None of it was nice enough for something like this—I could end up in a picture in a newspaper.
In the back, Silv watched our exchange, his eyes wide and head shaking, urging me to refuse. I tried to gesture to him to stop, but couldn’t do much while in the path of Dr. Mulberry’s panic. Instead, I had to watch Silv twitch while I was faced with a desperate Dr. Mulberry.
“Yes, you’re going.” Dr. Mulberry said, exasperated. “You were going to go this whole time.”
“I was?”
“Of course. Your dissertation topic means that you’re the one best situated for this.”
I resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. Should I believe him? Dimmy was very good at getting the right people to like him, especially the ones that affected his career. It didn’t matter—no point in arguing with Dr. Mulberry now.
But I still wasn’t dressed for something like this .
“I’m not—”
He held up a hand. “Whatever you’re going to say, it doesn’t matter. I need a living body for this summit, and ideally, I need someone capable. But I will make do with just living.” If that’s what Dr. Mulberry needed, then maybe he shouldn’t have done everything but officially choose Dimmy in the first place, or let us believe that he did. Maybe then I wouldn’t have spite-dressed like a burnt-out receptionist.
“Alright,” I said, ignoring Silv. And also ignoring the burst of excitement shooting through my limbs. “I’m ready.”
It was going to be me. I was going to see the angels. In person.
“Good.” Dr. Mulberry dramatically sighed, and it was likely warranted. There were going to be a lot of important people watching the outcome of this summit, and if it went badly, Dr. Mulberry would be one of the first to be blamed. “Good sweet Lord, save me from inept assistants. Just for today—save me.”