Chapter 1
In a pool of moonlight between a pair of pines, a black blob…
was moving. The garden lay dark in moon shadows, but a deeper darkness shifted between the trees, as the creature stretched and stirred.
Every so often, a flash of pink sparked against the darkness.
Accompanied by a slurping, sucking sound. And purring…
The creature’s belled collar read “Mr. Scruffles,” and it jingled with each ablutionary lick. A high, thin, muffled peeping sounded from the ground near his feet.
Mr. Scruffles, a.k.a. Stop That And Get Inside, lifted his head from the current focus of his grooming and sniffed the air. A light breeze was blowing from the south, carrying a salty taste and tickling his whiskers.
A perfect evening for prowling, he mused.
How delightful to be outside, and alone, for once.
He flexed his forepaws. The warm struggling bundle beneath them was getting agitated.
Ooh, this is going to be so good. He lifted the first of his toes from the parcel, and his dilated pupils seemed to fill his face.
His rumbling purr intensified. Then, lamplight flooded his personal pool of moonbeams.
“Mr. Scruffles! There you are.”
The black cat stiffened. His pupils shrank. The purring stopped. A warm glow filled the garden to its edge and illuminated even his dark form.
“What are you up to?”
Nothing.
“Oh, Mr. Scruffles. Really, now. You know how I feel about this.” His mistress shut the cottage door behind her, dulling the light, and shuffled over in a pair of creaky clogs that crunched on the fallen leaves.
The bobbing glow from a small lamp preceded her.
“Stop that and get inside. Now, please.”
Mr. Scruffles paused a beat. I wasn’t going to eat it, he lied.
“Now,” she said.
Mr. Scruffles reluctantly lifted his paws, freeing an apoplectic bird. It cheeped wildly, made a rude gesture, and flew away.
“My apologies!” the woman called after it into the darkness. “My hearing’s not what it used to be! I think you need a louder bell,” she told the cat.
I was just teaching it a lesson, Mr. Scruffles said. It ought to be more careful.
“I thought I’d made my position quite clear on this,” the woman said. “Leave the birds alone. Now, please, get inside.” She pointed toward the house.
Mr. Scruffles stung her with an injured look, deflated.
“I’ll give you some kibbles…”
Now you’re talking!
Mr. Scruffles lifted his bottom from the mulch and shook himself to dislodge any dirt, jangling his bell. Then he trotted beside her with his tail in the air as she made her way back to the porch. She held the door for him, but he marched through the wall instead.
“Cheeky,” Katherine Winterhaven said, suppressing an indulgent smile. Mr. Scruffles’ bushy tail disappeared like vapor through the wooden siding.
Interdimensional cats are not for everyone. But, luckily, every kind of cat was the right kind to Katherine Winterhaven.
Katherine Winterhaven, née Caterina Hornsboggle—but née so long ago that mercifully not many now remembered that—lived in a seaside cottage with a houseful of charitable cases.
As a young woman, she had traveled widely and had done a lot of strange things.
She’d also seen a lot of strange things…
and had adopted many of them after they followed her home.
These pets had names like Mittens, Buttons, and Stop Shape-Shifting When I’m Talking To You.
In the soft light of her kitchen, Katherine now set one of her most affectionate pets, Ember, on the stone-cold stovetop and began preparing dinner while she waited for the kettle to boil.
Broadly speaking, Ember was a cat too. At least, she fit in so easily among them.
Her compact build was rather atypical for a dragon, as were her small feline face and furry feet.
The scales were really what gave her away, beneath the soft, reddish fuzz that made her such a pleasure to stroke on cool evenings.
Blazing heat radiated from Ember’s paws, and Mr. Scruffles alighted on the range next to her, purring loudly against her fox-hued pelt. Bits of him that grew too hot faded into another dimension to cool.
My love, we cannot snuggle now, Ember said. I am working. It’s important to be useful to our mistress.
Ah, my dear, Mr. Scruffles replied dreamily. It’s important that we simply be admired and well fed.
Ember laughed her warm dragony laugh and arched her back against his luxurious fur. Katherine smiled as the pair settled down together on the stove, purring loudly. Whether Ember was working or lounging made no difference to the kettle, which presently began to whistle beside them.
“All right, you two. Thank you very much.” Katherine lifted the steaming kettle from the stovetop with a tea towel and encouraged the couple back onto the floor. She was just pouring the hot water into the tea service when a knock sounded on the front door.
“Who is it?” Katherine called over her shoulder.
“A luckless wanderer! With lots of gold to spare too.”
Katherine rolled her eyes. She looked down at her table and noticed that she’d unconsciously laid two places. Well, all right then. “Come in, Imogene,” she said.
The door opened and a short, old woman shuffled in, a spring still in her shambling step.
“How did you know it was me?” she teased and settled down at the table.
She deposited a large bag of yarn on the floor next to her with a thump.
This quickly caught the attention of many of the cats.
“So.” She smiled up at Katherine and clapped her hands on the table as if calling a meeting to order.
“I know I’ve said it a lot lately, but I really mean it this time.
You’re going to want your special knitting needles tonight, Katty. ”
“I doubt that, Imogene,” Katherine answered, wondering how long this little joke was going to last. “Unlike you, I still believe our retirement to be permanent.” She served their food and sat.
“Yes, but you hoped I’d come over tonight.” Imogene Chrysler grinned, taking in the meal and the matched pair of table settings.
“I guess I had a hunch that you would.”
“That tells me, deep down, you really want me to find us a case.”
“Uh, no, Imogene.” Katherine poured a generous amount of gravy on their mashed potatoes and nudged aside Mr. Scruffles, who was trying to put his nose in her plate. “You’ve been stopping by more and more often these last few months. Right around suppertime, conveniently enough.”
“Oh. Well, I hate to eat alone…” Mrs. Chrysler adjusted the knitting needles in her hair.
“And it’s still hard to cook for just me.
But I don’t come empty-handed.” She produced a large bottle of home-brewed cider from her bag and poured them each a tumblerful, then sat back in her seat.
“I’ll have some mutton for you too. Remind me, and I’ll bring it over this week, plus—oh, hello.
” One of Katherine’s pets had approached Mrs. Chrysler and was sniffing her ankles.
“Honestly, Katty, only you would have a dragon for a housecat. How do you keep her from sneezing the place on fire?”
Katherine looked over to see her friend scratching Ember’s chin, as the animal rubbed against a chair leg and twitched a yarn ball out of the canvas bag with her dexterous tail.
“You know how well-behaved she is,” Katherine replied, tucking into her food.
“More than I can say for mine.” Mrs. Chrysler famously lived with a very old, very large, and very cranky dragon with acid reflux, and as everyone knew, she lived in a brick yurt.
“How is old Harvey?”
“Ah, he’s doing all right.” Mrs. Chrysler shrugged.
“He’s a tough old bird. Like me.” She winked.
“But he does have better teeth.” She dug into the applesauce, boiled yams, and other soft delicacies on offer at Katherine’s table.
After a few squishy spoonfuls, she reached for her cider.
“So,” she said between sips, “did you hear about Fergie Mayweather?”
“No. What about Fergie?” Katherine pushed Mr. Scruffles away from her plate again and he leapt down to the floor.
“Her property taxes went up more than her old cannery pension could afford. And she had to sell and move in with her girl last week.”
“No.” Katherine looked up in alarm. “That pretty little house by the bay?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh, Imogene, that’s awful.”
“I agree. My sources tell me some young captain of industry’s going to live in that house now… When he’s not at sea, I presume.”
“Hmm.” Katherine nudged her mushy peas with her spoon, deep in thought. “Poor Fergie.”
“Yes. Poor dear.”
“If only we’d known she was in difficulties, Imogene. I could have given her an extra gold piece or two. I’m not sitting on a hoard, but I’ve got a bit put by.”
Mrs. Chrysler scoffed into her cider and reengaged with her dinner. “I don’t think an extra gold piece would have saved her, Katty. And it certainly won’t be enough if our taxes go up too.”
“They won’t,” Katherine said, shaking her head. “We’re so off the beaten track out here, Imogene. No one wants to live where we do.”
“If you say so, Katty. But I wouldn’t be too sure. I myself wouldn’t mind a little extra income just in case.”
Katherine’s eyes narrowed as she studied her friend across the table. All that talk of coming out of retirement had been a joke, hadn’t it? “You thinking of taking on more custom, all-weather sweater commissions for the sailors, Imogene?” she asked.
“Well, not exactly.” Mrs. Chrysler pushed her plate aside and brought the yarn bag back up on her lap. “So, about those knitting needles…”
“Oh, Imogene—”
Mrs. Chrysler waved a hand flippantly. “I know all the jobs I’ve brought to you so far”—she rummaged in the bag—“haven’t been enough to convince you that retirement is premature.
But so many people still need our help getting their things back, and”—she produced a letter—“this one’s a great case. A sweetshop in Birmingham.”