The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 8 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 9: Homely
Jeremy slipped inside first, tail flicking once before he padded toward the hearth. The twins hesitated on the threshold. Warm air wavered out to meet them—thick with scents they couldn’t name, rich and strange after a lifetime of damp stone and smoke.
The room was bright. Too bright. Firelight danced over stacked jars, bundles of dried leaves hanging from rafters, and the wide wooden table where a woman with greying hair was slicing carrots with calm, practiced motions. Her knife froze mid-cut the moment she spotted them.
“Jeremy,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest, “who have you dragged in now?”
The black cat-creature did not answer. He merely sat, curling his tail around his paws, eyes half-lidded as if the matter required no explanation.
A man crouched in front of the hearth, feeding another log into the flames. He glanced up, blinked at the sight of the twins, and slowly rose to his feet. His eyebrows travelled high. His nose wrinkled.
“They smell… bad,” he declared.
Margarette—if the twins had known her name—crossed the room in three brisk steps and gave the man a smart swat on the back of his head. “Don’t be so rude, Jonathon!” she scolded. “Go get the copper bath.”
Jonathon rubbed the spot she’d smacked, muttering under his breath as he made for a door at the back. The sound of clattering metal followed.
The twins stood frozen just inside the threshold. The warmth prickled their skin. Shelves, colours, the faint sweet scent of something baking—they’d never seen anything like it. The floorboards creaked under their feet. Margarette turned her gaze toward them, softening a little at the edges as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Well,” she said, “don’t just hover there. Come in properly. You’re safe here.”
Jeremy yawned, showing sharp teeth, and flicked an ear as though to punctuate the point.
Firelight shimmered against the rafters, and the world felt suddenly too big. Christopher stepped in first, mostly because his feet moved before his mind caught up. The warmth startled him. It felt like stepping into a story he didn’t remember hearing—one where rooms glowed and people smiled and vegetables were chopped for reasons other than survival.
Everything had texture. That was the first assault. The rough grain of the wooden floorboards under his bare soles. The softness of some woven rug near the hearth. The thick smell of herbs drifting from a clay pot. His senses, usually dulled by cave-damp and smoke, seemed to open all at once, like doors no one had warned him about.
His twin didn’t speak, but Christopher felt the familiar brush of their shoulder against his. A small anchor.
But the creature—that was the loudest thing in the room. It didn’t make a sound, but it occupied space in ways Christopher couldn’t understand. One moment it was a cat, sleek and glossy, tail curling. The next moment it felt entirely too aware, too upright, as if some invisible thread connected it to the human gestures around it. Its red facial marking flickered in the firelight like an ember.
Christopher stared. Blatantly.
He whispered to his sibling, not taking his eyes off the creature, “It’s… looking back. Do cats do that?”
The were-cat blinked slowly, as though humouring him.
Margarette didn’t seem bothered by any of this—she moved past Jeremy with the confidence of someone who had long ago decided that strangeness was simply part of the household. Jonathon's footsteps clanged in the back room as he fetched the copper bath, but Christopher barely noticed. His thoughts were a whirl, trying to fit Jeremy into a world that had never included such a being.
The creature’s ears twitched. It rose—gracefully, silently—and padded closer to the twins. Christopher’s breath hitched. Jeremy’s fur shimmered like smoke caught in moonlight, and the red mark across his face seemed almost painted, but not by any hand Christopher could imagine.
Then Jeremy stood a little too tall for a normal cat. Shoulders rolled in almost-human arcs. For a heartbeat, Christopher thought the creature might speak.
It didn’t. It just sniffed them once, wrinkled its nose, and sat back down with the air of someone who had completed a necessary but unpleasant task.
Christopher leaned in close to his twin. “Was that… normal?” he whispered, though the question made no sense even as he asked it.
Nothing so far in their lives had prepared them for a creature that was half one thing, half another. Nothing had prepared them for a room full of warmth. Nothing had prepared them for people who seemed… kind.
Margarette touched the twins’ backs gently, urging them further in. Christopher flinched at the contact—light, warm, human. New.
“You two are shaking,” she murmured. “You’ve had a fright. Let me help you wash up.”
Christopher swallowed hard, eyes flicking again to Jeremy, who now watched him with a slow, amused blink, as though waiting to see whether the boy would unravel or adapt.
“Why does he look… like that?” Christopher finally asked, voice barely audible.
Margarette glanced at the were-cat, then at the twins, and smiled as though she’d been asked why rain fell or why sunrise was bright. “That’s just Jeremy. He’s a were-cat. Now come along―the bath will be ready soon.”
For the twins, the explanation didn’t explain much at all. But the fire crackled, the smell of herbs filled the air, and the room—this impossible room—felt like the first true place where questions might finally have answers.
Olivia watched with wide, unblinking eyes as Jonathon tipped bucket after bucket of warm water into the copper tub. Steam curled upward in soft ribbons, carrying the unfamiliar scents of crushed leaves and something sweet like flowers after rain. She leaned toward Christopher, voice barely above a whisper. “The lady said wash, right?”
Christopher nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the swelling pool of water. “That thing is huge,” he muttered. He’d only ever washed in a cold bowl of water, nothing like this shimmering basin that reflected firelight in molten ripples.
Margarette stepped toward them, brisk but gentle, her eyes sweeping over their grime-caked clothes and tangled hair. “Right then. Young lady, you’ll take your clothes off behind the folding screen on the left. And you, young man, behind the one on the right.” She pressed a towel into each of their hands with the practiced efficiency of someone long accustomed to directing chaos.
The twins traded a bewildered look but obeyed. Behind the screens, Olivia tugged at her clothes, stiff from dirt and dried sweat, letting them fall to the floor. Christopher did the same, unsure why any of this needed hiding. He’d only ever known one world—dark, cramped, shared—and this one operated under rules no one had bothered to explain.
They stepped out from behind the screens at the same moment, towels dangling uselessly from their hands. Jonathon, halfway through checking the bath’s temperature, caught sight of them and instantly dropped his gaze to the floorboards as though they might suddenly sprout something fascinating.
Margarette spun around. “No, no—wrap the towel around your body, young lady! And you, around your waist.” She flapped her hands at them. “Quickly now, if you will!”
The twins stood naked in the warm, open room and glanced around her toward each other, confused at her urgency. Olivia frowned. “We’ve seen each other with no clothes on before…”
Margarette’s expression softened, though her cheeks flushed. “Here in my home, we do things a little differently,” she said gently.
She took Olivia’s towel and wrapped it snugly around her torso, tucking the edge in place with maternal assurance. Christopher mimicked the gesture, wrapping his own towel around his waist. The fabric felt strange—soft, clean, and warm.
Once suitably covered, Margarette guided them toward the copper bath. The rising steam kissed their skin, prickling with unfamiliar comfort. Olivia hesitated on the rim, toes curling against the edge, while Christopher stared at the surface of the water as though it might reach up and grab him.
“It’s all right,” Margarette said softly. “In you go.”
Together, unsure but obedient, they stepped into the bath. The hot, scented water enveloped them, washing away the cold cave-world they had always known.
Something inside both of them loosened—just a fraction—as if the warmth itself had begun to teach them the shape of a different life.
Margarette handed each of them a soft cloth and a small block of pale soap. The twins turned the items over in their hands as though they were strange artifacts dug out of some forgotten ruin. Their blank expressions made Margarette pause.
She tilted her head. “Dunk them under the water, dears. Rub the soap into the cloth, then rub the cloth against your skin. It helps you get clean… and smell a good bit nicer.”
Her voice carried no judgement, only a practical kindness, but the twins still blinked at her as if she had spoken in a different language. Eventually they followed her instructions. The cloth soaked up the warm water, and the soap produced a thin layer of bubbles. Christopher inhaled tentatively and jolted in surprise.
“It smells… different,” he whispered, as if the scent might hear him.
Margarette smiled and dipped a wooden jug into the bath. She tilted it gently over Olivia’s head. Warm water streamed through Olivia’s long, tangled hair, flattening it against her back. Olivia stiffened at first, but Margarette’s steady hand on her shoulder kept her from bolting. The world had never poured anything warm over her before.
In the corner, Jonathon settled into a chair with deliberate care, turning it so his back stayed squarely toward the bath. He cleared his throat, slightly awkward. “Might help,” he said, “if we knew your names.”
Olivia hesitated, squeezing the soap between her fingers. It slipped and bobbed in the water like a timid creature trying to escape. She watched it, took a breath, and spoke just loud enough to be heard.
“Olivia.”
Christopher lifted his chin, following her lead. “Christopher.”
Jonathon nodded, still keeping his eyes firmly on the opposite wall. “Right. Proper names, then.”
Margarette continued rinsing Olivia’s hair, fingers working carefully through the knots. “Lovely names,” she said. “And now that we know them, we can properly take care of you.”
Christopher watched the steam curl upward toward the rafters, and for the first time since stepping into the inn, the warmth began to feel like something he might trust. The bath’s gentle ripples lapped against the copper sides, and both twins sat quietly, suspended between the world they had escaped and the one they were only beginning to understand.
Jonathon’s voice floated gently over the steam, soft enough to sound harmless but careful enough to reveal he knew he was treading on delicate ground. “Might I ask,” he said, “where you both came from?”
The question hung in the warm air like a drifting ember.
Olivia’s gaze snapped to Christopher’s. Their expressions matched—tight, guarded, uncertain. Neither spoke aloud.
Her thought brushed against Christopher’s mind like a whisper carried through fog. 'We can’t tell them. We don’t know if we can trust them.'
Christopher’s shoulders tensed beneath the soapy water. 'All right,' he answered silently. 'We won’t say where we came from.'
They both turned their eyes downward, pretending to focus on their cloths. Margarette noticed their sudden quiet but said nothing, simply continued working through the last stubborn knot in Olivia’s hair.
That was the moment Jeremy chose to pad into the room, fur shimmering in the firelight. In his smaller, feline shape, he moved with the easy arrogance of one who considered all rooms—large, small, messy, tidy—to be his domain.
He hopped onto a stool, tail curling around his black paws. His red face-mark caught the light, glowing faintly.
A velvety voice brushed the air. “Telepathic… how interesting.”
Christopher jerked so violently the water sloshed over the rim of the bath. “Shit! The cat talks!”
Jonathon let out a strangled snort that might’ve been a laugh, quickly smothered behind his fist.
Margarette’s reaction was much less amused. She whipped her head toward Christopher, her brows knitting into a tight line. “That language isn’t welcome here,” she said firmly. “All right? None of that under my roof.”
Christopher shrank back into the bath, cheeks burning. He hadn’t even realised he’d spoken. And he certainly hadn’t expected a cat—an actual cat—to speak so humanly.
Jeremy lounged on the stool with the air of a scholar observing a curious pair of specimens. “They’re young,” he purred, “and frightened. You could forgive a slip.”
Margarette huffed, but her sternness softened. She reached for another cloth, wringing it out with strong, capable hands.
Olivia stared openly at Jeremy, her mind buzzing with too many questions to sort. He blinked back at her, slow and unbothered.
Christopher edged a little closer to his sister, eyes still wide. His world had already been shaken by warmth, by soap that smelled like flowers, by people who asked questions gently instead of demanding answers. Now, apparently, talking cats were real.
Behind him, the fire crackled. In front of him, the were-cat observed him with unnerving calm.
And the twins, sitting in a bath for the first time in their lives, realised their old world—and its rules—had been left far behind.
The pounding outside landed like hammer-blows in the twins’ chests. Every shout from the street wormed its way under their skin. Olivia shrank until only her eyes peeked above the bathwater, and Christopher slid lower, gripping the copper edge as if it might anchor him in place. The scented steam felt suddenly too thin to hide behind.
Margarette sensed their fear before either twin made a sound. She laid a steady hand on each of their shoulders, warm and grounding. “You’re all right,” she murmured. “You’re safe here.” Her voice carried the calm certainty of someone who had stared down trouble before and survived it with most of her dignity intact.
Jonathon stood, chair scraping back. “Stay put,” he whispered, then strode out with a determined heaviness in his steps. The kitchen door shut firmly behind him.
The twins listened to every creak of the floorboards as he crossed the inn. His gait was even, unhurried—like a man greeting inconvenience rather than danger. A moment later, hinges groaned, and his voice carried through the building with deliberate irritation.
“Ain’t no one here but me, me wife, and a bloody annoying cat. Now piss off an’ bother someone else!”
Olivia flinched at the crude command, but Christopher found himself admiring the bluntness of it.
Boots shuffled outside. The soldiers murmured among themselves. Then one called, “This one is clear!” and the group marched on, their noise fading down the street.
Only when Jonathon’s footsteps returned—lighter now, successful—did the twins allow themselves a breath.
Jeremy, perched like royalty upon Margarette’s wooden stool, stretched luxuriously and offered a thin, satisfied smile. “It seems,” he said, “you two aren’t the only ones who are wanted.” His tail flicked, deliberate and smug. “What did you do?”
Christopher blinked at him. “What did you do first?”
The were-cat made a movement approximating a shrug—an oddly human gesture for an animal with paws. “I gave the king his scarred face.”
The room stilled. Even Margarette paused in mid-motion, fingers tangled in Olivia’s damp hair.
Olivia’s eyes widened. Christopher’s mouth hung open.
For a heartbeat, Jeremy’s red-marked face held no expression at all—calm, almost bored—as though he’d just admitted to knocking over a jar of spices rather than wounding a monarch.
Margarette let out a slow breath, a familiar weary sound, as if she’d heard this story more than once. “Jeremy,” she muttered, “don’t go frightening the children.”
“I’m not frightening them,” the were-cat replied, smoothing one ear with a hind paw. “I’m answering the question.”
Christopher looked from Jeremy to his sister, then back again. His world, already stretched impossibly wide, cracked open a little further. If a talking cat could scar a king… what else had been hidden from them?
The question hung unspoken, and the fire popped softly in the corner as if offering an answer none of them yet understood.
Olivia’s shoulders trembled as Margarette worked the soap into her hair, fingertips gentle but thorough. The scent rose around her—sweet, calming, unfamiliar—and she tried to steady her breathing. Jeremy’s red-marked face watched her with that unreadable intensity only a feline could muster. She swallowed hard and forced out a sound.
“W-we got cornered by guards,” she murmured. “They scared us…”
Christopher took over, voice firmer but threaded with the same nervous edge. “We panicked. And we… used the elements. And the two guards…” He faltered, searching for a word that didn’t feel monstrous.
Nothing came.
Instead, he lifted both hands above the bathwater and mimed an explosion with a soft whoomp, fingers splaying out in all directions.
Silence hit the room like a dropped stone.
Jeremy’s back went rigid, every hair on his spine rising in sharp attention. His head snapped toward them, pupils narrowing to thin black slits.
Jonathon, halfway back into the room with a towel draped over his arm, stopped dead in the doorway.
Margarette froze with both hands tangled in Olivia’s wet hair. The soap slid from her fingers and plopped quietly into the bath.
A single beat passed.
Then another.
Margarette recovered first. She blinked, inhaled, and resumed her work as if willing the moment to settle. “Well,” she said, brisk but gentle, “let’s try keeping our emotions in check, shall we?”
Her eyes flicked upward at Jonathon, a silent plea wrapped in a warning. He gave the smallest nod and stepped fully inside, closing the door with a soft thud—as though sealing the twins safely away from any more soldiers, questions, or consequences.
Jeremy, however, remained transfixed on the twins. His tail twitched once, sharp as a whip crack. “Elemental magic that reacts to fear,” he murmured. “Explosive reactions at that.”
Christopher sank lower in the water. Olivia’s fingers curled around the rim of the copper tub.
Margarette tapped the side of the bath with her knuckles, making the water ripple. “None of that nonsense in my kitchen,” she said kindly but firmly. “Not while you’re frightened, tired, hungry, or half-naked in a bathtub. We’ll sort out the details once you’re clean, warm, and dressed.”
Olivia exhaled shakily.
Christopher nodded, though his mind still replayed the explosion.
Jeremy’s gaze softened only slightly, but there was something new in it—curiosity sharpened by caution, like a scholar presented with a puzzle that could bite.
Margarette finished with Olivia’s hair first, rinsing the last of the suds away with warm water, then running a brush gently through the long, heavy strands. Olivia winced out of habit, expecting the rough tugs she’d grown up with—but Margarette’s hand was steady, patient, practiced. When she scrunched the ends to drain the water, Olivia blinked in quiet amazement, as if this small tenderness were stranger than any magic.
She turned to Christopher next. His hair fell nearly the same length as Olivia’s, tangled from years without care. The brush snagged only a little, and she hummed softly as she worked, smoothing each section. When she finished, she wrapped a towel around his shoulders.
“Would you like me to give you a haircut, Christopher?” she asked.
Christopher tensed. He didn’t know if a haircut involved blades or magic or something else entirely. He lifted one shoulder halfway to his ear. “I don’t know what you mean… but sure.”
Jonathon stepped in, rubbing the back of his neck with a faint smile. “A haircut means trimming it shorter. For a gentleman like yourself, you can have it short—short like mine—or any style you fancy.”
Christopher’s face lit up with understanding. “Oh! Short. Shorter… maybe so I only have a small tail?” He motioned behind his head to show he meant just a thin braid or tuft.
Margarette’s eyes warmed. “That is doable.”
She clapped her hands lightly. “Now, the two of you—behind the screens. Dry off and put on the clothes I set out for you.”
The twins exchanged that familiar, silent look of uncertainty before climbing carefully out of the bath. The heat left their skin in a rush of cool air, making both of them shiver. They padded over the wooden floor and slipped behind their respective screens.
The rustling of towels followed.
Christopher had no trouble with his clothes. He tugged on the dark trousers—they were soft and warm, unfamiliar but comfortable—then pulled the cream ruffled shirt over his head. The matching jacket felt oddly dignified, like stepping into a version of himself he’d never imagined.
Olivia, however, stared at the pile of fabric in horror.
A chemise. An underskirt. A corset. A cream dress. Ribbons. Laces.
She held up one piece after another like she was examining tools of an arcane ritual. “Margarette…” she called quietly, “I… don’t know what any of this is.”
Margarette’s footsteps were immediate.
She slipped behind Olivia’s screen without the slightest judgement. “All right, dear. Let’s start at the beginning.”
Margarette helped her into the soft chemise first. Then came the underskirt, tied at the waist. She guided Olivia’s arms through the corset, lacing it gently—not tight, never tight—just enough to give shape. Olivia’s breath trembled with unfamiliar pressure, but Margarette reassured her with a soft pat.
Then the dress itself—a simple cream piece, modest and clean, falling in soft folds to the floor. Margarette smoothed the sleeves at Olivia’s shoulders and tucked a few damp strands of hair behind her ears.
Margarette stepped back first from Olivia’s screen, a satisfied, motherly glow in her eyes.
“There you are. Quite a transformation.”
Christopher stepped out at the same time Olivia did.
He froze.
His breath hitched as if something had knocked lightly against his chest.
Olivia, suddenly framed by the soft cream fabric, the modest corset giving her a poised shape she’d never had reason to have before, looked… older. Softer. Almost like one of the noble girls from the palace hallways—except this was his sister, the girl he’d survived the confines of a cockroach infested metal coffin with.
“You look…” He swallowed, blinking rapidly because the words didn’t want to line up properly.
“Olivia, you look beautiful,” he finished, voice small and honest.
Olivia’s cheeks turned a faint pink. She stared at him with similar surprise.
“And you look… um—” She gestured helplessly at his jacket, “all fancy. Like someone important.”
Jeremy, still perched on the wooden stool with his tail swishing lazily, grinned at their reactions.
“Well,” he drawled, “suppose that’s the point.”
Jonathon folded his arms, amusement tugging at his mouth.
“It seems the clothes fit perfectly. Good.”
Margarette clasped her hands together.
“There now, both of you look presentable—and rather charming, if I may say so.”
The twins shared one more stunned, uncertain look—two children suddenly dressed as adults—before Christopher’s hand found Olivia’s and squeezed.
“Just clothes,” he whispered, as if reassuring her… or himself.
“But you really do look pretty.”
Olivia squeezed back, shy but smiling.
“So do you.”
Margarette clapped her hands together softly. Jonathon nodded at his wife. "The food is ready, my dear."
Jeremy leapt down from the stool, landing lightly on the wooden floor. "About time! I'm starving!"
The twins exchanged wide-eyed glances at the mention of food. Almost as if on cue, their bellies rumbled loudly, echoing in the room. Olivia pressed a hand to her stomach and let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. Christopher’s face turned pink, but he grinned sheepishly.
Margarette shook her head with a soft smile and gently ushered them toward the kitchen table. The warm, comforting smell of roasted mutton and boiled rice filled their noses. The steam rose in gentle curls, carrying with it a savoury aroma that made their mouths water. Their senses were on overload—so many smells they had never encountered before, layered and rich, not like the bland, slimy slop they were used to.
Jonathon served the steaming food, the mutton glistening with juices, the rice soft and fluffy, the vegetables vibrant in colour and scent. Olivia tentatively picked up her fork, staring at the small mound of rice and the slices of meat. She took a bite, and her eyes widened. The meat was tender, seasoned but not overpowering, and the warmth of it spread through her chest in a way that made her stomach ache… with relief, hunger, and wonder all at once. The rice was soft, comforting, almost like a pillow in her mouth, and the vegetables added a surprising sweetness that made her cheeks flush with delight.
Christopher dug in more eagerly, his eyes lighting up as he chewed. The flavours were new and bright, each bite a revelation. The meat melted almost under his teeth, the vegetables crisp yet tender, and the rice absorbed the juices in a way that made each mouthful richer than the last. He could feel warmth spreading through his body that had nothing to do with the bath—it was the warmth of being fed, of being cared for, of tasting something that wasn’t survival, but pleasure.
They glanced at each other mid-bite, both silently acknowledging the strangeness of the experience. Food didn’t just fill their stomachs—it astonished their senses, made them aware of textures and tastes they had never imagined. Olivia’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for a piece of mutton again, her mind briefly flashing to the dark caves and the rough slop they had survived on. She swallowed, letting the taste and warmth anchor her to this new, strange, safe reality.
Meanwhile, Margarette moved gracefully around the table, cutting Christopher’s hair to shoulder length and plaiting it neatly, while Olivia’s braids were carefully tied from her temples to the back of her head. The twins barely noticed the scissors snipping and the comb tugging—they were too absorbed in the symphony of taste and comfort before them.
Even Jeremy, sprawled lazily on a chair with one paw dangling, seemed content as he snorted and began picking at his own portion of food. Jonathon leaned back in his chair, watching the twins with a small, approving nod, while Margarette’s eyes softened as she caught the subtle wonder in their expressions.
Chapter 9: Homely
Jeremy slipped inside first, tail flicking once before he padded toward the hearth. The twins hesitated on the threshold. Warm air wavered out to meet them—thick with scents they couldn’t name, rich and strange after a lifetime of damp stone and smoke.
The room was bright. Too bright. Firelight danced over stacked jars, bundles of dried leaves hanging from rafters, and the wide wooden table where a woman with greying hair was slicing carrots with calm, practiced motions. Her knife froze mid-cut the moment she spotted them.
“Jeremy,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest, “who have you dragged in now?”
The black cat-creature did not answer. He merely sat, curling his tail around his paws, eyes half-lidded as if the matter required no explanation.
A man crouched in front of the hearth, feeding another log into the flames. He glanced up, blinked at the sight of the twins, and slowly rose to his feet. His eyebrows travelled high. His nose wrinkled.
“They smell… bad,” he declared.
Margarette—if the twins had known her name—crossed the room in three brisk steps and gave the man a smart swat on the back of his head. “Don’t be so rude, Jonathon!” she scolded. “Go get the copper bath.”
Jonathon rubbed the spot she’d smacked, muttering under his breath as he made for a door at the back. The sound of clattering metal followed.
The twins stood frozen just inside the threshold. The warmth prickled their skin. Shelves, colours, the faint sweet scent of something baking—they’d never seen anything like it. The floorboards creaked under their feet. Margarette turned her gaze toward them, softening a little at the edges as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Well,” she said, “don’t just hover there. Come in properly. You’re safe here.”
Jeremy yawned, showing sharp teeth, and flicked an ear as though to punctuate the point.
Firelight shimmered against the rafters, and the world felt suddenly too big. Christopher stepped in first, mostly because his feet moved before his mind caught up. The warmth startled him. It felt like stepping into a story he didn’t remember hearing—one where rooms glowed and people smiled and vegetables were chopped for reasons other than survival.
Everything had texture. That was the first assault. The rough grain of the wooden floorboards under his bare soles. The softness of some woven rug near the hearth. The thick smell of herbs drifting from a clay pot. His senses, usually dulled by cave-damp and smoke, seemed to open all at once, like doors no one had warned him about.
His twin didn’t speak, but Christopher felt the familiar brush of their shoulder against his. A small anchor.
But the creature—that was the loudest thing in the room. It didn’t make a sound, but it occupied space in ways Christopher couldn’t understand. One moment it was a cat, sleek and glossy, tail curling. The next moment it felt entirely too aware, too upright, as if some invisible thread connected it to the human gestures around it. Its red facial marking flickered in the firelight like an ember.
Christopher stared. Blatantly.
He whispered to his sibling, not taking his eyes off the creature, “It’s… looking back. Do cats do that?”
The were-cat blinked slowly, as though humouring him.
Margarette didn’t seem bothered by any of this—she moved past Jeremy with the confidence of someone who had long ago decided that strangeness was simply part of the household. Jonathon's footsteps clanged in the back room as he fetched the copper bath, but Christopher barely noticed. His thoughts were a whirl, trying to fit Jeremy into a world that had never included such a being.
The creature’s ears twitched. It rose—gracefully, silently—and padded closer to the twins. Christopher’s breath hitched. Jeremy’s fur shimmered like smoke caught in moonlight, and the red mark across his face seemed almost painted, but not by any hand Christopher could imagine.
Then Jeremy stood a little too tall for a normal cat. Shoulders rolled in almost-human arcs. For a heartbeat, Christopher thought the creature might speak.
It didn’t. It just sniffed them once, wrinkled its nose, and sat back down with the air of someone who had completed a necessary but unpleasant task.
Christopher leaned in close to his twin. “Was that… normal?” he whispered, though the question made no sense even as he asked it.
Nothing so far in their lives had prepared them for a creature that was half one thing, half another. Nothing had prepared them for a room full of warmth. Nothing had prepared them for people who seemed… kind.
Margarette touched the twins’ backs gently, urging them further in. Christopher flinched at the contact—light, warm, human. New.
“You two are shaking,” she murmured. “You’ve had a fright. Let me help you wash up.”
Christopher swallowed hard, eyes flicking again to Jeremy, who now watched him with a slow, amused blink, as though waiting to see whether the boy would unravel or adapt.
“Why does he look… like that?” Christopher finally asked, voice barely audible.
Margarette glanced at the were-cat, then at the twins, and smiled as though she’d been asked why rain fell or why sunrise was bright. “That’s just Jeremy. He’s a were-cat. Now come along―the bath will be ready soon.”
For the twins, the explanation didn’t explain much at all. But the fire crackled, the smell of herbs filled the air, and the room—this impossible room—felt like the first true place where questions might finally have answers.
Olivia watched with wide, unblinking eyes as Jonathon tipped bucket after bucket of warm water into the copper tub. Steam curled upward in soft ribbons, carrying the unfamiliar scents of crushed leaves and something sweet like flowers after rain. She leaned toward Christopher, voice barely above a whisper. “The lady said wash, right?”
Christopher nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the swelling pool of water. “That thing is huge,” he muttered. He’d only ever washed in a cold bowl of water, nothing like this shimmering basin that reflected firelight in molten ripples.
Margarette stepped toward them, brisk but gentle, her eyes sweeping over their grime-caked clothes and tangled hair. “Right then. Young lady, you’ll take your clothes off behind the folding screen on the left. And you, young man, behind the one on the right.” She pressed a towel into each of their hands with the practiced efficiency of someone long accustomed to directing chaos.
The twins traded a bewildered look but obeyed. Behind the screens, Olivia tugged at her clothes, stiff from dirt and dried sweat, letting them fall to the floor. Christopher did the same, unsure why any of this needed hiding. He’d only ever known one world—dark, cramped, shared—and this one operated under rules no one had bothered to explain.
They stepped out from behind the screens at the same moment, towels dangling uselessly from their hands. Jonathon, halfway through checking the bath’s temperature, caught sight of them and instantly dropped his gaze to the floorboards as though they might suddenly sprout something fascinating.
Margarette spun around. “No, no—wrap the towel around your body, young lady! And you, around your waist.” She flapped her hands at them. “Quickly now, if you will!”
The twins stood naked in the warm, open room and glanced around her toward each other, confused at her urgency. Olivia frowned. “We’ve seen each other with no clothes on before…”
Margarette’s expression softened, though her cheeks flushed. “Here in my home, we do things a little differently,” she said gently.
She took Olivia’s towel and wrapped it snugly around her torso, tucking the edge in place with maternal assurance. Christopher mimicked the gesture, wrapping his own towel around his waist. The fabric felt strange—soft, clean, and warm.
Once suitably covered, Margarette guided them toward the copper bath. The rising steam kissed their skin, prickling with unfamiliar comfort. Olivia hesitated on the rim, toes curling against the edge, while Christopher stared at the surface of the water as though it might reach up and grab him.
“It’s all right,” Margarette said softly. “In you go.”
Together, unsure but obedient, they stepped into the bath. The hot, scented water enveloped them, washing away the cold cave-world they had always known.
Something inside both of them loosened—just a fraction—as if the warmth itself had begun to teach them the shape of a different life.
Margarette handed each of them a soft cloth and a small block of pale soap. The twins turned the items over in their hands as though they were strange artifacts dug out of some forgotten ruin. Their blank expressions made Margarette pause.
She tilted her head. “Dunk them under the water, dears. Rub the soap into the cloth, then rub the cloth against your skin. It helps you get clean… and smell a good bit nicer.”
Her voice carried no judgement, only a practical kindness, but the twins still blinked at her as if she had spoken in a different language. Eventually they followed her instructions. The cloth soaked up the warm water, and the soap produced a thin layer of bubbles. Christopher inhaled tentatively and jolted in surprise.
“It smells… different,” he whispered, as if the scent might hear him.
Margarette smiled and dipped a wooden jug into the bath. She tilted it gently over Olivia’s head. Warm water streamed through Olivia’s long, tangled hair, flattening it against her back. Olivia stiffened at first, but Margarette’s steady hand on her shoulder kept her from bolting. The world had never poured anything warm over her before.
In the corner, Jonathon settled into a chair with deliberate care, turning it so his back stayed squarely toward the bath. He cleared his throat, slightly awkward. “Might help,” he said, “if we knew your names.”
Olivia hesitated, squeezing the soap between her fingers. It slipped and bobbed in the water like a timid creature trying to escape. She watched it, took a breath, and spoke just loud enough to be heard.
“Olivia.”
Christopher lifted his chin, following her lead. “Christopher.”
Jonathon nodded, still keeping his eyes firmly on the opposite wall. “Right. Proper names, then.”
Margarette continued rinsing Olivia’s hair, fingers working carefully through the knots. “Lovely names,” she said. “And now that we know them, we can properly take care of you.”
Christopher watched the steam curl upward toward the rafters, and for the first time since stepping into the inn, the warmth began to feel like something he might trust. The bath’s gentle ripples lapped against the copper sides, and both twins sat quietly, suspended between the world they had escaped and the one they were only beginning to understand.
Jonathon’s voice floated gently over the steam, soft enough to sound harmless but careful enough to reveal he knew he was treading on delicate ground. “Might I ask,” he said, “where you both came from?”
The question hung in the warm air like a drifting ember.
Olivia’s gaze snapped to Christopher’s. Their expressions matched—tight, guarded, uncertain. Neither spoke aloud.
Her thought brushed against Christopher’s mind like a whisper carried through fog. 'We can’t tell them. We don’t know if we can trust them.'
Christopher’s shoulders tensed beneath the soapy water. 'All right,' he answered silently. 'We won’t say where we came from.'
They both turned their eyes downward, pretending to focus on their cloths. Margarette noticed their sudden quiet but said nothing, simply continued working through the last stubborn knot in Olivia’s hair.
That was the moment Jeremy chose to pad into the room, fur shimmering in the firelight. In his smaller, feline shape, he moved with the easy arrogance of one who considered all rooms—large, small, messy, tidy—to be his domain.
He hopped onto a stool, tail curling around his black paws. His red face-mark caught the light, glowing faintly.
A velvety voice brushed the air. “Telepathic… how interesting.”
Christopher jerked so violently the water sloshed over the rim of the bath. “Shit! The cat talks!”
Jonathon let out a strangled snort that might’ve been a laugh, quickly smothered behind his fist.
Margarette’s reaction was much less amused. She whipped her head toward Christopher, her brows knitting into a tight line. “That language isn’t welcome here,” she said firmly. “All right? None of that under my roof.”
Christopher shrank back into the bath, cheeks burning. He hadn’t even realised he’d spoken. And he certainly hadn’t expected a cat—an actual cat—to speak so humanly.
Jeremy lounged on the stool with the air of a scholar observing a curious pair of specimens. “They’re young,” he purred, “and frightened. You could forgive a slip.”
Margarette huffed, but her sternness softened. She reached for another cloth, wringing it out with strong, capable hands.
Olivia stared openly at Jeremy, her mind buzzing with too many questions to sort. He blinked back at her, slow and unbothered.
Christopher edged a little closer to his sister, eyes still wide. His world had already been shaken by warmth, by soap that smelled like flowers, by people who asked questions gently instead of demanding answers. Now, apparently, talking cats were real.
Behind him, the fire crackled. In front of him, the were-cat observed him with unnerving calm.
And the twins, sitting in a bath for the first time in their lives, realised their old world—and its rules—had been left far behind.
The pounding outside landed like hammer-blows in the twins’ chests. Every shout from the street wormed its way under their skin. Olivia shrank until only her eyes peeked above the bathwater, and Christopher slid lower, gripping the copper edge as if it might anchor him in place. The scented steam felt suddenly too thin to hide behind.
Margarette sensed their fear before either twin made a sound. She laid a steady hand on each of their shoulders, warm and grounding. “You’re all right,” she murmured. “You’re safe here.” Her voice carried the calm certainty of someone who had stared down trouble before and survived it with most of her dignity intact.
Jonathon stood, chair scraping back. “Stay put,” he whispered, then strode out with a determined heaviness in his steps. The kitchen door shut firmly behind him.
The twins listened to every creak of the floorboards as he crossed the inn. His gait was even, unhurried—like a man greeting inconvenience rather than danger. A moment later, hinges groaned, and his voice carried through the building with deliberate irritation.
“Ain’t no one here but me, me wife, and a bloody annoying cat. Now piss off an’ bother someone else!”
Olivia flinched at the crude command, but Christopher found himself admiring the bluntness of it.
Boots shuffled outside. The soldiers murmured among themselves. Then one called, “This one is clear!” and the group marched on, their noise fading down the street.
Only when Jonathon’s footsteps returned—lighter now, successful—did the twins allow themselves a breath.
Jeremy, perched like royalty upon Margarette’s wooden stool, stretched luxuriously and offered a thin, satisfied smile. “It seems,” he said, “you two aren’t the only ones who are wanted.” His tail flicked, deliberate and smug. “What did you do?”
Christopher blinked at him. “What did you do first?”
The were-cat made a movement approximating a shrug—an oddly human gesture for an animal with paws. “I gave the king his scarred face.”
The room stilled. Even Margarette paused in mid-motion, fingers tangled in Olivia’s damp hair.
Olivia’s eyes widened. Christopher’s mouth hung open.
For a heartbeat, Jeremy’s red-marked face held no expression at all—calm, almost bored—as though he’d just admitted to knocking over a jar of spices rather than wounding a monarch.
Margarette let out a slow breath, a familiar weary sound, as if she’d heard this story more than once. “Jeremy,” she muttered, “don’t go frightening the children.”
“I’m not frightening them,” the were-cat replied, smoothing one ear with a hind paw. “I’m answering the question.”
Christopher looked from Jeremy to his sister, then back again. His world, already stretched impossibly wide, cracked open a little further. If a talking cat could scar a king… what else had been hidden from them?
The question hung unspoken, and the fire popped softly in the corner as if offering an answer none of them yet understood.
Olivia’s shoulders trembled as Margarette worked the soap into her hair, fingertips gentle but thorough. The scent rose around her—sweet, calming, unfamiliar—and she tried to steady her breathing. Jeremy’s red-marked face watched her with that unreadable intensity only a feline could muster. She swallowed hard and forced out a sound.
“W-we got cornered by guards,” she murmured. “They scared us…”
Christopher took over, voice firmer but threaded with the same nervous edge. “We panicked. And we… used the elements. And the two guards…” He faltered, searching for a word that didn’t feel monstrous.
Nothing came.
Instead, he lifted both hands above the bathwater and mimed an explosion with a soft whoomp, fingers splaying out in all directions.
Silence hit the room like a dropped stone.
Jeremy’s back went rigid, every hair on his spine rising in sharp attention. His head snapped toward them, pupils narrowing to thin black slits.
Jonathon, halfway back into the room with a towel draped over his arm, stopped dead in the doorway.
Margarette froze with both hands tangled in Olivia’s wet hair. The soap slid from her fingers and plopped quietly into the bath.
A single beat passed.
Then another.
Margarette recovered first. She blinked, inhaled, and resumed her work as if willing the moment to settle. “Well,” she said, brisk but gentle, “let’s try keeping our emotions in check, shall we?”
Her eyes flicked upward at Jonathon, a silent plea wrapped in a warning. He gave the smallest nod and stepped fully inside, closing the door with a soft thud—as though sealing the twins safely away from any more soldiers, questions, or consequences.
Jeremy, however, remained transfixed on the twins. His tail twitched once, sharp as a whip crack. “Elemental magic that reacts to fear,” he murmured. “Explosive reactions at that.”
Christopher sank lower in the water. Olivia’s fingers curled around the rim of the copper tub.
Margarette tapped the side of the bath with her knuckles, making the water ripple. “None of that nonsense in my kitchen,” she said kindly but firmly. “Not while you’re frightened, tired, hungry, or half-naked in a bathtub. We’ll sort out the details once you’re clean, warm, and dressed.”
Olivia exhaled shakily.
Christopher nodded, though his mind still replayed the explosion.
Jeremy’s gaze softened only slightly, but there was something new in it—curiosity sharpened by caution, like a scholar presented with a puzzle that could bite.
Margarette finished with Olivia’s hair first, rinsing the last of the suds away with warm water, then running a brush gently through the long, heavy strands. Olivia winced out of habit, expecting the rough tugs she’d grown up with—but Margarette’s hand was steady, patient, practiced. When she scrunched the ends to drain the water, Olivia blinked in quiet amazement, as if this small tenderness were stranger than any magic.
She turned to Christopher next. His hair fell nearly the same length as Olivia’s, tangled from years without care. The brush snagged only a little, and she hummed softly as she worked, smoothing each section. When she finished, she wrapped a towel around his shoulders.
“Would you like me to give you a haircut, Christopher?” she asked.
Christopher tensed. He didn’t know if a haircut involved blades or magic or something else entirely. He lifted one shoulder halfway to his ear. “I don’t know what you mean… but sure.”
Jonathon stepped in, rubbing the back of his neck with a faint smile. “A haircut means trimming it shorter. For a gentleman like yourself, you can have it short—short like mine—or any style you fancy.”
Christopher’s face lit up with understanding. “Oh! Short. Shorter… maybe so I only have a small tail?” He motioned behind his head to show he meant just a thin braid or tuft.
Margarette’s eyes warmed. “That is doable.”
She clapped her hands lightly. “Now, the two of you—behind the screens. Dry off and put on the clothes I set out for you.”
The twins exchanged that familiar, silent look of uncertainty before climbing carefully out of the bath. The heat left their skin in a rush of cool air, making both of them shiver. They padded over the wooden floor and slipped behind their respective screens.
The rustling of towels followed.
Christopher had no trouble with his clothes. He tugged on the dark trousers—they were soft and warm, unfamiliar but comfortable—then pulled the cream ruffled shirt over his head. The matching jacket felt oddly dignified, like stepping into a version of himself he’d never imagined.
Olivia, however, stared at the pile of fabric in horror.
A chemise. An underskirt. A corset. A cream dress. Ribbons. Laces.
She held up one piece after another like she was examining tools of an arcane ritual. “Margarette…” she called quietly, “I… don’t know what any of this is.”
Margarette’s footsteps were immediate.
She slipped behind Olivia’s screen without the slightest judgement. “All right, dear. Let’s start at the beginning.”
Margarette helped her into the soft chemise first. Then came the underskirt, tied at the waist. She guided Olivia’s arms through the corset, lacing it gently—not tight, never tight—just enough to give shape. Olivia’s breath trembled with unfamiliar pressure, but Margarette reassured her with a soft pat.
Then the dress itself—a simple cream piece, modest and clean, falling in soft folds to the floor. Margarette smoothed the sleeves at Olivia’s shoulders and tucked a few damp strands of hair behind her ears.
Margarette stepped back first from Olivia’s screen, a satisfied, motherly glow in her eyes.
“There you are. Quite a transformation.”
Christopher stepped out at the same time Olivia did.
He froze.
His breath hitched as if something had knocked lightly against his chest.
Olivia, suddenly framed by the soft cream fabric, the modest corset giving her a poised shape she’d never had reason to have before, looked… older. Softer. Almost like one of the noble girls from the palace hallways—except this was his sister, the girl he’d survived the confines of a cockroach infested metal coffin with.
“You look…” He swallowed, blinking rapidly because the words didn’t want to line up properly.
“Olivia, you look beautiful,” he finished, voice small and honest.
Olivia’s cheeks turned a faint pink. She stared at him with similar surprise.
“And you look… um—” She gestured helplessly at his jacket, “all fancy. Like someone important.”
Jeremy, still perched on the wooden stool with his tail swishing lazily, grinned at their reactions.
“Well,” he drawled, “suppose that’s the point.”
Jonathon folded his arms, amusement tugging at his mouth.
“It seems the clothes fit perfectly. Good.”
Margarette clasped her hands together.
“There now, both of you look presentable—and rather charming, if I may say so.”
The twins shared one more stunned, uncertain look—two children suddenly dressed as adults—before Christopher’s hand found Olivia’s and squeezed.
“Just clothes,” he whispered, as if reassuring her… or himself.
“But you really do look pretty.”
Olivia squeezed back, shy but smiling.
“So do you.”
Margarette clapped her hands together softly. Jonathon nodded at his wife. "The food is ready, my dear."
Jeremy leapt down from the stool, landing lightly on the wooden floor. "About time! I'm starving!"
The twins exchanged wide-eyed glances at the mention of food. Almost as if on cue, their bellies rumbled loudly, echoing in the room. Olivia pressed a hand to her stomach and let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. Christopher’s face turned pink, but he grinned sheepishly.
Margarette shook her head with a soft smile and gently ushered them toward the kitchen table. The warm, comforting smell of roasted mutton and boiled rice filled their noses. The steam rose in gentle curls, carrying with it a savoury aroma that made their mouths water. Their senses were on overload—so many smells they had never encountered before, layered and rich, not like the bland, slimy slop they were used to.
Jonathon served the steaming food, the mutton glistening with juices, the rice soft and fluffy, the vegetables vibrant in colour and scent. Olivia tentatively picked up her fork, staring at the small mound of rice and the slices of meat. She took a bite, and her eyes widened. The meat was tender, seasoned but not overpowering, and the warmth of it spread through her chest in a way that made her stomach ache… with relief, hunger, and wonder all at once. The rice was soft, comforting, almost like a pillow in her mouth, and the vegetables added a surprising sweetness that made her cheeks flush with delight.
Christopher dug in more eagerly, his eyes lighting up as he chewed. The flavours were new and bright, each bite a revelation. The meat melted almost under his teeth, the vegetables crisp yet tender, and the rice absorbed the juices in a way that made each mouthful richer than the last. He could feel warmth spreading through his body that had nothing to do with the bath—it was the warmth of being fed, of being cared for, of tasting something that wasn’t survival, but pleasure.
They glanced at each other mid-bite, both silently acknowledging the strangeness of the experience. Food didn’t just fill their stomachs—it astonished their senses, made them aware of textures and tastes they had never imagined. Olivia’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for a piece of mutton again, her mind briefly flashing to the dark caves and the rough slop they had survived on. She swallowed, letting the taste and warmth anchor her to this new, strange, safe reality.
Meanwhile, Margarette moved gracefully around the table, cutting Christopher’s hair to shoulder length and plaiting it neatly, while Olivia’s braids were carefully tied from her temples to the back of her head. The twins barely noticed the scissors snipping and the comb tugging—they were too absorbed in the symphony of taste and comfort before them.
Even Jeremy, sprawled lazily on a chair with one paw dangling, seemed content as he snorted and began picking at his own portion of food. Jonathon leaned back in his chair, watching the twins with a small, approving nod, while Margarette’s eyes softened as she caught the subtle wonder in their expressions.