"Can I pick you up?"
The hands were suddenly under him,
which he did not like.
However, they were quick to release him on a high stool,
which he did like.
Leather hands combed through his being,
seeking injuries, fleas, and collars.
He belonged to no one, and he had a bath yesterday,
Thank You Very Much.
"Outside cat looking for lunch and lodgings, eh?
Fair enough.
You can stay the night."
That's all he wanted.
"I'll bring in your water."
If he had any gold he would pay her.
Books, books, books
In her absence, there were naught but books.
Books on a writing desk
Books on chairs
Books on a dining table
Replacing flatware
If not books, boxes
And if not them, quills and ink
Filling documents so thoroughly he hummed and thought,
"The lady likes to think!"
The dining table called to him
He answered without a word.
Floor to seat
Seat to surface,
Sniffing and reading all he could.
The parchments were letters,
The papers, rough analyses,
Or outlines
Or checklists.
Some of them were addressed to her.
"Quillrose-"
"Dearest Quillrose..."
"To Miss Artimus..."
Near the center was a familiar wooden box.
He reached for it, pawing at the cover.
"Hey!"
YOU ARE READING
A Mouser in the Hearth
FanfictionJohn's lunch takes an unexpected detour. (THE FAB YEARS) WARNING: language, fantasy violence, gore, occult themes & imagery Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles, their songs, their covers, or the solo work of its members. Nor do I think of them as...
