The Cultivated Girl

Chapter 1 - Kensington, London

There was a storm that day, a storm that scrunched the sky like paper and hurled it in crumpled white strips to the earth below. The earth didn't much like being used as a wastepaper basket but there wasn't much it could do other than shake and rumble in response.

Down below, in a chic Kensington apartment, further turmoil crashed and thumped against walls and floor. A handsome orange cat, lion-furred, padded down the Scandinavian wood corridor to see what his young charge was up to. He poked his pink nose cautiously into the kitchen.

Clouds of brightly coloured steam gurgled and popped from a bubbling pot on the stove. The girl he sought wasn't there and he withdraw as a sharp kitchen knife arced in his direction.

"Useless tom, just like all the others there," he heard.

That wasn't his girl. He sniffed at the acrid smell emanating from the quivering blade and claws clicking, continued down the corridor.

"Ami. I can't find my jeans. What the hell did you do with them?"

Ahh, there she was. The cat purred in adoration and followed the muffled sound to a bedroom strewn with clothes. He purred loudly and batted his large head against the skull-boxer clad butt sticking out from under the bed. He was rewarded with the sound of a thump as she smacked her head and wriggled backwards clutching a Spiderman T. The girl rubbed her spiky, chocolate topped head and pulled the T-shirt on over her skinny body.

"Skoggi! Not now boy." Then she bellowed: "Ami. Come on. Help me. Mum's flight has probably already landed. She promised to take me to that new exhibition at the British Museum."

The cat didn't care. And he wasn't going back to the kitchen where his arch enemy lurked. He leapt lightly onto the unmade bed and settled his considerable bulk down for a long nap, watching through one lazy, half closed eye as the girl retreated.

Simone Kjallman retraced the cat's steps down the hall with bare feet, still wearing her boxers. The driving rain competed with the TV for attention. She frowned.

"Typical," she muttered. "My mother pays you to watch me, not telly. Geesh. At least turn it down."

She rounded the corner and stopped, taking in the now still knife. "What are you doing?"

"Studying. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Something weird. Mum's going to have a fit. What's with the knife?"

"It slipped."

Simone's au pair Amira was standing behind the bench top, honeyed curls shoved up on the top of her head, held in place with a pair of brass chopsticks. The gas stove was on high, all four elements burning a bright blue. Only one was occupied. The fuchsia pink contents of an oversized casserole dish danced and shook in accompaniment to the thunder.

"I'm trying to make a recipe for flying ointment," she said. "Have a sip. I dare you."

Simone peeked a look at the peeling cover of the book Amira was following before arching an eyebrow.

"No way. That's what you said last time I tried one of your concoctions and Mum grounded me for weeks. You're mad and your book stinks."

"It does not. It's 18th century. Belonged to one of Gardner's coven," Amira said somewhat smugly.

"Like I even know what that means," said Simone.

"You shouldn't scoff. For all you know there could be a shadowy Goddess cult ruling the world with us all just tiny cogs in its system."

"Funny ha ha. Does Mum know what you're doing?"

"Of course. History of Feminism in Medieval History at the University of Westminster. She's paying for it."