Abbernathy and the Cat Kingdom

(15) -Her Thirteenth Year-

The party was in full swing long before the guest of honor arrived.

Nervously, Abby shuffled her feet back and forth at the hall's entrance, her fingers intertwining with the hem of her dress. Dozens of wealthy business men, women, and their children filled the dining hall, laughing and dancing, talking up a storm.

As she crossed the room, breath held, she mentally identified her guests' homelands based on their dress. Those from the capital—Mr. and Mrs. Daggert Lovelace—waltzed to the music in opulent silk dress and suit. Both were trimmed in gold, a common way of showing one's allegiance to the crown. They looked like real, honest to gods, royalty and Abby looked downward at her own dress, ashamed to be in their presence in such normal attire.

To her right, her father's northern guests stood, rigid and still, ignoring the siren's call of the violin being played on the phonograph. Instead, they clasped plates piled high with meat in their gloved hands, the furlined collars of their long coats acting as crumb catchers.

It was an unseasonably warm evening for late autumn in the sea country, but the northerners seemed unfazed in their traditional tweeds and brocades. The youngest of the northern brood, nine-year-old Evette Bryjhild, betrayed her quiet nature and let the dance sweep her along. She twirled and bounded off-beat to the music, her parents standing like stone sentinels behind her.

Drunken, dancing guests, Lucy meowed. A dangerous combination for those with tails.

You're a cat, Sebbi began as his brother gave him a cocked look. Yet you haven't a nimble bone in your body.

Lucy purred. I must've replaced all the nimble with handsome.

The cats followed beside Abby sidestepping some of the fanciest shoes they'd ever seen. Both felines kept an eye on the shadows, keeping close watch to make sure they danced the right way.

Meandering between the dancing guests and large round tables, Abby kept the smile on her face, nodding when someone threw a 'happy birthday' her way.

She curtsied almost endlessly, stopping once in awhile to shake hands with those guests who had outstretched their own. For the Bryjhilds, she remained upright and rigid, mimicking their own statuesque demeanor, and gave them a quick bow of her head. This, in the north, was the most appropriate way of greeting a guest.

Once at the end of the hall, Abby released a sigh, a flush going to her cheeks. Her stomach rumbled. Thankfully, hunger was never a problem at fancy parties.

In front of her, piled almost to the ceiling, were plates of meats, tins of homemade fudge and candies, and saucers full of gravy and jams. Without another moment to gawk at the spread, Abby plucked a plate off the table and began building herself a birthday feast.

Five minutes later, after four plates had been piled high with meats and treats, Abby was seated at one of the tables in the far back. With a piece of roast pig hanging from the crook of her mouth, she looked around her.

The hall dazzled with Mimi's hard work. The old maid had gone out of her way to breathe a certain magick into the old woodwork and yellowed stone of the room. The eerie blue light from the chandelier had been replaced with tall, white candles, three of each on every table, that burned naturally and made the space cozy and bright.

Hundreds of white lights had been strung up across the ceiling, whose ends trailed down the walls like creeping ivy. Each table had been adorned with pink organza and a vase of Mirthea. Tiny, white star-shaped blooms poked out from behind the plant's gold foliage.

Magick.

Long ago, Mimi had told Abby that the world held magick. And that one needn't bother with potions or alchemy to know it existed; one only had to look. That real, honest-to-gods magick existed all around them.