the queen wept into my fur again and i allowed it, which is the highest form of governance. she smells of graveyard air and cheap perfume, both of which i approve of. seth was in the room but stood by the door like a man who understands that grief has right of way. good. i have decided he may stay. i have not decided if he may sit on the couch.
a bird landed on the sill and i studied it with the professional detachment of a coroner. mercy called me marceline the merciless and laughed so hard she snorted, which is the sound a queen makes when she forgets, for a moment, that she is a queen. the bird lived. i did this on purpose. do not thank me.
seth's little sunset broadcast came on and mercy sat on the floor to listen with her whole body. i climbed into her lap without asking. the bell at my throat hummed, which is a private frequency shared only between me and the soft parts of the world. she pet me in the wrong direction and i forgave her, which i want the record to reflect.
the sky made an unacceptable noise and i retreated beneath the bed, which is not fear but administrative distance. mercy crawled halfway under after me with a slice of cheese as an apology on behalf of the weather. i accepted the cheese. i did not accept the apology. one does not simply undo thunder with dairy.
miranda came over carrying a book and a coffee, as is written. she read three lines out loud and mercy repeated them back with different feelings each time, which is how she decides what she believes. i sat on the book to help. the book, unfortunately, was not open. this is what we in the profession call a soft rebuke.
skyla blew through the apartment like a warm draft with sneakers on and did NOT stop moving even once, which offends me on a spiritual level. patrick followed her, sat exactly where i had chosen to sit, and then apologized as if he could feel the offense radiating out of me. i respect a man who can read a room and a cat. i will let him live.
mercy could not sleep so we made a circuit of the apartment together, she barefoot and me on soundless feet, checking that all the shadows were shaped correctly. one of them was not. we adjusted it by staring. by the time she got back into bed the room had agreed to behave. this is the work no one thanks a cat for.
slept on my tombstone in the sunbeam, HERE LIES A GOOD MOUSE 1987, and dreamed of a color that has not been invented yet. i intend to drink it, when it arrives. the queen photographed me from three angles. she does not know that being photographed while asleep is a form of poetry, and that i was, in fact, posing.
she talked to seth for a very long time with her voice doing that quiet thing it does when she's careful with someone. she twirled the cord around her finger even though the phone has no cord, which is how i know a person is in love — they invent cords to twirl. i said nothing. i said it loudly, by leaving the room.
the queen wore the tombstone dress and stood in front of the mirror trying on faces. brave face. tired face. mercy face. she settled on the last one, which is the truest. i wound around her ankles in the figure-eight that means you are the shape of a whole person, even on the nights you don't feel like one. she understood. she always does.
woke her up at 4:47 by stepping directly on her sternum, as is my custom. she called me a menace with love in it, which is the only way that word should ever be used on me. fed me. returned to bed. i lay on her chest and hummed my bell at a frequency only sad witches can hear. the frequency said: i am here. i am here. i am here.
the queen is not fine, exactly, but she is fine-adjacent, which is a country i have decided to live in with her for as long as she needs a citizen. seth is on the roof somewhere talking softly to the sunset about her. miranda has left a book on the counter she hopes mercy will find. skyla is somewhere in motion. patrick is somewhere still. and i am here, on the pillow, warm and judgmental and eternal, which is the job. the queen has a good court. i approve of the court. do not tell them i said so.