Among the high narrow rows of apartments in the Old Quarter there lived a cat. It was not the loveliest or most comfortable of neighborhoods: there the sky was a smoky shade of blue, and paint peeled from every door, and the streets were lined with rusty black rails and brown walls overgrown with moss and graffiti. She could have chosen any other place to live, had indeed traveled far and wide throughout her considerable lifetime. She was a calico cat, a lucky cat, welcomed everywhere she went. She had dwelled before in the forest, brimming with life; in the fields by the river under the stars, where farmers toiled by day and mice danced by night; in the grand opulent houses of the rich; in the bright noisy heart of the capital.

 But she stayed in the Quarter because there was a man who lived in a small room on the highest floor of the oldest building there, and she found him most peculiar.

* * *

He was different from the other humans. Every morning he woke before dawn, made a cup of coffee, and headed out to the balcony outside his room where she waited.

 "Come here, kitty," he would say, a small plate of tuna in one hand and his coffee in the other. And there they would stand together — he leaning against the railing, she nibbling at her plate — as the sun crept into the sky.

 He wasn't the only one who talked to her or offered her food. Humans were predictable creatures and generally not very interesting. Many liked the sound of their own voices and the trivial drama of their lives more than they liked to admit; others simply yearned for a sympathetic, or at the very least neutral, ear. There was nothing a person was unwilling to reveal to a mere cat. As a kitten she had found this all amusing, but after several generations of fleeting human lives she had grown bored and retreated at last to the forests of her birth, before emerging once more, centuries later, to witness with her own eyes the changes time had wrought upon the earth.

 The changes both delighted and dismayed her. The world had grown brighter, faster, larger; her own existence seemed now so small and inconsequential in comparison. She could wander for days now among a sea of bodies without a single soul paying her heed, and the mice danced no longer under the stars but through vast, filthy underground mazes like a castle keep.

 Still people spoke to her; still the occasional passerby offered her scraps. Some attempted to befriend her. Some, she even grew to like.

 But of them all, the man in the Quarter was the only one who listened, and understood.

* * *

One particularly cold winter, she had been taking an after-dinner stroll around the swiftly emptying business districts when the man caught her eye.

He was a tall man, but not so tall that he towered over the rest of the world. His pace was slow, yet every step was filled with purpose and determination. The set of his shoulders was relaxed, and the cut of his clothing quite expensive by what she understood of current human standards; she did not feel uneasy in his presence, but neither did she feel him easily ignored or dismissed.

Though no cars passed by on the streets, they stopped together at the corner, waiting for the traffic light. She watched his breath coming out in puffs of white; when he noticed her attention, he smiled and dipped his head.

Around his neck he had wrapped a fuzzy purple scarf that smelled of dimestore perfume.

That is a most atrocious object, she remarked, mostly to herself, and looked away without acknowledging his greeting. Her tail lashed back and forth in irritation. Were I human I should not be caught dead in such an article of adornment.

"Yes," said the man, "but it is very warm. A gift from my dear mother, you see."

She was so shocked by his response that she immediately stilled.

You are very fond of her, she said then, watching him carefully from the corner of her eye, quite certain that it had been a fluke.

Sure enough, he turned away without responding, gazing at the snow drifting down upon the silent streets.

She flicked her tail again, once, twice, then rose to her feet, stretching lazily. It was a long way to her current abode, an abandoned loft above the local bakery.

Then he said, still looking at the streets, "She is a most delightful woman. But she is, after all, my most beloved mother." His tone was low and amused, and after another pause he said, "The forecasts proclaim it will be quite cold tonight. My hearth is open to any who wish to seek it."

Of course, she followed him home.

* * *

By spring they had settled into an established ritual.

The sun rose, her tuna lay half-finished, his coffee was beginning to cool.

"And how was your day?" he would murmur then, as if speaking to the wind.

And she would tell him of her adventures the previous day, of the people she had seen, the places she had been. Because she took up his offer of home and hearth only on the coldest of nights, often her paws took her beyond the city walls, and it would be a day or two before she returned. Sometimes she spoke in detail; sometimes she dismissed the entirety of her exploits in a single noncommittal remark. She had never been fond of conversation even among her own kind, and explaining the obvious to others was not only dull, but rather trying on her patience. Quite thankfully, the man never probed her with questions or offered her useless commentary in response.

As time passed she found herself straying less and less, closer and closer. There was no particular reason for her change in heart. But the man was a bit of a novelty, and perhaps a bit of a puzzle, though neither were facts she liked to admit.

For as strange as it was that he listened, and stranger still that he understood — the strangest thing of all was that he never talked about himself.

* * *

Things she knew about him:

He liked to hum along to recordings of screechy swelling strings and tinkling thundering keys (which was, at least, an improvement over the obnoxious thumping beats she sometimes heard blaring from passing cars), but he was also a man who appreciated silence.

He was an immaculate person. His room, though small, was utterly free of clutter, and he spent about an hour every morning locked in the bathroom, always emerging dressed in clothes that were simple, but elegant and of evident quality.

He liked his coffee black. He did not read the newspaper at the breakfast table, if at all. He pored instead over glossy magazines and the occasional thick tome. Once he even brought home a box of musty scrolls.

He did not smoke. He smelled instead of magic and aftershave, and often of women.

Some nights he came home very late, but no matter what, he always returned.

Things she did not know:

What did he dream? What did he desire? What did he see, every morning, gazing out upon the city as the glow of dawn spread across the land? What did he hear, in the moments between silence and wordless sound that passed between them?

Such were the questions that seared holes in her heart and cast shadows across her long, idle days of content.

* * *

Once, she tried to follow him to work. It seemed to her after years of observation that the face men showed to the world at large was often different from the face they showed at home; she could not help but wonder what kind of a face her man wore in public, if he kept himself so guarded even in his own domain.

She knew from his smell that he worked with magic, as did so many others in the city. Though humans had long since overtaken the land, the earth remained suffused with all the ancient channels of power. Over many generations humans had coaxed and crafted and tended the wild old streams, molding them to suit their own vision, diverting them into networks and cities and civilizations sprawling all across the land.

Still, the cat had learned that not all men possessed the patience and persistence to deal in the intricacies of magic, and often, those who did were important men.

Her man did not seem an important man. Important men were fine and rich and fussy and had countless minions scurrying about at their bidding, like so many little mouselings scampering about in their dens; her man was always alone.

And so one morning she perched upon a wall near the apartment as he strode out the front door, watching him head toward the business districts as she always did. But instead of wandering off afterward to pursue her own business, she followed him, stalking him as if he were a sparrow hopping about unawares in the shadow of the trees.

That was, perhaps, her mistake. Several blocks later, she realized he was not heading toward the business districts after all; two streets later he had slipped out of sight, swallowed by the churning crowds of the open air market.

The next day she tried again; again, she lost him, this time to the milling mob at the train station.

The next day, he stopped by the park, and disappeared while she was distracted by a dangerous gaggle of geese.

On her way back to the Old Quarter, she retraced their footsteps in her memory and realized he had been deliberately leading her in circles all around the city.

Not a sparrow, then: a wily fox.

* * *

As the months passed she grew restless with undefinable longing, and reckless, too, perhaps. At last she came to a decision and left the city, heading back to her old forest haunt to visit her good friend One-Always-Leaving.

One-Always-Leaving was a fox. A real fox, an old fox, a nine-tailed fox. She had lived long enough that no one knew her true name anymore, and of all the creatures of the forest she was wisest of all.

So the cat stepped into the moonlit grove where her friend stayed hidden from the outside world, and waited.

Before long, she heard the whisper of a creaky sandpaper voice. "Why, if it isn't my old friend the cat. What a rare occasion! I wonder what matter of urgency brings her here tonight?"

The cat's tail twitched. "It is no urgent matter," she replied airily, and curled up in a warm hollow in the earth. "Does a friend need reasons to drop by for a visit?"

Into the grove limped the old fox, her fur mottled, her frame lean and wiry. An old blade scar cut across her flanks, and her nine tails waved about as if in greeting.

 "I see," said the fox, with a quick, sharp bark of laughter. "It must be an unusual request, indeed, for you to have returned after so long."

The cat ignored her.

"And after so long away from our kind, living among the mortal ones, your request must have something to do with them. Am I not correct?"

The cat closed her eyes.

"Let me guess: you wish to take on a mortal form."

Another length of silence, then at last the cat said, eyes still half-closed, "The thought had crossed my mind."

The fox yelped once more in laughter. "Why come to me, then? Why not wait? You have but fifty more years before your power comes into its own."

"Fifty years," said the cat, "is a long time in human terms."

"True. They do, however, multiply quite quickly. And profusely, at that."

"There is a man," the cat said then, after some time had passed, "who listens to me as if he understands."

"Silly child!" replied the fox. "It is merely coincidence, or guesswork, or both."

"He is a mage-man."

"Alas, but magic does not grant men the powers of comprehension."

"This one is different."

"Supposing you are correct, then. Supposing he truly does understand. Why, then, do you wish for a mortal form? Why, then, are you not content to speak and be heard as you are?"

"Because," said the cat, "I wish to understand him."

This time, it was the fox who remained silent. But at last she said, "Very well. I will lend you my power for this task. But you must understand; though you have seen a great many years indeed, you are yet young. Even with my power you shall be unable to take on a new form of your own. All I may grant you is the power of tricks and illusion. Even so, do you still desire this? Even so, will you not wait until you come of age?"

The cat did not deign to respond.

"Then I have but one question left to ask: is it a male body you wish for, or female?"

"Female, of course," snapped the cat, perhaps a bit more impatiently than she had intended.

The fox cackled. "It can be quite amusing, you know, trying different things every now and then. You never know which form a mortal might prefer." But she did not pursue the topic further, instead continuing, "My, what fun this shall be! I shall weave you an illusion so dense that even you yourself will be fooled!"

The cat, knowing her friend quite well, said, "I do not wish to forget who I am."

"Never fear!" said the fox, toothy grin glinting in the moonlight. "You shall remember very well. But remember this as well: long, long ago, our people made a pact with the mortals — an oath of noninterference. The mortals have forgotten, but in time they too will remember. There are always those who will remember. They are like that, sometimes. Terribly inconvenient creatures, aren't they?"

"I am aware of the risks."

"Do you? Then know this: if but a single mortal manages to see through this illusion (not that the likelihood is high, of course)… It shall unravel. The pact will be broken. You will pay."

"I am aware of the consequences."

The fox set down a small round object from her jaws and nudged it over to the cat, who opened her eyes at last to see on the ground before her a luminous, milky pearl the size of her paw, glowing with cool blue fire.

"If you lose it, I shall not forgive you," said the fox, grinning, and began to weave.

* * *

When the cat next woke, she was shivering with cold, though the sun was overhead, and the birds were chattering away in the trees. She tried to stand, but stumbled. Her legs had grown long and clumsy. Swishing hair tickled her bare back. Her head throbbed the way it had the last time she had been invited to a wedding banquet in the forest, and partaken of too much rice wine.

The world hurt to look at.

Still, she eventually managed to orient herself and struggle to an upright position. And after a little more effort, she even managed to start picking her way across the swaying ground, thankful that no one was there to witness her in such an ungraceful state.

A soft glow from a nearby pile of leaves caught her eye, and she remembered, then, the pearl. Stooped down instinctively and scooped it up in her hands, along with the silvery chain it now dangled from. The motion caught her by surprise; she laughed in delight, then laughed again at the clear, ringing tone of her voice.

Without another moment's hesitation, she set off for the city, pleased as can be.

* * *

By evening she had reached the Old Quarter; by night she was at his door. She could smell him cooking dinner, and was glad it was not one of his late nights.

She knocked on the door, tied the chained pearl around her neck, and waited.

Soon enough, the door swung open, and there he was, frowning slightly, eyes wary, left arm held loosely at his side. After a moment, the tension seemed to seep out from him, and he leaned against the doorframe, eyebrow raised, corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

"Should I call the police?"

She shook her head, both relieved and disappointed that he did not recognize her.

"Then you had better come in," he said, angling his body away from the door so that she could slip inside. "What should I call you?"

"Nan," she replied, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "My name is Nan."

With sudden unhappiness she realized the strange accent of her speech, though she had been born and lived in that land all her life.

But the man did not seem to notice.

"Wait here," he said, and disappeared into his bedroom before emerging some time later with a neatly folded stack of clothes in his arms. The cat watched him, confused.

"As lovely as the view is," he said then, "I must confess it is a bit distracting."

With that he turned and ambled back to the stove, humming a merry little tune.

* * *

The next morning, he took her shopping.

The city seemed a dizzying whirl of color and smell and movement, an even odder and more bewildering place than it had been when she was a cat. Just the previous day she had run through the streets as she always had, free and unnoticed; now at his side, it was as if a spell of invisibility had shattered in his presence. Complete strangers glanced at her, smiling, nodding, jostling against her.

The man led her into a boutique nestled by a narrow, easily overlooked lane, and selected several outfits for her with unhurried efficiency. While he held a murmured discussion with the shopmistress, she tried them on and found the clothes to her liking (after some puzzlement over the strange binding contraptions), not at all like the cumbersome layers she remembered tripping over in long-ago days.

Purchases made, they returned to the bustle of the streets, walking side by side in companionable silence.

The cat asked, "Do you go often to that store?"

"They take care of my orders, yes."

She considered this. "You do not always barter in clothing."

He gave her an amused look. "What would man be without his suits and robes, after all? And I do so appreciate a diligent craftswoman."

Before she could respond, they were interrupted by a girlish voice calling out over the crowd.

"Is that you, Honorable Magister?"

There on the opposite sidewalk stood a petite young lady with bobbed hair and rose-colored dress, accompanied by a pair of bulky guards.

The man turned and waited as the crowd parted and the cars stopped for the lady to cross. When she reached them at last, he bowed.

"Your Highness. It is a pleasure." His smile, the cat thought, was mild, inscrutable.

The lady giggled. "Oh, let's not bother with formalities, Magister. Whatever are you doing here? Aren't you usually at your office at this time of day?" She offered him a sly smile of her own. "Or are you looking for someone?"

"In fact, I had business in these parts today. But it is a rather fine day to be out on a walk, don't you think?"

"It certainly is!" The lady immediately launched into an utterly irrelevant account of some court affair or other, and the cat's attention began to wander. Guard Number One was fidgeting and sweating profusely in the background. Guard Number Two chewed away at something in his mouth and picked surreptitiously at his fingernails. They made a funny pair.

A noise of amusement must have escaped her then, for the flow of conversation stopped. The lady frowned.

"And whom might this be, Magister?" said the lady, peering at her as if seeing her for the first time.

"Ah, this is my sister Nan," the magister replied without skipping a beat. "Forgive me, I did mean to introduce you earlier."

The sharpness in the lady's tone shifted, turning both chiding and conciliatory. "Oh! I didn't know you had a sister!"

"She has come here on a visit from the country."

"Oh, I see!" said the lady, sounding very much as if she had made the discovery of the century. "Your family is from the country!" She lowered her voice with a conspiratorial wink. "I wonder what other dark secrets you've been harboring, Magister."

He simply smiled in response.

* * *

After a few more minutes of chatter, the lady departed and the cat turned to the man.

"Who was she?"

By the look on his face, it was not the question he had expected. Still, he seemed to take it in stride. "The twelfth princess. Her father dotes upon her dearly, and she is well loved by the people."

"I do not like her."

He chuckled. "Perhaps you would find her sisters more charming. Each possesses her own fine qualities."

"I do not like princesses. They are very demanding creatures."

"Indeed. Perhaps that is part of their charm?"

"I do not find it charming at all," she said, rather crossly.

This time, he laughed, and kept laughing until they reached the Old Quarter once more.

* * *

What she had never noticed as a cat:

He was always smiling, always laughing. His was not the belly-shaking laughter of bold, fearless men, nor the contemptuous smirk of the rich. Instead it seemed to her as if he spent his days in quiet amusement, finding mirth in all he encountered.

* * *

They soon settled easily enough into a new routine. He continued to wake up to watch the sunrise, though she no longer showed up to greet him. She could not tell if he missed her presence; as a human, she found it difficult to keep the same hours she had kept as a cat, as hard as she tried.

"May I join you at your office?" she would ask every morning, yawning from the spare bed he had lent her.

And he would reply with his usual mild crooked smile, "My apologies, but not today."

Instead she took to wandering around alone, as she had when she was a cat, and found herself ensnared in countless fleeting moments: a frail child blowing bubbles by the fountain, the baker's wife kissing her husband on the cheek as she left for work, the pair of wrinkled old men bent over a game of starstones, the ruddy-faced young witch weaving music charms on the street corner.

How vivid their faces seemed.

* * *

Once she managed to wake earlier than usual and saw a young tom lurking on the balcony, a handsome tabby she had seen around once or twice before. As the magister stepped out with his coffee, he unceremoniously shooed the tom away.

Another time she woke and crept out of bed, only to end up chasing pockets of sunlight across the apartment. When the magister exited from the bathroom, he tiptoed up to her curled-up form and patted her head, laughing when she scrambled upright with a start.

And yet another time she woke to darkness, and when she squinted through the shadows, made out his shirtless form bent over an open desk drawer. She stared at the angles and grooves of his back for much too long, until at last he said, still flipping through the contents of his drawer, "Good morning. Do you want breakfast today?"

Afterwards she was so embarrassed she couldn't bring herself to talk to him for days.

* * *

It was about a week after that incident that the magister finally let Nan accompany him to work. His office, much to her surprise, was spacious and luxuriant, a sharp contrast to his humble apartment.

His clients were almost all women.

All sorts of women — tall and short, quiet and boisterous, sad and happy, young and old. Even foreign women, with their pale eyes and pale hair, and the tall dark-skinned women of the west. A handful of young men, most angry, few nervous. The rare stately grandfather. All came to his door seeking guidance, discussing all sorts of matters: the latest laws the council had passed, shifts in power both magical and not, coded affairs, planned addresses to the king, injustices committed, justice denied. Though some were wary at her presence at first, upon learning that she was his "sister", most relaxed.

It was not her they came for, after all.

She watched the magister express his occasional displeasure or disapproval with chilly courtesy, calm down distraught visitors with little more than a single irreverent remark. She never saw him truly angry or frustrated, no matter how ridiculous the demands that arrived at his doorstep.

She began, slowly, to understand how many little dramas played out in the city in every passing day. How crucial the magister was to the underlying workings of the city, even though she never saw his face on the billboards or the papers he refused to read. Even though it became clearer and clearer to her that he was no true official or courtier, that his title was merely a courtesy.

"I did not think you such an important man," she remarked once, after the last of his clients for the day had left.

"Oh?" he said, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose I do have a great many admirers."

"Why does no one know your true name?"

"Do you wish to know it?"

The question took her by surprise, and she answered immediately, looking away, "No."

He laughed. "Someday, Nan, you will know it whether you wish to or not."

She believed him. He always got what he wanted.

* * *

It was true what he said about his admirers. Yet even where other men might have taken advantage, he slept with only a select few.

At first Nan assumed that he chose only to bed women of rank and power, as many had done since olden days in attempt to win favor at court. But she soon noticed that such was not the case. Beautiful women, then, she thought, and yet countless were the beauties he turned down. Women of wit and intelligence, perhaps — yet once he went home with a gruff, illiterate young woodcarver (went, for not once did he bring his lovers back to the little apartment in the Old Quarter).

In the end, the only common thread she could tease out was that they were each of them interesting women, with full and storied lives of their own.

Her conclusion startled her, troubled her.

For what reason she could not say.

* * *

But of all the women who came to the office, it was the twelfth princess who visited most often.

Unlike the others, she brought no problems with her, but bright smiles and endless questions and bubbling chatter (and sometimes her pair of hapless guards). She asked him not of law, of the dealings of court, but of magic, of mechanics. And in turn, he would teach her some of what he knew (though it was not always immediately obvious to Nan that he was teaching anything at all). The structured rules and diagrams of human magic were artificial and meaningless to her, but sometimes, she found herself listening regardless. Here, the seal of memory. There, the seal of transference. Thousands upon thousands of protective charms, and even one that possessed neither name nor purpose save to be called upon in time of great need.

The more the princess came, the more Nan's dislike of her grew. She had no particular reason for the dislike, but suspected the feeling was mutual. As if in some unspoken agreement, they ignored each other's presence whenever possible, interacting only when necessary. Nan suspected also that the magister was aware, even amused, by their distaste for each other. But he said nothing to either of them.

One day, the princess said to her while the magister was seeing to one of his clients, "Oh, Nan. How much longer do you think you'll be staying?"

"I don't know."

"Time sure flies, doesn't it? Why, it seems like just yesterday that you first came to town!" When Nan did not respond, she hurtled on, "We really must get to know each other better. You are, after all, my dear Magister's sister. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other around much more in the future."

Something about the tone of her voice roused Nan's suspicion. "What do you mean?"

"Well, nothing is set in stone yet, of course. The negotiations with my father have been ongoing for months. But I do believe they will be wrapping up soon. I certainly hope so, at least! I've always fancied a summer wedding."

The pearl around Nan's neck suddenly weighed down against her chest. The chain seemed to burn against her skin.

She had almost forgotten its existence; now, the pain it brought her seemed more than she could bear.

But she resisted the urge to claw it off and said instead, "Congratulations. I am sure my brother will be happy."

* * *

"Perhaps it is time for me to move out," the magister said later that week, out of the blue.

Nan looked up from the magazine she had been flipping through.

"After all," he continued, "I don't know how long you will be staying. And certain parties do keep insisting I make myself more readily available. What they mean, of course, is that my current quarters are most unsuitable to their taste. I find their tastes rather questionable, myself… but I suppose compromises must be made."

He had power enough to rule the world if he so wished, she thought. Power enough to live a life without compromise.

There must then be something he desired beyond even power.

Soon she would know his name, know all the things she had ever wanted to know about him. The city itself would know him for who he truly was.

And so she knew what he truly asked was, When are you going to leave?

Even as these thoughts ran through her mind he stood, frowning. "What's wrong, Nan?"

"I am afraid," she whispered.

"Afraid?"

She hesitated. "Once, I was so certain of my place in the world…"

He sat back down, eyes trained intently on her. His gaze grew distant, cool, as if in sudden understanding. She looked away.

"I envy you, who does not doubt," she said, and would say no more.

* * *

As a cat she had been free to go as she pleased. Even now she was free, but it was as if her legs were chained with irons and magic. She was afraid to leave, afraid to stay. Fear had been alien to her, once. None could touch her. She troubled no one, and no one troubled her. She walked through the three thousand worlds, and left no mark where she treaded.

But Nan-the-woman woke every morning with words of greeting upon her tongue for her dear brother. She offered smiles to the baker and his wife when she passed by their fragrant storefront. She spurned the advances of forward young males. She loitered in the waiting area of the magister's office, and remembered the names and the faces of all who came. There walked Arastela, tall and proud and reeking of magic. And there was Tomo, who disliked spellwork but visited every now and then bearing gossip from her circle of painters and poets.

None saw through her illusion, crafted by fox, bolstered by her own dormant and immature power. They watched her as if through a murky glass — so close, so far — and called her Nan as if she were an old friend.

As she waited alone in the magister's office one quiet morning, a shadow of foreboding crept over her. Her spine prickled; her heart throbbed so loudly she thought her chest would burst, if not her ears. She stood, pacing back and forth. Yet even that did not calm her. She exited into the hallway, thinking to search for a glass of water.

Only to be met by growling.

Nan froze.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said the twelfth princess, struggling to hold back a precious little lapdog who was straining at his leash, yipping and snarling like a crazed beast. "I don't know what's gotten into him —" The princess looked up with an apologetic smile, and gasped.

"You!" she said, face twisting in disbelief. "You demon!"

Nan stepped back, trembling. She dared not look down upon herself, dared not witness what monstrosity had given away her true form.

"How dare you! To have the nerve to possess his poor sister, weasel your way into his confidences — Where is he? What have you done with the magister?"

Nan could not flee, could not speak.

A new, reedy voice sounded from down the hallway. "What's all this ruckus? What's this about my son?"

The princess turned to the voice even as her dog began to howl. "Dear lady, you must help me! Your daughter — your daughter has been —"

A wrinkled old woman bedecked in silks and glitter tottered into sight, leaning against her cane.

"Whatever are you talking about, my dear?" said the old woman, squinting suspiciously at the two of them. "I have no daughter."

The princess whirled back around. Stared at Nan with growing horror. "You —"

They were interrupted by the door flinging open, revealing the magister and his embarrassed-looking client, who quickly excused herself.

"Magister —" the princess began, as he waved his hand dismissively. Her dog continued to bark, then stopped, bewildered, as he realized no noise was coming from his throat.

The magister's gaze focused on the old woman.

"Mother, what in the heavens brings you here today?" He was smiling, his demeanor pleasant as ever, but his voice was tight with a barely controlled edge of anger. Even the princess seemed to recognize it, for she closed her mouth and fell silent.

"You have not come to visit me in so long," said the woman in a petulant tone. "And Rupert will not respond to any of my messages."

"She came to court asking for you," explained the princess. "I thought —"

"I see. Thank you." He nodded at the princess. "Leave us."

At last he turned to Nan, who remained frozen in place, all senses crying havoc. His smile softened briefly as he addressed her. "I'll be late tonight."

"But —" protested the princess, looking back and forth between Nan and the magister.

"I'll see you again tomorrow," he said with finality in his tone. Then he turned, grasping his mother's elbow and leading her into his office.

The door shut behind them with a click.

The princess slowly turned to face her. "So you've managed to fool him as well, I see," she hissed. "Well, never mind. I may not have skill and knowledge enough to defeat you yet, but I will find a way, believe me. Before then, if you dare lay a finger on him or his mother —"

With that, the princess flounced away, dragging her confused dog behind her.

* * *

She had to leave.

The moment One-Always-Leaving spoke of had come to pass. Already she could feel the strands of her illusion unraveling, as desperately as she strove to hold it together with her own power. The princess — the princess would surely tell him. And between the two of them they had power and knowledge enough to shatter even the illusion of a nine-tailed fox.

The night was late; he had returned at last, alone, oddly silent, and gone immediately to sleep. She was glad for it. Glad he did not ask what had transpired between her and the princess. Glad that she would not have to face him, one last time.

She stepped out of bed. Headed to the door. Slowly turned the knob.

"Going somewhere?"

She jumped and turned.

He was leaning against the wall, not asleep after all, watching her with that perpetually amused expression of his. His eyes gave away only the barest hint of perplexion.

She could not stay. She could not speak.

"Good-bye," she whispered, and fled.

* * *

She ran through the streets. She ran across the moonlit plains.

At the edge of the forest she sighted a waiting figure and drew to a shuddering stop.

There stood the princess, face taut with fear and determination combined. "He defends you. Why does he defend you? Just how deeply have you bespelled him, you monster?"

It was a strange thing to say, thought the cat, but the thought did not hold long.

"I… have not bespelled him," she managed to say, panting from the exertion of holding together the remaining fragments of weave.

The princess shook her head. "I should have known," she said. "From the start, I should have known. You don't look a thing alike!"

Pain swept through the cat, and she realized something had gone wrong. Even the breaking of an illusion should not hurt so deeply, so fiercely, so wildly.

She gritted her teeth. "What have you done?"

"I have summoned one of your own," said the princess, in a voice that betrayed her brave front. "I have called upon the spirits of justice!"

But that wasn't it. Could not be. She had witnessed judgments before: yet this was not the way.

Deepest darkness settled over them both like a heavy blanket. The wind roared in the trees as if from far away. The cat screamed, or thought she did.

From the spaces in between emerged the misty outline of a figure astride a fierce boar. Ravenman: gnarled red face and cruelly curved beak, drooping ears and tangled hair white as snow, staff in one hand, long sword at his hip. His mount snorted and squealed with rage as they came to a stop, the sound piercing through wind and shadow.

"Mortal child! Why have you called me to this place?"

"For judgment," cried the princess, as she painstakingly traced a seal of dispelling falsehood in the air. "Behold before you one who has broken the ancient laws!"

The ravenman dismounted. The cat cowered against the earth, clutching at the ground with frozen clawed hands, burning with fury, drowning in the forces that surged through her body, threatening to tear her into so many little fragments. The ravenman observed all this with cool disdain. His third eye fluttered open.

"You have broken the law of mountain and forest," he croaked, black wings spreading behind him. "You have broken the oaths of noninterference."

He laid down his staff and drew his spectral sword.

The cat closed her eyes, and with the last of her failing strength, ripped the pearl from her neck. The princess cried out: in shock or pain or both, she did not know.

One-Always-Leaving, cried the cat into the dark void. As promised, I have returned!

She flung the pearl into the shadows.

And it was as if her soul had been ripped from her very bones.

The ravenman fell to his knees with a wordless shriek.

The wailing of the wind drew to a stop. Pale flame spilled and trickled and spread, reaching far into the recesses of the night.

The trailing, breathy echo of laughter. The cat raised her head to see her old friend the fox, drawn to full height, nine tails writhing about in glee, one paw resting upon the glowing pearl. And she knew, suddenly, that she had been tricked.

I am here, whispered the fox. I have come to claim that which is mine.

"You!" screeched the ravenman, brandishing his sword. "You have no right to interfere. I sentenced you not three decades ago!"

The fox cackled. "Is that so?"

She flipped the pearl into the air and swallowed it. Then lunged forward, teeth bared.

An explosion of light blinded the cat. As if waking from a nightmare, or perhaps falling into a new one, she felt her body floating limply into the sky, or perhaps plummeting to the earth, all the energy within her pouring forth in waves, twisting and rearranging her innards before crashing into an alien vessel.

When her vision cleared at last, the fox loomed triumphant over the bodies of boar and raven, muzzle glistening with blood, steadily expanding form crackling with power. The princess was nowhere to be seen.

"Vengeance tastes sweet indeed," said the fox, leering at the cat. "I have you to thank for that."

The cat hissed at her, unable to move, unable to feel. "It was no illusion you granted me!"

"You wished for a body, did you not? And so a body I gave you. With your power and mine combined, a true shift is not unfeasible. Though I must admit, the results have far surpassed my expectations. Such power! Even had I waited a thousand years more, I should not have seen the likes of this!"

A cold numb rage possessed her. Yet no words would come to her.

"Too long has that scruffy half-bird lorded over this land," said the fox, howling in laughter. "This is my home. My forest. My domain. The old oaths do not hold here. Now we are freed at last to do as we please! Are you not glad, my friend? Do you not rejoice?"

"What… are you planning?" the cat managed to wheeze out. She tried to summon back her powers, but was unable to untangle her own magic from that of the fox and of the fallen ravenman.

The fox cocked her head as if she had not yet considered it. "I suppose it would be interesting to play with a king or some royal next. To be hailed as one who felled an entire city — now wouldn't that be a riot?"

A high choked voice rang out. "No!"

The princess strode into the cat's view. Her face was smudged with dirt, her hair strewn with twigs, her rose gown ragged and torn. There she stood, a lone, unarmed woman-child dwarfed by a monstrous beast.

The fox grinned. "Mortal child! This is none of your concern. I have no desire to hurt you. Be gone from this place!"

"You're wrong," said the princess. "This is very much my concern." Her hand shook as she drew something from the folds of her sleeves and cast it to the ground.

The emblem of the royal family: stag's horns wreathed in wisteria.

The fox's grin widened. "Interesting." Her jaws snapped open.

But the princess was ready: with a quick flick of her wrist, she outlined a crude but familiar seal in the air.

Magic rushed through the earth, through the trees, through the air. The cat struggled to her feet at last, heart swelling with a torrent of emotions she could not name. Froze, bewildered, as silence, sudden and devastating, swallowed the clearing. The trees faded from sight, replaced by a grand mansion rising into the night.

A young woman, no beauty, but pretty enough, pounded at the door. Again, again, again, until at last the door cracked open, revealing an elderly servant, clear disdain upon his face. From a high window above watched the handsome, arrogant specter of a man.

The woman wept and wailed. The door slammed shut in her face. When she turned, the cat saw that she held a babe in her arms.

The shadow of black wings sweeping overhead. An arc of cold light. A yowling echo of laughter

The mansion melted back into trees. There was the woman again. A handsome man sat laughing at her side, dressed in all the splendor of a young lord his eyes tawny and wild, his grin too wide.

But they were not trees after all, but rows upon rows of tenements. And there in a dank cramped alley stood a different man, younger, slighter, his back achingly familiar. His hands wove starlight into a brilliant pulsing tapestry of protection, a compressed moment of joy and beauty among the refuse.

The man turned. And there stood a boy, face shadowed but for the laughter in his dark eyes, bright scarf wrapped around his neck, watching a calico cat dancing with mice under the full moon.

The cat stepped forward in a surge of recognition. The earth fell away beneath her paws, revealing the city, glittering with color, lying vast and wondrous beneath the endless black sky.

The first man again now, his eyes now gray as his hair, his robes stained and worn, fear and disgust mingling with utter bewilderment in his drained but still-handsome face. The younger man offered him a crooked smile, then turned, back receding steadily into the depths of the city.

The gentle swell of tapestrywork spreading across the four Quarters, spiraling into the sky like so many fireflies in the night.

"What have you done!" roared the fox, shattering the illusion. With a snarl, she swiped her paw at the princess. The princess cried out and crumpled to the ground.

The cat closed her eyes. Magic, not her own, not the princess's, enveloped her, flitted through her veins.

Like fireflies. Like stars and moon and sun. Like the wind in the fields, like the smell of baking bread on a cold winter's morn, and autumn leaves caught in a woman's long hair and cars crawling past at dusk like a squirming caterpillar and children singing by the fountain.

She opened her eyes. The fox stepped towards the fallen princess, jaws open and slavering. And in that moment, she made her choice.

The cat leapt between them and into the fox's maw.

It stank of blood, of rotted flesh. The fox rolled her tongue, snapping her teeth, but the cat clung on. And soon enough she found what she sought.

There, wedged under the fox's tongue, glowed the pearl.

The cat bit down on it with all the force she could muster.

The gem crunched beneath her teeth. Magic burst forth. The fox yowled in rage and pain; the cat tumbled out of her jaws and watched as the giant shrank steadily back to the size of a regular beast and nine waving tails merged into one, as the look on her old friend’s face shifted from giddy triumph into the shock and hurt of betrayal.

With a whimpering yip, the fox fled into the woods.

The cat's legs wobbled, and she lay down. Already the magic was fleeing her again. A different fear spread through her now, tasting faintly of despair.

Behind her, she heard the princess panting, struggling to her feet.

"I lied," said the princess, after a long silence. "About the engagement." Her voice quavered, then steadied once more. "My father offered him my hand in marriage, you see. Kept trying to push me on him, really. But the magister kept dragging out his reply, kept waiting for my father to take the hint — my own royal father! But Father kept trying. He was so sure the man could be persuaded, so sure it was the offer of a lifetime to a man like him. And he would have been such an asset to our family…"

The crunch of footsteps.

"I knew, I've always known — the magister belongs to no one. There is no one who loves the city more than he, you see. I thought I knew. I thought I understood him better than them all… when I did not even understand my own heart."

The princess crouched down beside the cat. Reached out a tentative hand.

The cat nudged at it in response, acknowledging all that lay unspoken between them, wishing to tell her that she was the finest princess of all princesses, but knowing that she no longer needed to.

"You should go back now, little one," said the princess. "To where you truly belong."

* * *

She walked. For how long, she did not know.

As the sky lightened she found herself upon a familiar balcony, watching a familiar man emerge from his room.

When he saw her, he stopped.

The moment seemed to stretch into infinity.

"Come here, kitty," he said then, smiling but red-eyed from lack of sleep.

He held his arms open. She drew closer; he clutched her to his chest, a single whispered name upon his lips.

For a long time he held her.

* * *

Among the narrow rows of apartments in the Old Quarter there lived a man. It was not the loveliest or most comfortable of neighborhoods, and many wondered why he did not move elsewhere, though he possessed both power and wealth enough to choose.

He was quite a familiar sight to the residents of the area, walking to work every morning, a small calico cat trailing at his heels — a scene unchanging even as the seasons passed and time took its toll upon both man and neighborhood. So it was for many long years, until at last one day, a curious scene unfolded in place of the usual. The man, face now lined with age, strode down the steps with a dainty silver-haired lady at his side. No one had ever seen her; no one could guess at her name.

When they asked him who she was, he only smiled.