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Gary gives the place a judgmental once-over and sits down to wash his paw. If only I could have that kind of attitude and confidence. Instead, I’m already longing for my own place, useless bathroom and all. It’s home, and I very rarely embarrass myself when I’m at home. Alone, anyway.
“I can see that it’s a cat,” Warren replies drily. “Why is it here?”
“Are you serious?” I nearly gasp at the implication. “You expected me to leave Gary home alone? Without running water? What kind of cat mother do you think I am? He has abandonment issues, Warren. He’s adopted.”
“As opposed to being your biological cat?”
I ignore the comment, distracted momentarily by a flash of fur appearing around the corner. Duke prances in and skids to a stop at the sight of Gary. If possible, his eyebrows are even higher at the sight of my cat than Warren’s were.
This is, of course, the real test. Duke tiptoes forward and leans in for a sniff. Gary puffs up, stretches one paw out and whacks Duke right across the nose.
Duke sits.
Gary resumes washing his paw.
“He’s pretty bossy,” I offer, by way of explanation for my cat’s poor social skills. Honestly, that went better than I’d hoped for. At least he didn’t try to catch Duke.
Gary starts a slow stroll down the hallway with Duke following at a respectful distance wagging his tail. When Gary reaches a doorway he stops to hiss at Duke.
Duke promptly flops to the ground and rolls over, exposing his belly to Gary, head tilted to the side and tongue hanging out of his mouth.
Yeah. Pretty clear that Gary’s the alpha here.
Cat alpha.
I’m weirdly proud of Gary for his confidence but also slightly concerned I’m raising a bully. Hmm. I tuck that worry away for later and take a look around. Sure, it’s definitely nicer than the brownstone. Definitely cleaner, as in someone uses a lot of furniture polish and likely dusts regularly. But the wallpaper’s circa a few centuries ago, and the rug’s the color of rust with ugly flowers that look like they somehow died inside the fabric. There’s an ancient sofa that would for sure be protected by red velvet ropes in a museum to keep anyone from sitting on it.
I keep going, passing a few other rooms that look equally ancient, and find a kitchen that I’m immediately convinced is haunted. It’s not only the sad, old tile floor or the outdated cabinets or the Formica countertops.
No.
It’s worse than that.
It’s the cold draft the second you walk through the entryway. A cold draft that has no reasonable source. Except one.
“Is this place haunted?” I ask, turning to find Warren right behind me. I glance around the kitchen one last time, not even trying to hide my suspicion, then place my hands on my hips. I need answers. “Is it a friendly ghost, at the very least? I need to know, because a haunting is way, way worse than a lack of indoor plumbing.”
Warren smirks. “You think so?”
“Oh, I know so. I’ve seen things,” I add, doing my best to sound like I’ve got some kind of firsthand knowledge of ghosts. I don’t, actually. Unless watching a supernatural thriller on Netflix counts.
“If anyone’s place is haunted, it’s yours,” Warren retorts.
Fair. I don’t really have a good reply for that so I take another visual sweep of the outdated kitchen and try not to shudder.
“This place is really, really outdated,” I announce like a houseguest with no manners. “Not in a cute retro way, either. It’s sort of a dump.”
“Your tax dollars pay for this dump,” Warren replies, seemingly unbothered by both living in a museum and my lack of civility.
“Pfft.” I wave a dismissive hand in the air as we walk back into the main hall. “Not mine. I don’t pay taxes.”
Warren sputters. In fact, he very nearly looks speechless.
It’s sort of adorable.
“I’m kidding!” I grin. “I pay, I pay. Sheesh, you’re easy to rile up, Gov.”
Warren sighs and rubs two fingers against his temples. I suspect he’s already regretting his offer to let me stay here, and I don’t think it’s just because of Gary. Well, no take-backs, Governor. I’m here with my cat, and I’m here to stay until my plumbing’s fixed. Even if it is haunted. But mostly because I’m really starting to enjoy myself and free entertainment is hard to come by.
We head upstairs and I have to admit the staircase is lovely. It’s one of those classic features in an old house you never find in a new build because it would cost as much as a car in today’s dollars to replicate. I trail my hand up the thick wooden banister, enchanted with the idea of it having been in place for over a hundred years. Think of all the families who have climbed up and down these steps over the decades.
