Whiskers and Lace

Dearest Amelia,

The name of the missing novel is – Do not laugh! – Silken Whiskers. I know, I know, it is a dreadful title, and you’ll no doubt mock me even for picking up the volume, and you’d be right to do so.

Tawdriness aside, I am left at the climax, the heroine in great haste to reveal to the hero the vital piece of information which shall allow him to overthrow the villainous Duke, thus freeing hero and heroine to marry and find everlasting bliss.

Ah, and here I am, smiling foolishly at the merest memory of it. Should you manage to find a copy, I should be everlastingly grateful.

How did you manage such a striking shade of blue in your paperworks, madam? Never have I seen such a hue, so vivid and glorious! Chromowhatography or whatnot – it certainly seems magic to me, for all you shudder at the merest mention of magecraft in your widgets and machinery.

I must admit, the thought of you in a proper Season is a difficult one to fathom. I’ve always said you are a very handsome cat, so it is not the image of your attracting the attention of a tom which chafes so, but rather the thought of you wearing full ballgowns and flirting. Your intelligence so intimidates most toms, I shouldn’t be surprised to find that you’ve taken them all to task at devising more unique and grammatically correct pick-up lines after your first night!

Quite unfathomable, that your parents should enforce such an odd requirement upon you, when they’ve been so forward-thinking with all else concerning your education. If they’d planned on this from the start, one would think your failing marks in etiquette and manners would have caused more of a scuffle (regardless of your high marks in mathematics and mechanics).

I wonder at the name of the strange tom you’ve mentioned in your letter. It disturbs me, and I worry for you, my dear. Do not let your curiosity lead you to danger!

As to my magic-crafting, good heavens, of course I’ve not been practicing! I’m so miserable at it, I know that I should devote at least some time to it, but really. The most impressive thing I’ve managed to do thus far was turn Milly Melbourne’s hair blue, and what a great lot of trouble THAT caused! Not that she didn’t deserve it, wretched viper that she was. Do you know, I believe she still has to dye her hair when the blue roots begin to appear?

Oh, what an uncharitable chortle I just gave. I do hope father didn’t overhear. I don’t know what I should tell him if he should ask its cause. I am such a wretchedly terrible liar.

Still, I cannot help but imagine that surely your parents cannot be serious. You’ve made your wishes with regards to tomcats and harems quite clear, for as long as I’ve known you, at least. They can’t have thought you to just be going through a phase?

As for my husband quest, I have attended a brunch, a luncheon, and have only moments ago arrived from my own poke and prod session at the dressmaker’s. Of course, this year’s fashions favor the slim and svelte cats, so after praising my long white fur, the tailor immediately turned and began tut-tutting the bulges it would undoubtedly create beneath his dresses.

The gib had the nerve to suggest I trim or even shave down those areas which might typically be found beneath a dress, to make the dresses more attractive!

Can you IMAGINE?

Oh, I was quite furious.

Which, of course, meant that I sneezed again.

Oh, Amelia, what am I to do with this magic? I can’t so much as light a candle, regardless of how long I scowl at it (surely you remember the teacher’s face as she demonstrated the ability. I feel certain the dourness is quite necessary for the spell to work). And yet a single comment from a stranger causes such an unbearable tickle in my nose, and then…

…Well, let us just say that I shall not be visiting that particular dressmaker again. I believe my grandkittens are similarly barred from stepping foot on the premises.

Good riddance, of course. Although that does leave me dreadfully unprepared with regards to fashionable clothing for all of these balls and banquets at which I am to display my feline charms.

I have seen neither hide nor fur of the Conte Brasso, though I have been informed (with exaggerated sideways glances and much ‘ladylike’ tittering) that he should be attending tonight’s ball at the Baronessa diVonri’s home.

Perhaps he shall not recognize me? I don’t believe I could apologize to him with a straight face any more than I managed to do with Milly Melbourne.

I wonder, do they offer classes in becoming a better liar, as they do with dancing and social graces? I should very much like to invest in one.

As to your query about Madam Szymanksa – in truth, no I have not. I have not even made the attempt. I know you went to great trouble to look her up for me, but Amelia-dearest, my magic is such a mess, I cannot imagine that another stuffy old tealeaf-reader shall be able to assist me. The ladies at school washed their hands of me well before the blue hair incident, and I truly have been able to control the magic of late. Minus the incidents with the tailor and the Conte, of course. Truly, aside from those I have been the soul of nonmagical discretion. Besides, how should I convince Father to give me the time to find and meet with this cat? He already begrudges me the hours for sleeping.

That was uncharitable, and I feel wicked just for saying it. Father loves me, of course, and does what he can to see that I am well taken care of. He wants me to be happy, and that means married to wealth.

The rich try not to see it, but the poor line the waterways and huddle in the shadows here, just as they do back home. That is no life for me, nor do I have marketable skills aside from social chatter and a remarkable aptitude for dance. I cannot even cook!

I did find something odd, though, and managed to slip it into my sleeve whilst Father’s back was turned. A scrap of paper, skittering from an alley like a rat caught out in the light. It had the symbol on it – the one that we saw back home. Written in the same oddly pearlescent black ink, and unadorned by any explanation or identifying text. I have kept it, folded neatly as a bookmark, but you do recall the reaction of the headmistress when she saw it with us back then? I thought I’d been in trouble for the hair magic, but I’d never had my backside tanned with such fervor as when she saw us with that scrap of paper!

I do wonder what it means, though I shall be more careful with this one, now that I know it is somehow clandestine. I know nothing about it, save its ability to infuriate headmistresses, and yet I am loathe to part with it. I feel quite like I am peeking in at one of the secret organizations so often mentioned in the books penned by Rocheforte (and yes, I brought the collection here to Tanis with me. I cannot imagine being parted from them. Ah, such detailed love scenes they contain! So much danger, and such wickedly dashing tomcats!)

Ah, and here is Father, demanding to know if I plan on leaving the candle alight all night long. As if the cost of a single candle shall beggar us!

But, he is right that it grows late and the ball shall be starting soon. We shall be arriving fashionably late, of course, but it does take a dreadfully long time to prepare without a serving maid. In truth, I look forward to that most of all – the stays on my corset are dreadful against my paws. Surely it was designed by a fiendish archvillain. Having assistance getting into the wretched contraption would be a blessing.

Love and Fishes,
Cheska

P.S. Do try to enjoy your Season, at least a bit. I know you see it as a betrayal of everything you stand against, but you are only young once, my fursister. You might find that you enjoy it, or perhaps you’ll meet a tom who can see what a marvelous treasure you truly are. I would see you happy as well. You’ve convinced me that you are capable of finding your happiness in spinsterhood, but you’ve really no reason to at least explore your other options first.

Hello Dearheart:

Only threw him into the canal?  Shameful, I would have wished your paper tiger had at least made a meal of the gentleman’s – I use the term loosely- breaches.

Why is it Cheska, toms feel the right to maul every female unfortunate enough to cross their path?  However, we as ladies must always allow such misconduct with a smile!

Excuse me Dearheart, I had to step away from the letter for a moment.  You know how quickly my fur bristles just hearing such stories. I am tremendously happy to read you defended yourself-regardless of your father’s reproach.  Another reaction for another day, if I could take that man under my paw…!

Cheska, I chuckled at your description of perfect match, but why do I feel sad thinking of you resigning yourself to an overly perfumed room filled with petty felines, who offer nothing outside of their own selfish needs. I worry your brightness will be caged and muted.

You deserve better.

Even if you do become part of a harem, I wish it were with a gentleman who could fully appreciate your amazing worth.

Bah! I am sorry again, Dearheart.  Here I am spewing my ideals again, and forcing you to read them.  How you have put up with me so long, I will never know.  You know I only want your happiness-wherever you find it.

How are the new chants coming along?  While your paper tiger sprang to life out of fright, I may only assume you have been practicing such a spell prior to that evening.

It is times like these I wish we were both back at Ramsey House huddled under your blanket, you reading the tarot while I held the lantern, I do miss those days – along with turning Milly Melbourne’s hair blue.

How funny you mentioned the rain.  The weather has been abysmal, foggy, wet and gray.  The colors themselves all refuse to return to the city until the sun reappears- depressing really.  As is the next bit of my news.

It has not rained- literary- but a deluge has hit.  Mother is on a rampage.  It seems I have finally exhausted her patience and she has worn down Father.  The crazy cat is forcing me to participate this season!

Me! Of all cats! You would think, raised by two people who have bucked society as much as they have I would not be subjected to such humiliation.

No offense to you, dear Cheska.  You know how I feel regarding seasons and marriage in general.

Alas, Mother insisted and not even a temper tantrum, and locking myself in my quarters for three days, stopped her from following through with her plans.

Since you left last month, I have been pinched, and prodded like a pin cushion. Stuffed into corsets, had my fur pulled into impossible shapes and forced to stand in ridiculously warm rooms whilst my mother tries to barter me to the highest bidder.

Why had I not been born a tom!  Had I been, then I would not have to suffer this, would have been left to my science and none be bothered by my bachelorhood.

Then again, had I been born a tom, we would have never met.  Ignore the previous paragraph.

Regardless, all the social commitments and late nights have wreaked havoc on my experiments and has caused me to delay my findings to Dr. Nicolas.  I really must send him my latest results -if I can escape Mother for a few moments that is.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention!  During Lady Allesbury’s ball last night, I witnessed the strangest sight.

There I was, standing next to mother with my usual “ Bride for Sale” sign, when I noticed a gentleman standing by the refreshment table.  At first, I thought he was a servant, but then I noticed the impeccable cut of his clothing and the air of power surrounding him.

That in of itself was not remarkable-toms all think they are divine gifts to the world, however, everyone’s response to him, was exceedingly bizarre.  It was almost as if he was a magnet and everyone around him held the same charge, because while all seem to be mesmerized by him, whispering and darting their eyes, none would approach him.  As for the gentleman, he seemed not to care a wit for the lack of conversation.  Instead, he had the most mysterious smile, full of arrogance, pride and ridicule.

I found myself wanting to know who he was; he had been the one interesting thing I had seen during my two weeks of torture.  But won’t you know when I turned to ask Mother the name of the gentleman-he disappeared.

Enough of me, tell me how are the balls going?  Anything else of interest happen?  Have you been able to locate Madam Szymanksa? Did you have to speak to the horrid Count Brasso again?

Love Always,

Amelia

P.S.

Send me the name of your novel.  I will see if I can procure a copy and forward it to you.  There is nothing worst than an unfinished tale!

P.S.S

Do you like the stationary?  It is a new experiment I am working on, similar to chromolithography, but without the need of stones and the like.  I hope you like it.

Dearest Amelia,

You must believe me when I say it was not my fault that I dumped the Conte Brasso into the canals!

Oh, why do these things always happen to me? It’s never my fault and yet it’s always my fault!

Just thinking of it fair sets my fur on end! Even now, I can feel my tail puff up like a kitten on Hallow’s Eve.

I’m sure by now the news has reached the papers. I’m likely a topic of whispered conversation and speculation across the entire country. Papa was furious, as I’m sure you can imagine. Our first day in Tanice, and already I’ve managed to offend a prospective husband.

As if I were not already fully aware of the gravity of my situation! I shall get only a single Season – just one – to land a suitably wealthy husband to please Papa. Such a scolding! He did not let up until after we’d arrived at the hotel.

You shall believe me, won’t you? It truly was the Conte’s fault. The carriage had dropped us off – Papa and I – and we waited for a gondola.

Oh, you must come and see Tanice, someday. I am certain you would instantly be smitten by the city! I could never have imagined a city built entirely upon islands, but it fairly bristles with clockwork machinery. I had only to turn my head to see some new marvel of scientific ingenuity. It would make your claws itch to see it. I shall have to devise a way to send a few small samples your way.

Ah, but I was telling you of my altercation with the Conte. As I said, we waited for a gondola, which took a dreadfully long time. My parasol was packed and the sun beat down upon us with such wickedness that I retreated to a nearby canopy for shade. Papa was busy shouting at the slim boats in the canals below us, so I pulled a book from my purse while he could not see to scold me for it.

I know you are not one for the romances, but ah! This book! It fair curled my whiskers, I don’t mind telling you. It seemed only a moment before I was rudely yanked from a particularly steamy scene by a shockingly rude paw upon my person.

I looked up to see a tom with short, shadow-grey fur bent over me, a terrible look upon his face. I screamed and wished for help, and before I could stop it, I sneezed.

I swear, I could not help it. The magic tickles so, and I have tried to stop sneezing. Have you ever tried to hold in a sneeze? It’s a dreadful, horrid experience. I do believe I once heard holding in a sneeze could cause ones eyes to pop out! A morbid imagery, to be certain. I cannot know if it is true, but I do not wish to be the cat to put it to the test!

The sneeze, of course, released it. The pages of my book fluttered and tore, leaping from their binding and forming a startling beast. A tiger made entirely of paper leapt to my defense and snarled ferociously at the dark cat.

The tom’s eyes widened and he took a step away – directly over the edge of the brick and into the canal.

You see now, don’t you? If he had not surprised me, I should never have sneezed, and then would never have called up an origami beast to protect me.

Not that anyone cared. Immediately, voices called out, “Conte Brasso! Quick, someone rescue the Conte Brasso, he has been tossed into the canals!”

As if I could toss a Conte into a canal! Me! At finishing school, I could barely manage to jog in circles around the phys track. You know I couldn’t have achieved such a feat even had I a desire to do so!

The tiger dispersed immediately, of course. You and I both know it was harmless – an origami beast is no more dangerous than the paper from which it is made.

And so here I sit, alone in my hotel room. Papa is dreadfully cross with me, which is silly. Even now, only two hours after the dreadful event, we receive callers with invitations to various parties and galas. You can be certain at least half of them are in hopes that I shall provide amusement with further antics during the events, but an invitation is an invitation, regardless of intent. I shall find my schedule in Tanice quite full, which should give ample opportunity.

I cannot afford to make further mistakes. I shall henceforth determine to be a proper lady for my Season. I shall flirt and laugh and drink champagne and find myself a fat and wealthy husband. Preferably one too old for bedplay, with a full harem of wives already established. I would make a good trophy wife, I imagine. And you can be certain I shall be avoiding the shadow-furred Conte Brasso!

Romances are best left between the covers of books. Love and all its glittering trappings are not for the poor daughters of discarded gentry.

And the worst of It all, dear Amelia, is that my paper tiger tore from me the last pages of my book, and I shall perish an old cat, never knowing how the story ends!

Love and Fishes,
Cheska

PS. I pulled a card for you. It was the 2 of haddocks. I am not certain if it means you shall meet a dangerous person who will challenge your wits, or that it shall rain. Either way, do pack a sturdy parasol. I am certain you shall need it.