One Universe to the Left

By Redwood Writers

Aliens, dragons, spirits, multiple types of wizardry, clones both magical and technological; what might you find in a world different from ours? Come explore the possibilities in the 2023 Redwood Writers prose anthology, where this year's theme is speculative fiction: sci-fi, fantasy, and related flavors of the fantastic. Writers from throughout the California Writers Club have joined the Redwood Branch in giving you a glimpse of what's happening one universe to the left.

 

Established in 1975, Redwood Writers is the largest of twenty-two Branches of the California Writers Club, a nonprofit association founded in 1909. Early honorary CWC members include Jack London, George Sterling, John Muir, Joaquin Miller, and the first California Poet Laureate, Ina Coolbrith. Redwood Writers conducts monthly meetings and community events dedicated to "writers helping writers." Meetings are open to the public.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Redwood Writers
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798985350357

Book preview

Foreword & Acknowledgements

by Mara Lynn Johnstone

Editor in Chief

When I was invited to be the editor in chief for this year’s anthology—a somewhat misleading title, since showrunner or herder of cats feel more appropriate—I knew it would be a hefty amount of work, but something that I couldn’t pass up. Especially since it was pointed out that I got to pick the theme.

I’ve always taken great joy in speculative fiction, which tends to feel like an underrepresented category of writing. What better way to encourage other writers to spread their wings in this delightful multiverse than to build this year’s volume around it?

The themes for Redwood Writers anthologies are often more vague: gentle guidelines meant to inspire new ideas. Limiting this one to science fiction, fantasy, and similar flavors of creativity did feel a bit risky, but it worked out. Early entries were sparse. Then we invited participation from the other branches as well, with the option to submit two stories each, and we got a gratifying wave of participation.

I am eternally grateful for the many people who helped process all those stories: judges who picked out the shiniest gems, editors who helped polish them to an even brighter shine, and eagle-eyed proofreaders who made sure there were no unsightly blemishes on our finished masterpiece. Thanks of course to the authors who ventured to other realities and brought us along for the ride! And a heartfelt thank you as well to the other experts and previous herders of cats for sharing their wisdom. I couldn’t have done it alone. This was a definite team effort, as the best things often are.

It turned into something we can all be proud of. And with the vast range of ingredients—magic, robotics, other planets, spirits, unlikely creatures, unforgettable characters, heart-wrenching moments and shining joy—I daresay there is something for every reader to enjoy.

The Wolf Prince

Rebecca van den Ham

I woke with a start. Did I hear a wolf howl, or was it another dream? I hurried out of my cottage into the light of a full moon. Perhaps this time? I hunted for wolf tracks, but found only fox, deer, polecat. 

Discouraged, I limped back to bed. Jumping up suddenly does not go well with arthritis and rheumatism.

I don’t mind living alone. Much.

The nights when distant wolves howl are the hardest, stirring memories of hope and longing for what might have been. Hating the enchantress for what she stole from me.

* * *

Once, a long time ago, I was a beautiful princess. That’s the beginning of the tale I tell the children. But they don’t believe that the strange old lady they call Granny was ever young. They come to hear the stories, to bring the offerings sent by their kindly parents, who sometimes remember to worry about me, living deep in the forest.

They needn’t worry.

I’m not afraid of wolves anymore.

That beautiful princess was afraid. So afraid. As I tell the children, I was only four when the duke’s lapdog attacked me, leaving a scar on my arm. After that, all dogs terrified me. When I met my prince, I knew he was the one. He understood my intense fear. Instead of trying to reason with it, he gave away his hunting dogs. He promised me there would be no dogs in our home. 

Meanwhile another woman also loved the prince. An enchantress, who tried every trick she knew to turn his heart away from me. But the prince’s love for me was true and pure. Nothing could change it. He announced to the kingdom his intention to wed. When the enchantress knew she couldn’t win the heart of my prince, she took him from me another way, using my fear against me. She turned him into a wolf. The only remedy: true love’s kiss.

And the last time I saw him, before I knew…

From my balcony I looked down into the garden and saw a big wolf sitting there, staring up at me. Could I have known? I screamed my foolish head off and fainted. He might have been killed then and there. My screams brought all the guards. That wolf was chased far over the hills before they lost his trail.

To this day, I live with the shame and sorrow I felt in that moment. If only I had been able to be calm, to see past my fear, I might have remembered my prince standing in that very spot, singing a love song the night he asked me to be his wife.

The enchantress came to me. She told me what she had done and gloated in her triumph. She slipped away, and my father didn’t try very hard to capture her. He wasn’t truly convinced of the story, even when my prince’s family came looking for him. These things happen sometimes, dearest, he said. Men change their minds. I couldn’t believe that about my love. I begged my father to search the enchantress out, to make her bring him back, but to no avail. She disappeared from our kingdom. Could it be she is the one I’ve heard of who troubles infant princesses with death curses and spinning wheels?

Even with the enchantress gone, I was determined. The love of my life was doomed to roam the world as an animal, hated by men, dependent on his wolfish wits to eat and live. The very idea banished my fears. I no longer cared that a dog might hurt me. My only hope was to find that one princely wolf and rescue him. 

My family tried to stop me, but true love can’t be stopped. For a while, I joined with his family in their search. They didn’t quite believe my story either, but were puzzled by his disappearance. But he was one of seven younger sons, and they eventually gave him up as lost. My parents begged me to come home, claiming other princes were eager for my hand. But I had to be worthy of bestowing the healing kiss. True love must triumph.

I wrote to my family, informing them of my decision not to return until I found him, then I set off on my quest alone. I was a beloved daughter, but no heir. Though I was sorry to pain them, my heart was bound to my prince. I studied the ways of wolves with any hunter who would teach me. Tracked them everywhere I heard tell of them, every terrified village, every torn-up cow. Any wolf could be my prince in disguise. If only I could find him before some hunter, some woodsman, some savage wolf… 

I haven’t given up now, but these old bones can’t sleep on the forest floor any longer. All these years of fruitless searching have taken their toll. Is he even still out there? I don’t grieve the lost years of struggle and searching. Only the years of lost love. If I let him go, will the grief truly take hold? I have nothing left but the hope of a slim chance he could come to me. 

So I live in this run-down cottage deep in the forest, far from my childhood home and forgotten by all my family. This area has long been known for the wolves that pass through. But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen any. Parents are still vigilant to warn their children, always urging them, Stay on the path; don’t dilly dally; pay attention.

I brew my afternoon tea, lost in memories. My mournful reverie is shattered by a frantic pounding on my door, accompanied by muffled shrieks. I shuffle over as quickly as I can manage.

A little girl tumbles in. She’s one of my regular visitors, Molly, with the bright red hooded cloak. She scrambles up, slams and bolts the door, then leans against it panting. Her eyes are huge. 

What troubles you, child? 

Granny! She tries to catch her breath. It was a wolf! A huge, bad wolf! He stole my basket, and all your lemon cookies!

My heart gives its customary hopeful thump. A wolf! Maybe this time … I take her hand. There, there, dearest, you’re safe with Granny. I lead her to the chairs by the fire. Now tell me all about this wolf.

He wanted to eat me!

Calm down, dear one. Not all wolves are bad. I can’t sit still. Hope stirs up my insides like it always does. I rise and walk toward the front window.

Mama says they are. And this one scared me so much! I dropped your basket of cookies.

That’s all right, dear. I peer out the window. Is that a shadow on the path? Or something more?

But he had such big eyes, Granny!

The better to find his prey in the dark, so he won’t starve, my dear.

The shadow moves in a solid way. Fighting through the tree tops, a single ray of light glints off those eyes. My heart pounds in earnest.

But Granny, he had such big ears!

The better to hear a rabbit in the thicket, my dear.

The shape moves closer, wary. Yes, the ears are quite large. I clutch at the window frame.

But Granny, he had such big teeth!

The better to chew lemon cookies with, my dear. I barely get the words out.

Molly regards me skeptically. Granny, do you like wolves?

The very large wolf creeps toward my door. He raises a paw. Scratches the door. I reach for the bolt and latch. 

Molly leaps up. No, Granny!

I throw open the door. The wolf stands there, holding the basket gently between his teeth.

Molly shrieks and bolts out the back door.

The wolf puts the basket down and sits politely beside it. I ease onto my knees, where I can look into his large blue eyes. Is that you, George? 

The wolf lifts one forepaw, and I take it. We stare at each other, unblinking. Then I kiss his nose.

* * *

George’s words are a bit rusty, but I know how he feels by his eyes and his goofy grin. I’m afraid I had to dress him in one of my nightgowns and a blanket. In all these years, I never thought to keep clothes on hand for him!

Molly returns later with my friend Peter, her father, a wood cutter. George and I are seated at my table, sharing the lemon cookies. 

Who’s that old man? Molly says, rather rudely, but I’m too happy to reprimand her. 

Peter stares at George. Then looks at me. The story you always told … it’s true!

Molly is busy throwing open cupboard doors, hunting. Where’s that mean old wolf, Granny? I thought he was going to eat you. Papa came to kill him. 

Peter quickly leans his axe against the wall.

Oh, no, dear. The wolf is gone. This is George. Peter, would you let the minister know we’d like to be married as soon as possible? 

Main Character Energy

Crissi Langwell

The sun is setting on the golden horizon, ending another August night in the heart of Beachcomber Cove. We stand on the edge of a cliff, the same cliff we’d met on five weeks ago when we were set up on a blind date. I’d thought it was a strange place for a first meeting back then. But now, I find it comforting, romantic even. Especially with the way the waves are crashing against the rocks below, like my heart is crashing against my chest. 

The breeze flirts with my hair, soft tendrils tickling my face. I start to lift my hand, but he’s there first. Always ready to take care of my needs without me having to say a word. His hand goes for my hair as his gaze lowers, then rests on my lips. 

You look like someone waiting to be kissed, he purrs. He pulls me in closer, his arms wrapping tightly around me, his breathing intensifying as he lowers his mouth to —"

STOP. 

I tear myself away from Lorenzo, who stumbles backward. 

Violet, what the heck? He tries to get his footing, but never quite makes it, and I brace myself as he teeters toward the cliff.

Lorenzo!

But it’s too late. He’s gone over, his feet the last things I see as he disappears over the edge. I suck in a sympathetic breath, glancing at the spot where he was standing. Then I peer down. His body is contorted unnaturally on the sand below, completely still.

Oops, I wince, then turn back to where I was facing, calling out beyond the pages of this romance novel I live in. Hey. Are you paying attention?

I wait for Chloe Lambert, the author of this godawful novel, to acknowledge me. But there’s no answer. Instead, a few romantic clichés stream across the skyline. 

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The silence is deafening.

Our eyes lock across the room.

He is a vision for sore eyes.

His kiss becomes the air I breathe.

Spare me, I mutter. Obviously I’m going to have to get her attention before she fills this whole damn novel with dreadfully overused phrases. She already saddled me with that joke of a love interest. 

Think, think, think. 

I see the words appear in the blank sky above me. Big, bold THINK, times three. I realize my thoughts are being transcribed, that I have somehow manifested a shift in power. I start to cheer, but the cursor is blinking and I realize anything I say is going to end up on the page. So I clear my mind and then speak pointedly into the emptiness. 

Chloe Lambert, Violet Skye needs to talk with you.

Then I wait, watching the cursor blink a few more times above me. And then…

Hello?

I grin. It worked. I finally got through to the author. That’s when I get busy. 

So, I accidentally offed Lorenzo, but it’s okay because he was absolutely terrible. You really need to watch more romance movies or something, because that guy was one huge red flag, starting with his misogynistic vibes. Oh, and he was kind of a stalker. Did you know he sat outside my work for five days straight, and I hadn’t even told him where I worked yet? Of course you knew. You wrote it. But seriously, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was in a suspense thriller and inches away from being filleted, and not in a romantic beach read. Also, can you please have my next love interest brush his teeth? Or maybe have him lay off the raw onions?

I force a pause, catching my breath as I watch the typed words on the page catch up with everything I said. Then I wait as the cursor goes back to blinking. I study my nails, realizing they are in desperate need of a polish change. I’m going to have to get Chloe to write that in the story, too. Maybe a whole makeover, while I’m at it, starting with my long, red hair. I read somewhere that only 2% of the world’s population has red hair, and yet romance novels make it seem like this is the norm. I’ve been a redhead in the past five novels, and I’m getting kind of tired of maintaining these lengthy locks. I’m practically Rapunzel when I’d rather be a dramatic brunette with a pixie cut. Maybe she can make me sporty, too. I mean, I’m already slender with a beautifully toned body, despite the fact that my diet consists of huge cheeseburgers and sushi gorge fests, plus multiple cocktails every night. She might as well give me athletic ability to at least make my perfect body a bit more realistic.

Who is this?

The cursor blinks after the words, and I pause for a second, wondering if she’s for real. I mean, who else would be talking to her through the computer? 

And then I realize how strange this must be for her, and that she’s probably freaking out right now. 

This is Violet Skye, your main character. And I may have accidentally deleted your whole story because I’m sitting here in a blank document. But it’s okay because your story suc….

I pause, wondering how to say the next part without hurting her feelings. 

I have some ideas on how to improve the story and was hoping you’d let me help you.

The cursor then blinks a bit longer than it should and I know Chloe Lambert is currently going through a crisis of reality. So I know I need to act quick. I just hope this works. 

Chloe, type these words: The author Chloe Lambert finds herself inside a romance novel with her laptop.

I wait, and then, ever so slowly, those same words appear under my own typed text. 

And just like that, she’s here. 

She’s different then I imagined. A little chubby, but pleasantly so. Freckles all over her face. Coffee stains on her gray sweatshirt, and it’s possible she hasn’t washed her hair in a week. The dark circles under her eyes give away her late writing nights, and her pale skin tells me she sees more screen glow than actual sunshine. 

What the… She slowly turns around, taking in the nothingness that surrounds us. Then her eyes land on me. It’s really you, she breathes. Violet Skye. You’re real.

Well, kind of, I say. I mean, I’m as real as your imagination.

You’re gorgeous, she says, her eyes like saucers. I laugh. 

Well, I’d say thank you, but I can’t take credit. You created me.

I suppose I did, she murmurs. Then she looks around us again. It’s almost blinding in here. All this white. Is there a way to fix it?

Yeah, I say, pointing at her computer. You have to write it.

Oh. Chloe glances at the laptop. Like this? She sits cross-legged and opens the screen. After a moment of thinking, she starts to type.

The gentle shush of ocean waves fills the salty air in Beachcomber Cove. It’s the kind of day poets write about, with the pleading cries of seagulls floating on wandering winds and a blue sky that stretches beyond the horizon, not a cloud in sight.

The stark whiteness of our surroundings takes on color once again, from the creamy sands that extend for miles and an ocean that seems to go on forever. And Chloe and I are back on the cliff. Thankfully, Lorenzo is not. 

That’s much better, I say. The surroundings, and what you’ve written. I bet this second stab at the novel will go much better.  

I don’t know what happened, she says. One minute I was writing, and the next, my computer just kind of blipped. The expression on her face falls as realization takes over. Oh God, you’re right. I have to rewrite everything. All that work. It’s … gone.

Yeah, about that. She obviously didn’t understand the first time, so I don’t want to tell her again that it’s probably my fault somehow. But she needs to know how bad it was. It just wasn’t working, I say. It’s not like your past works, with the amazing chemistry and super gorgeous scenery. I’ll never forget that one romance that took place in a Paris café. I wanted to live in that one forever.

She looks at me curiously. You were there?

I’m always there. I’m the main character. This time, I’m Violet Skye, living in beautiful Beachcomber Cove, meeting the man who is supposed to be the love of my life. Except, here’s the thing. I scrunch my face, then shake my head. Lorenzo was awful. And, well, I kind of killed him off accidentally.

You what?

Well, it was an accident, but if I’d been given enough time, I probably would have done it on purpose. You know, that man cut me off every single time I started to talk. Whenever I’d start to say something, he’d get so excited about his own ideas that he’d just run over the top of me and I’d never get to finish what I was saying.

He was a conversationalist, Chloe says. 

Not a very patient one. Or thoughtful. Like the time I said I wanted ice cream and he thought that was such a good idea, he got a cone for just himself. I raise an eyebrow in her direction.

Uh, he knew how much you valued equality, including who paid for the dates. 

Well, that’s convenient. I paid for the last date at that steakhouse, and he couldn’t even buy me an ice cream cone.

Hold on, Chloe says, then tilts her head as if trying to find the thought. What about the time he took you out for an exquisite dinner at that rotating restaurant that overlooked the city, then treated you to a weekend in that fancy hotel suite?

Admittedly, the restaurant was a major step up from our usual cheap ass dates. And the food was orgasmic. But that was the only orgasm that happened for me that weekend. 

Lorenzo stared at my tits the whole time —

That dress was killer, Chloe cuts in.

And he was rude to the waiter when he thought the guy was flirting with me. Then schooled me on etiquette as if he thought I was raised in a barn. But that’s not even the worst. He basically made it clear that a dinner like that meant a happy ending for him.

Chloe winces. I was trying to make him more Alpha-like.

There’s Alpha, and then there’s Alpha-hole, and Lorenzo was not the good kind.

But there was that steamy scene in the shower.

I shoot her a look. Have you ever done it in a shower? I ask. 

She bites her lip, then shakes her head. 

Let’s just say that it’s less than ideal in the best of circumstances. But in this one, Lorenzo got his, and I finally got to sleep. By the way, kudos on the ritzy hotel room. More of that, please.

I just don’t get it, Chloe says. If you couldn’t stand him, why were you with him?

Are you being serious? I ask. Her nod confirms it. "Because you wrote it. I don’t get to pick who I want to be with or make my own choices or do anything that isn’t inside your will. What you write is what happens. And in this case, you wrote me a bad romance."

Chloe runs her hand over the keyboard, as if a story will magically appear. But so far, all we have is this cliff that overlooks gorgeous Beachcombers Cove. 

So what do I do? she finally asks. 

I grin. This is the moment I have dreamed of since the beginning. To be fair, Chloe has given me some pretty epic adventures. There was that one time I met this sweet guy at a park who ended up being a very charming prince. Then there was Chloe’s fantasy phase, when I fell in love with the faerie prince who transformed me into a beautiful fae princess. And I’ll never forget that dystopian adventure when she gave me kickass fighting skills and let me save the guy, and then the world. 

But sometimes her storytelling takes a weird turn, especially when it seemed she was trying new things. Like this whole Alpha thing. Don’t get me wrong. The Alpha trope can be hot. It just has to be done right. The guy can be strong, broodish, even an asshole. But he also puts his lady above all things. He might be possessive, but it’s all for her protection. He’ll burn the whole world down, just for her. 

As for Lorenzo, that jackass would have run from a fire and left me to burn with it.

You’ll really let me write my own story? I ask. She nods, and I can already picture it. My brother’s best friend—a hot, dangerous guy I’m absolutely forbidden from dating. But then he saves me from a Lorenzo-type tool, swinging me on the back of his motorcycle before peeling away from the restaurant. A love affair we have to keep secret from my brother who will absolutely kill us both…

I have a few ideas, I say. Get ready to start writing.

Sword Play

Jan Ögren

A sword thrust to the face sent me backing up the stone stairs. I turned the guard’s weapon away, taking another step backwards. The guard was huge and burly, looking like an angry bear wearing the duke’s sigil of a rearing unicorn on his blood red leather tunic. This duke is annoyingly rich. He dresses up his manor like a king’s castle while his vassals starve. No wonder he needs so many guards.

The bear slashed at me with his long broadsword but I parried it, which brought me closer to him. His eyes widened as he said, You’re a girl! And you’re lucky I gave Thalan my sorceress’ oath not to do any harm or that comment would have cost you a good beating. He took another swing, and I blocked his thick blade with my lighter and more efficient saber, forcing it flat against the railing. Then I threw my back against it and pinned it to the wall with my body. I laughed at the bear’s surprised expression, leaned toward him and yelled, Ha! in his face. He recoiled, letting go of his weapon and stood there, dumbfounded. Slash and hack men. Don’t know how to use a sword so they think the longer, the better. I stepped away, releasing his blade, and watched it slide down the stairs. It was so large and heavy he had to jump out of its way, which landed him in the midst of the other guards who had been waiting to attack me.

The guards regrouped, and a pig-faced one approached me. It was a challenge not to hurt him or the others but whatever harm they did to themselves—brandishing their massive swords—was not my responsibility. Pig-face swung at me with a mighty arc of his weapon. It would have cut me in half if I’d been stupid enough to stand in its way. I ducked instead, and the sword embedded itself in the wood of the stairwell. Sweeping my foot behind his knee, I sent him tumbling backwards, and he took two other guards down with him.

A third guard managed to avoid his flailing companions and came running at me with his sword stuck straight out in front of him. I wanted to go up anyway, so I let him back me up several more stairs. I went up far enough to let him grow tired of holding the sword out like a divining rod. As soon as he tried a clumsy slash, I advanced on him. A quick swipe cut through his leathers and unbalanced him. As he fell backwards into his comrades, they tangled themselves together trying to avoid skewering him with their blades.

My mercenary’s heart warred with my new sorcery training. I wanted to keep playing with the guards, but I had a task to complete. I jumped up the last few stairs, dashed through the door to the duke’s private office, and swung it closed. Dropping the wood bar into place, I prepared to sprint for the window on the far side of the room. I swung around, took two steps, and froze as a tall, stately woman materialized in front of me.

Thalan, what are you doing here? I demanded. We agreed I could do this quest on my own.

The sorceress took a slow, deep breath, raising even higher above me before saying, I thought you might appreciate a little help, Berna.

I was doing just fine. It was eight against one, and I made it up here without even a scratch.

Arms crossed, Thalan looked down at me. She was impressive in her rich gold and maroon robes. She might be my teacher, but I was too excited from the battle to give in right away. I took my time to sheath my sword, straighten my leather jerkin, and look her in the eye.

A loud bang from the door ruined my facade of confidence and control. The guards must have found a battering ram and were trying to break down the door. I managed to get up here, didn’t I? I said.

After waking the entire guard and everyone living in the manor house. But where is the jewel? Retrieving it was your assigned quest, and you need it to continue your magical studies. You’re doing fine with the sword. Now, what about your magic?

Uh—I wasn’t ready. I got startled. I needed a few more minutes. I looked down at the floor. Damn, she’s right. This was supposed to be a magical quest.

Then why didn’t you give yourself more time? she asked.

Before I could make more excuses, she waved her hand and transported me back in time and place to the library, just before midnight—the precise moment when I had arrived before.

* * *

Okay, let’s do it right this time. Taking a slow breath, I set myself apart from time. My stomach lurched sideways. I always had the sensation of walking through water at the bottom of the sea when I stepped out of time, but it did allow me to move freely while everyone else was suspended.

The library was filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The only other pieces of furniture were a massive wooden desk, a few small tables, and some easy chairs. I pulled a double-terminated smokey quartz crystal out of my pocket, setting it in the middle of my palm to serve as my guiding focus. It felt warm against my skin as I connected to it, like it was a part of me.

Holding my hand in front, I attempted to sense which direction made the crystal vibrate the most. After a few false moves, it guided me underneath the desk, where I spied a small piece of leather wrapped around a support bar. My focusing crystal throbbed, making my palm itch, and I could sense the hidden jewel pulsing in rhythm with the quartz in my hand. I removed the leather covering to reveal a hole carved into the wood. The jewel was there, attached to a chain, and I reached out to take it. Without warning, it flared up, blinding me and searing my hand. Ouch! What’s wrong with this stupid thing? It likes my stone; I’m sure it will like me. I nursed my burned hand and pondered how to retrieve it without getting hurt.

Remembering Thalan’s message about using magic, I crossed my eyes, unfocusing my vision to see if any spells held the jewel in place. There were no spells, nor anyone with any power currently in the manor house. No magic held the jewel down.

I tried again to grasp it, more cautiously this time, and felt the jolt coming early enough to jerk my hand away. The crystal itself was stopping me from grasping it. What’s wrong? And how am I going to get it?

Holding myself apart from time was not helping me, and my nausea was getting worse. Thalan always said the stomach feels the stoppage of time and fears it will never eat again. I decided to step back into the normal flow of time to think this through. With a sigh, I released the spell. I felt less queasy and able to think clearer.

At that moment, the cat slunk in and headed for the desk: bushy white with a black mask and blue eyes. She had arrived last time, sneaking into the room, not expecting another thief to be here. She had jumped onto the desk and walked onto a silver platter to pilfer some leftover meat. Unfortunately, when the cat saw me during my first visit, she took a startled leap sideways, making the platter crash to the floor with enough noise to wake the dead, or at least the guards. This had led to my amazing battle and escape up the stairs. That was fun, but I can’t afford to do it again if I’m going to get the jewel. This time, I offered the mutton to the cat to keep her quiet and off the desk. She purred, sounding like rumbling thunder.

While the cat was nibbling from my hand, I pondered how to get the jewel.

Okay, cat, I whispered, I’m helping you steal, how about you help me?

Sure, replied the cat. I nearly upset the platter as her words reverberated in my mind.

You can talk telepathically? I formed the thought and sent it to the cat.

Yes, and you don’t need to shout. How about another piece of meat? One with more sauce on it. Thank you. Most times, people think my words are their own ideas: ‘open the door for the cat,’ ‘feed the cat,’ ‘pet the cat.’ But when properly addressed, I can certainly carry on a conversation.

The cat gave me a most disgusted look and I realized I had been staring at her, forgetting the food and my need for help. Can you help me retrieve the jewel?

Which one? asked the cat.

The one hidden underneath the desktop.

Ah, the master’s most prized plaything. It is beautiful. I tried to appreciate it with the master once. You’d think I’d wanted to defecate on it instead of play with it. What’s the chain for if not for someone to pull it so a self-respecting cat can chase it?

Well, it’s a very special jewel. I sensed its energy from a long way away to come get it. I need it, I explained, wanting to justify my actions so the cat wouldn’t think me a common thief.

She twitched her tail. I couldn’t care less why you want it. He isn’t playing with it now. What isn’t being played with isn’t owned, she declared.

What do you mean?

It’s the first rule of cat. It means, no one owns something when they’re not playing with it, she explained. Second rule: what isn’t being eaten isn’t owned. Third rule—

Okay, I get it, I interrupted, not wanting the full recitation. Since the master isn’t playing with it, will you help me get it?

Certainly. She sauntered under the desk, stood on her hind legs, reached a paw into the hole to pull out the jewel, then grabbed it with her teeth. I was a bit nervous as she