The Writer Takes Time to Gather Her Thoughts

We were soon inside, seated on great burgundy armchairs and bundled up with blankets by the fire.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. McCarthy,” I said, sipping at a glass of lovely mead. Ah, cinnamon…

“Don’t mention it, dearie. It’s the least I can do.” Mrs. McCarthy bent down and opened Scooter’s travel cage. Without fear (as always) she yanked out a very shocked Scooter.

Scooter blinked in surprise, as if he hadn’t registered what had just happened.

In fact, Scooter was a combined present from Seamus (Mrs. McCarthy’s husband), papa and her on my twentieth birthday – they thought I was lonely after mama passed on.

“I remember him being jus’ a little kitten,” Mrs. McCarthy said, stroking him fondly. “He’s grown so soft!”

“Yes…and if you see what he eats,” I joked feebly, and then went back to staring at the tongues of flame that danced within the fireplace.

Raine was being quiet, apart from the occasional ‘thank you’. I decided to leave him be.

He always has a good reason for silence.

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