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beautiful,’ I told Horatio. He gave me a measuring look, went to his dish, and suggested dinner. That was another problem. I had to go to bed at eight or before. Did I have enough energy to get dressed and go down to Cafe Delicious for an early dinner of luncheon leftovers or was I going to settle for free range boiled eggs and toast soldiers? No contest.
    I fed Horatio and the Mouse Police and ate my soldiers and eggs. They were very good. I read the
Wiccan Times
absently as I wondered about Daniel. He was gorgeous, yes. I was not, that also was true. But he had said that I was beautiful. He wouldn’t be saying that just because of the bread. I moved my thighs. I could still feel those warm, sure fingers shifting over my flesh. Flesh that was awake and alert and suggesting that there were lots of things we could do with Daniel that did not involve bread. I knew that. I told my flesh to pipe down until I could get Daniel into a space which did not contain anything other than human mammals, excluding all cats, birds and dogs, and read on.
    This really was an odd newspaper. It had an article on Wiccan men which made them sound extremely desirable. There was the sacrificial consort, who seemed to be the summer king from Arthurian legend. One elected a monarch in spring and when the year began to fail, one killed him and got another next spring. I suppose it saved feeding him over the winter. Which made for a short reign but an extremely merry one, as the summer king would probably pollinate himself to a state of collapse if he was to die in autumn. Lot to be said for a willing sacrifice. I had already heard the definition of an ideal lover: one who turns into a pizza at three am. That sounded sacrificial to me.
    There was Poseidon, god of the sea—we had an apartment called Neptune, the Roman form of Poseidon. Occupied by Jon, a travelling exec who only stayed a week or so, distributed strange sweets and trinkets marked, ie Made in Cambodia, and went off again. He worked for some aid agency and could tell riveting stories if you caught him between assignments. Kylie thought he was wonderful and had hopes of an affair, but whenever she steeled herself to seduce him, he wasn’t there. Thisrather put a damper on the whole thing, but the article said that Neptune was cyclical and would be back with the tide. Then there was Pan, the old god, master of woods and darkness, father of goats. He sounded agreeably rustic and rather dangerous. But you always knew where to find him. Just follow the goats.
    I finished my supper, cleared the table and read the last of the article with my nightcap, a cup of Ovaltine, the sleep drink of my childhood. Osiris, lord of the dead, father of occult wisdom, dark and mysterious, who came by night.
    I closed the
Wiccan Times
and took myself off to bed. Horatio was already reposing next to my pillow. I have a bed big enough to sprawl in and I sprawled, stroking Horatio and thinking, as I fell asleep, that Osiris and Daniel might have had a lot to say to each other …
    I didn’t wake until the alarm clock exploded at four am and the fans came on. In my sleep I had crooked an arm around Horatio and was holding him close. He was bearing this like a good cat but the moment I woke he removed himself and jumped down. My arm was stiff. I must have been hugging poor Horatio all night.
    I got up and did my exercises. I do these when I wake up feeling stiff. I managed to get my elbow uncreased and restore the blood supply to the fingers which held the coffee cup. Then I put on my trackie and went down to start breakfast and the usual routine of the day. I had forgotten to keep any bread for myself so I ate biscuits and marmalade with my coffee and turned on the TV for company.
    Not a good idea. All the international news was as bad as expected and I am, personally, sick of being stuck with a government which gives not one flying … er … fur for the opinions of the people. It’s not as if I voted for Mr