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of course. Your Fam will be quite helpful in calming you, Camellia,” D’Ash said.
    Maybe, maybe not. Camellia just wanted everything done and to be out of here.

Three
     
    L ong time and I have been VERY good, came a small mental voice.
    D’Ash said, “Yes, you’ve been a very good FamCat.” D’Ash went into a back room and came back with a little calico cat who had large splotches of orange and black, not much white except on her belly.
    “Oooooh!” Glyssa leaned over the exam table. “Pretty.”
    “Yes. Isn’t she, Camellia?”
    “Beautiful.” Her hands itched to hold the cat, young, charming, with the last hint of baby fat. Camellia rose and went to the table.
    The FamCat tilted her head, opened her mouth, and used that extra sense cats had. My FamWoman is beautiful, too. Smellstastes verrry interesting.
    “Thank you,” Camellia reached out.
    The cat leapt from D’Ash’s loose hold to land in Camellia’s arms.
    “There!” D’Ash put her hands on her rounded hips. “A very good job.”
    “D’Ash . . .” Glyssa sent the GreatLady an appeal.
    “I think you’d bond best with a fox kit,” D’Ash said. “The next one I get with good intelligence is yours.”
    “Thank you.” Glyssa shook her head, pulled at a rusty-colored lock of hair that had fallen from the knot at the back of her head. “We’ll match in coloring.”
    The door opened. “It’s been a few minutes. T’Hawthorn is here to have his new cat checked,” T’Ash said.
    Camellia didn’t want the men to come in. Too bad, they’d already crowded into the room, as well as a long-haired black cat. She didn’t look at the younger man who was as tall as T’Ash and moved with a prowling grace. Instead she smoothed out her frown, cuddled her cat closer; the soft rumble of her Fam’s purr vibrated against her arms.
    She felt better holding her FamCat, a symbol of the life she had now, not teenaged dreams that she refused to remember.
    It’s Black! Camellia’s cat squealed. Wriggling away, she jumped onto the bedsponge and hopped a couple of times. Greetyou, Black!
    A young black tom stretched before Camellia in a long leap, landed several centimeters before her smaller calico.
    Camellia made a noise of protest.
    But the larger cat didn’t pounce, just gathered himself into an upright sitting position, leaned over, and bumped noses with the calico—who squeaked and jumped high, alighting on Camellia’s shoulder, which was just big enough for the kit to balance on. You smell . Smell, smell, smell. AWFUL.
    Now that the little cat mentioned it, a new odor had entered the room.
    Camellia found herself stiffening, met Glyssa’s eyes. They recognized the perfume the late Nivea Hawthorn preferred—their old acquaintance, Nivea Sunflower. Who’d scorned them all. That hurt, too. This whole visit was impossible now.
    Did T’Hawthorn need to have a reminder of his dead wife always close? Camellia wouldn’t have thought it, the way that woman had treated him, but men were strange. She found herself breathing too quickly and evened it out.
    “The smell is a problem,” T’Hawthorn said, smoothing a stroke along his cat’s back. More heavy fragrance puffed into the air. “My office has been cleaned, and I took a waterfall and tried to—ah—banish the odor from Brazos, but it didn’t quite work.” His smile was charming. “We need an expert.”
    The calico cat burrowed into Camellia’s shoulder-length hair. Black has a name, now?
    I am a FirstFamily Cat. My name is Brazos.
    The calico licked Camilla’s neck. I need a name, too.
    Unlike most Families on Celta, Darjeeling wasn’t a botanically based name but some sort of ancient Earthan place-name. Camellia had run through several ideas. “Mica.”
    That is a very good name. The little cat sniffed, sneezed. Bad smell tickles my nose. And Mica is prettier than Brazos.
    Glyssa chuckled but moved around the table toward the open door. She bobbed a brief curtsey. “Greetyou,