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sarcastic about stairs, but Rose couldn’t understand it, as his mouth was already stuffed with porridge. Rose set to following his example. It was very good porridge.
    Suddenly something silky and furry brushed against Rose’s legs and she squeaked in shock, jumping up in her chair.
    â€œOh, it’s that dratted cat again,” Mrs. Jones exclaimed as a silvery blur shot out from under the table. It resolved itself into a handsome, rather portly, white cat, who jumped up onto the table next to Rose and stared inquisitively into her face. It had one blue eye and one orange one, and enormous whiskers.
    â€œNot on the table, please, Gustavus!” Miss Bridges said, and Rose looked up at her, surprised. Her voice was very polite for someone who was telling off a cat. The orphanage cat had been strictly a mouser and not a pet. He got shouted at a lot, as there were a great many mice, and he probably weighed only half as much as this fine gentleman.
    Gustavus—was the cat really called that?—looked at her thoughtfully and apparently decided to cooperate by sitting on Rose’s lap instead. Then he peered hopefully across the table, eyeing the larder door.
    â€œWell, the cat likes you,” Miss Bridges noted. “That’s useful. Susan, fetch that animal a saucer of cream, will you?”
    Gustavus’s whiskers quivered with excitement, and his tail-tip twitched back and forth against Rose’s leg as Susan disappeared huffily into the cool, stone-floored larder.
    Rose watched him curiously. “Does he understand what you say?” she asked, still staring at him.
    â€œHe’s not natural,” Bill said, and the cat leered at him in a friendly way. Bill shuddered. “Monster.”
    Susan slapped down a gilt-edged saucer in front of Rose, and Gustavus glared at her disapprovingly. The cream had slopped over the edge, and he clearly wasn’t happy about it. Susan sat down and started to eat her porridge, but she only managed one mouthful before she laid the spoon down again. Gustavus was still staring at her.
    â€œOh, very well!” she snarled, and flounced up to fetch a cloth and wipe away the drops. Once the table was clean again, the cat consented to lap delicately at the cream. His whiskers trailed in it, they were so long. At one point he stopped his luxurious lapping and turned around to look at Rose—a very deliberate look, such as Rose would have given to one of the other girls who she’d caught staring at her in church. A What? look.
    â€œSorry,” Rose whispered. “Um. You’ve got cream on your whiskers…”
    And?
    Nothing… Rose twitched, suddenly realizing that she’d said that silently. Or had she? Surely she was imagining this snippy little conversation with a fat white cat.
    Gustavus slowly licked the cream off his whiskers, still staring at her. His tongue was enormously long, and it curled elegantly around his whisker-tips, savoring every drop. Then he turned back to the saucer and resumed his slow, dignified appreciation of the cream.
    â€œBest Jersey cream…” Mrs. Jones muttered to herself, a stricken look in her eyes. “Wasted on a cat!”
    â€œGustavus belongs to Mr. Fountain, Rose,” Miss Bridges told her. “Which explains why he is, er, somewhat indulged.”
    The cat turned back to Rose and winked with the blue eye.
    â€œHe’s obviously taken a fancy to little Rose, though,” Mrs. Jones put in, still looking at the saucer of cream as though it were painful. “Someone has to feed him, so…”
    â€œShe can brush him too then if he likes her so much,” Susan snapped. “He scratches, nasty brute.”
    Well, you’re popular , Rose told the cat without thinking.
    I wouldn’t make a habit of that, dear. Or don’t let them see you doing it, anyway.
    Rose nodded slightly. The cat was right. She had no idea how she was talking to him, but she could