Well. I am not afraid. But to protect you, Katerina, I will be discreet." Plain Kate considered a cat's idea of discretion, and was frightened.

I- I. Sorry. This is what my father would call a fucking unfortunate image.

There is no 'cat language.' Painful as it is for us to admit, they don't need one!

Last time I saw her, she was peeking out from one of the bookcases next to the fireplace. She's the first cat I've ever seen trying to pretend she's a condensed version of War and Peace.

Taggle, meanwhile, made himself popular, killing rats and bringing a rabbit into camp every evening, preening in the praise - silently, thank god, though at night, he recounted choice bits to Kate: "Rye Baro says I am a princeling; he split the leg bone for me so that I could eat the marrow. They love me. And I'm sure they'll keep you, too."
Mira, she thought, and treasured it each time she heard it, They must keep me. Family.

Kate faced the crowd. They were just eyes and teeth to her, just spit and voices. It was a moment, even, before they became people: a man with one blind eye, another whose neck was thick with lumps and weeping wounds of scrofula. The poorest of the market.
At Kate's feet, Drina. Her scarf and shirt were torn open.