True Grey (34 page)

That left Chris and Jerry, therefore, to fill the overnight shifts. And while Trista dragged Dulcie out as often as she could – Dulcie still had no idea how her friend functioned on so little sleep – most nights found Dulcie in the apartment, with Esmé, poring over her notes. Subsequent days in the Mildon had unearthed a trove of compelling scenes, all written in the elegant, if nearly illegible slanted handwriting. The connection between her author and the red-haired – or was it dark? – man still puzzled her. There was something her author was hiding. Something she did not dare write about, except obliquely, and Dulcie was on its trail.

When she wasn't working, Dulcie was puzzling over the mysteries left behind by Melinda Sloane Harquist. The dean, it turned out, hadn't been Melinda's father. She had used him, he had confessed finally, leading him to believe that there was a link, and laughed when he had uncovered the truth. That was what had pushed him over the edge. Not the heartbreak, which he had assumed she would share. But the scorn. It was the kind of story that made Dulcie grateful for her own family, as wacky and disconnected as it might be.

Esmé seemed to think this solved everything, although she didn't bother explaining herself to Dulcie. Beyond a certain feline look of satisfaction at how everything had played out, the little cat still didn't speak much. If anything, she seemed to imply, it was Dulcie's fault if there were any breakdowns in communication.

‘
I was sitting on her computer,
' Dulcie heard quite clearly late one night. She'd been half asleep, lying in bed, but she could see Esmé on the window sill, silhouetted in the moonlight. ‘
What more did she want me to do?
'

Dulcie had strained to hear the reply, knowing it had to come from her senior pet. All she'd heard, though, was a rustling of the curtains as Esmé jumped down, heading for the kitchen. As September ended, the nights were getting frosty, and Dulcie got up to close the window, then followed after her pet in time to hear one final snippet.

‘
I'm the cat of the household now. That's my job.
'

‘
I know, little one.
' This time, the silhouette in the window was larger; the luxuriant whiskers outlined in the bright light. ‘
And that's why I chose you both.
'

Dulcie paused, waiting. At her feet, she saw the tuxedo cat pause as well, looking up first at the moonlit window and then back to Dulcie.

‘
You
chose
us? I thought . . .
' Dulcie had rarely heard Esmé sound unsure before, but she resisted the urge to comfort the young cat with a cuddle. ‘
Surely, from the fur . . . from the whiskers. Aren't we . . .?
'

‘
We
are
family, little one. All of us are family here.
' As Dulcie watched the window, she felt the soft, warm pressure of Esmé leaning against her bare shin. ‘
Haven't the last few weeks taught you anything about the ties that bring us together, little one?
'

Dulcie froze. Was Mr Grey talking to Esmé – or to her? She thought of her author, of a red-haired man. Of what mattered most.

‘
What matter flesh or blood, fur or whiskers?
' the voice said. ‘
What are these compared to the bonds that hold us? For we are bound to each other, little ones, each in our roles. Bound by love.
'

Dulcie felt, rather than heard, the purr that filled the kitchen. Standing in the moonlight, she lifted the little cat and buried her face in the soft, dark fur.

That's how Chris found them, curled in bed, when Mr Grey welcomed him home later that night, asleep together as the bright moon set.