You know, I always wanted to know," the cat said, slinking around her, disappearing from near her heels, reappearing atop the fabricated kitchen counter.
Her brows knitted, giving the impression that her buttons narrowed.
"Why buttons?" he asked smoothly.
The beldam was seething and silent. The cat said, "Hmm," gathering his hypotheses.
"Is it to lure children? Like a button-eyed stuffed animal?"
She smiled; he was wrong.
"Or perhaps... you have buttons because you're trapped in your own little world."
Her lips wee suddenly thin as wire.
"...That's why even if the door is unlocked, you can't go through."
Her lips didn't seem to be there at all, as if she had chewed them up in frustration.
"You could go through, but then you would be blind. Not to mention, you would stick out too much, like a fish out of water." The cat's eyes smirked and he licked his mouth at the brief mention of aquatic cuisine.
"Who did it to you?" he asked, only to drive the needle further. "Not very talkative. Well, I have to go. It's un-catlike to be in the same place as long as I have."
He hopped off the counter. His feet didn't land on the ground. His paws seeped through the kitchen tiles like the floor was quicksand.
With a 'pop' he had crossed to the other side. His easy retreat poured lemon juice on the beldam's already agitated wound.
