A/N; sorry for the delay, just a short up chapter, and also a reminder that the first two chapters are not mine, they are Maxniss Everide's, but chapter 3 and now four are mine. Now, let's get on with the show!
Christine was still holding me as she slipped into bed.
She settled her self back agents the pillows, and me on her lap, still stroking me, as she reached over to the bed side table to retrieve a small volume bound in green leather. It looked like a book of poetry.
Oh, I had imagined scenes like this, when I dreamed of what life would be like with Christine; the warm fire crackling softly in the back ground, my head resting agents my darling's knee, as she read to me.
I had not however, foreseen the fur and tail.
I was still trying to get used to the tail. It seemed to move of it's own accord, without my control. I would have to master it. I wondered if I could use it to pick up small items, such as say, a pen? The state of my handwriting had oft been commented on *, how much worse would my tail writing be?
Christine's hand had stopped stroking me. I gave a stretch and turned my head to see what she was reading that could make her forget her new pet 'Rozen'?
Byron.
Byron! Christine was reading the work of the infamous Lord Byron! Simple, innocent Christine? I'd assumed of the English romantics, she'd be more inclined to Keats, possible some Shelly, but Byron, the rake of Europe, who modeled himself after one of his own anti-heroes? I was myself, well acquainted with the poet's work, I could recite large sections of his Don Juan –it had been a useful source for the libretto of my own opera- but I had would not have thought that Christine…
Her eyes glistened, and her lips moved as she read, and reread.
"When we two parted,
In silence and tears,
Half broken hearted,
To sever for years."**
She whispered the poem to her self, her eyes shining mostly as she did so.
"Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
The sorrow to this."
I knew the poem, and was surprised to hear Christine reading it, over, and over, as if ever word came from her heart.
"the dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow,
It felt like a warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in thy shame."
There was a sudden knock on the door, and both Christine and I nearly jumped out of our skins.
Unceremoniously, a blanket was through over me, and I stifled an urge to hiss as I heard the door open. It was that witch of a landlady.
"Still not asleep?" Inquired the female.
"No, not just yet." My angel replied.
"You really should rest, after all you've been through, but some how, I knew you won't be a bed yet. Young women today, staying up all hours of the night reading, ruining their eyes and singeing their hair by candlelight." The old matron rattled on about the danger of this new craze for education and enlightenment.
"Here, I've brought you some warm milk, sweetened with a bit of lavender sugar, to help you get to sleep."
"Thank you, Madam."
I heard the floor creek as she made her way across the room, and the chink of a glass being set down, then more creeks as she retreated. Then a pause.
"Oh, I saw the dandy fellow hanging around after you came in," I pricked up my ears. The fop. "I gave him a piece of my mind and made sure he cleared off." I might get to like this old woman. "It's not right, pestering a young lady like that." I was really starting to warm to her.
"Goodnight."
"Sleep well."
After she was certain that we were alone, and not likely to be disturbed, Christine whisked the blanket off me.
"Sorry, Rozen, she's really lovely, but she has a thing about cats."
And fops, I added to myself.
Christine rose off the bed, and I followed suit. She picked up the glass, and gave it a sniff, pulling a face. I recalled Christine's rather peculiar habit of only drinking milk if it was near ice cold.
She found as small bowl, and transferred the contents of the glass into it, before setting it down. I padded over, and began to lap at it.
I, unlike Christine, loved milk, in almost any form. I drank happily, enjoying the subtle lavender flavor.
Christine got back into bed, and I finished my milk, feeling slightly embarrassed but still content. I did not rejoin her on the bed. I was still a gentle man, if a cat, I would find my own place to sleep. I settled for a corner near the fire, near enough that I could still see the out line of Christine, but far enough that should the poison wear off in the night, I could escape undisturbed.
Before she sunk completely into sleep, I heard her whisper the last verse of the poem.
"In secret we met–
In silence I grieve,
That my heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee,
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
In silence, and tears."
I wondered the meaning of this, as I too lay down to sleep. How many times had she read that poem? What did she think of as she read it, that made her tears shine with unshed tears? Was it possible, that she thought of me?
*see Lerox.
**Lord Byron, 'When we two parted' verse 1, 2, and 4.