§ § § -- October 30, 1983
Lawrence had set his alarm just to be sure he kept his promise to himself; but when it went off he grumbled and slapped blindly at it for several moments before remembering why he had set it in the first place. "You daft old fool," he muttered to himself, before his conscience prodded him again and he sighed deeply. Now that it was daylight, perhaps they stood some chance of finding the cat.
It was still raining lightly, so he donned a bright-yellow rain slicker and took his umbrella with him. At the last moment he remembered something and went to his tiny kitchen to retrieve a small packet he had bought the previous evening on his way home. Seeing Roarke with the cat treats had given him the idea, and he could only hope it would work.
He worked his way in the general direction of the main house, staring up into every tree he possibly could as he went along and calling now and then, "Here, kitty!" He didn't dare let himself think of the cat as Leslie, the way Roarke did. He'd learned during last night's search that it only baited his conscience all the more, and he felt he was smarting enough as it was.
After about half an hour he paused near a willow tree within sight of the main house. The rain had stopped; the sky was still gray, but solid blue showed toward the west, promising a beautiful day. Heartened by this, Lawrence peered into the tree and called softly, "Hello, kitty, are you there?"
To his enormous amazement, he was rewarded with a loud "MEOW!" Lawrence pulled himself up straight with startlement, listening to the repeated noise while it grew from mere meowing into the strange feline singsong peculiar to the Siamese breed. There was something almost human about the sound, and Lawrence actually muttered aloud to his conscience, "Oh, do shut up!"
The cat's wailing had an unexpected side effect: the door to the main house opened, and Roarke strode across the porch, drawn by the noise. Just at the top of the steps to the sidewalk, he spied Lawrence in front of the willow tree, and paused to watch with interest while Lawrence dug around in a pocket and pulled out a wad of something Roarke couldn't quite recognize from this distance. Slowly Lawrence extended his arm into the leaves, all the while crooning soothing noises. Roarke advanced a little farther, enormously curious and hopeful.
"Lawrence?" he questioned, just above a whisper.
"Good morning, sir," responded Lawrence in the same soft singsong tones he was using on the cat. Roarke was close enough now to spot his assistant's quarry crouching in a fork in the tree trunk, and ascertained with great amusement that Lawrence was doing his utmost to charm the cat out of the tree with the biggest wad of catnip Roarke had ever seen!
Once Roarke came into its sight, the cat had ceased its meowing, and now was eyeing Lawrence suspiciously. Lawrence partially loosened his grip on the catnip and dangled it temptingly in front of the huge blue eyes. "Come on, kitty," he coaxed, "it's all right now..."
All at once the nature of the cat's crouch changed; and before Roarke could give any warning, the Siamese leaped. Roarke took two quick steps back as the cat landed atop Lawrence, who went down with a startled shout and let the catnip fly. Both he and the animal were covered with the stuff. Roarke gave Lawrence a hand; and as the Englishman was gaining his footing they both heard a peculiar pop, just like the previous evening. Instantly they looked around, just in time to see Leslie sneeze. She shook her head hard, sneezed again, picked herself up and doubled over -- still sneezing.
Deeply relieved that she seemed all right otherwise, Roarke pulled her to him and brushed some of the catnip off her bedraggled clothing. "Leslie, are you all right, child?" he asked anxiously.
She let loose one last sneeze, coughed hard for a moment, and finally gave Roarke a plaintive look. "I'm allergic to catnip," she croaked in a startlingly hoarse voice.
Roarke and Lawrence looked at each other in surprise and then began to laugh, as much from relief as anything else. Leslie shot them both a disgusted glare, then sneezed explosively, prompting a chuckling Roarke to lead her back to the main house with a reassuring arm around her shoulders. Lawrence followed them along, curious to hear Leslie's story.
Inside the main house, Roarke detained his daughter for a moment. "Before you go up, Leslie," he said, "I have just one question. Do you remember anything about having been a cat?"
Leslie stopped where she stood, thought it over for a moment and then shook her head. "No, I don't think so," she said. "The last thing I remember after I drank the potion was feeling like someone was rearranging my insides, and then I guess I must have fainted or something. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground with catnip all over me, sneezing my lungs out."
Roarke chuckled again. "I see," he said. To Lawrence he remarked, "The catnip was a very good idea, Lawrence. Thank you for your efforts this morning."
"You're quite welcome, sir," Lawrence said. "I think I should get some breakfast, if you don't mind."
"By all means," Roarke agreed, and Lawrence departed. Roarke then went to Leslie and smoothed her tangled hair, dislodging some catnip as he did so. "It would appear, from what happened this morning, that catnip reverses the potion's effects," he said thoughtfully. "I'll have to test it further, I'm afraid."
"Not on me," Leslie said immediately, meaning to be firm, but sounding pleading instead.
Roarke smiled. "No, you have endured more than enough," he said. "I'll try to think of some compensation. Meantime, I suggest you take a long, relaxing bath, and then rest for the day. Since cats are nocturnal creatures, I suspect you were probably awake all night; so try to get some sleep."
"Best idea I've heard all weekend," Leslie said, and Roarke smiled as she headed up the stairs, yawning and letting out one more sneeze on the way.
§ § § -- October 31, 1983
Leslie seemed back to normal the next morning as the trio saw their weekend guests off on the charter; but she still looked a little pale, and at least one of the departing guests had asked if she was feeling all right. Roarke had noted with some concern that she had eaten nothing at all the previous day and was beginning to wonder if he should take her to the doctor.
Once the plane was safely in the air, Roarke and Lawrence both turned to Leslie curiously and Roarke gave voice to his thoughts. "Are you sure you're feeling all right, Leslie?"
She cocked her head quizzically, and Lawrence scowled at her. "For heaven's sake, miss," he said somewhat impatiently, "you haven't spoken a solitary word all morning."
Roarke eyed him. "If you ask her whether the cat has her tongue, Lawrence, you will be the recipient of the next test version of the potion." Lawrence looked revolted enough by this threat to subside.
All of a sudden there was a horrible noise from Roarke's right, and both men turned sharply as Leslie choked, gagged and began to cough violently, doubling over away from them. She bent so low towards the ground that Roarke caught her at the waist to keep her from falling over. At last, after several agonizing minutes, she slowly straightened, clutching her stomach. Her face was paler than ever.
"What on earth happened to you, miss?" Lawrence demanded in fascination.
Leslie spared him only an irritated glance. "Mr. Roarke," she began, but her voice croaked to the point of unrecognizability, and she winced sharply when she tried to clear her throat. Quickly Roarke signaled one of the native girls, who brought Leslie a glass of pineapple juice. Her expression was one of profound gratitude as she drank without stopping for so much as a breath.
When she lowered the empty glass, Roarke inquired insistently, "Are you all right?"
Leslie sighed deeply, hummed for a moment to test her voice, then finally nodded at Roarke. "I think so, now anyway."
"So what happened?" Lawrence persisted. "Were you sick, or what?"
Leslie rolled her eyes. "Mr. Roarke, I think you're just going to have to tell that J. Anderson Rollins to think up some other fantasy to live out. There's no way that potion's going to work in its current state, because that's the fifth hairball I've coughed up since yesterday afternoon!"
Roarke stared at her in shock, and Lawrence groaned aloud. "I knew there was some reason I disliked cats," he said to no one in particular, and with that stalked away from them. Leslie scowled after him, while Roarke lost his battle to suppress his hearty laughter.
THE END
Lawrence had set his alarm just to be sure he kept his promise to himself; but when it went off he grumbled and slapped blindly at it for several moments before remembering why he had set it in the first place. "You daft old fool," he muttered to himself, before his conscience prodded him again and he sighed deeply. Now that it was daylight, perhaps they stood some chance of finding the cat.
It was still raining lightly, so he donned a bright-yellow rain slicker and took his umbrella with him. At the last moment he remembered something and went to his tiny kitchen to retrieve a small packet he had bought the previous evening on his way home. Seeing Roarke with the cat treats had given him the idea, and he could only hope it would work.
He worked his way in the general direction of the main house, staring up into every tree he possibly could as he went along and calling now and then, "Here, kitty!" He didn't dare let himself think of the cat as Leslie, the way Roarke did. He'd learned during last night's search that it only baited his conscience all the more, and he felt he was smarting enough as it was.
After about half an hour he paused near a willow tree within sight of the main house. The rain had stopped; the sky was still gray, but solid blue showed toward the west, promising a beautiful day. Heartened by this, Lawrence peered into the tree and called softly, "Hello, kitty, are you there?"
To his enormous amazement, he was rewarded with a loud "MEOW!" Lawrence pulled himself up straight with startlement, listening to the repeated noise while it grew from mere meowing into the strange feline singsong peculiar to the Siamese breed. There was something almost human about the sound, and Lawrence actually muttered aloud to his conscience, "Oh, do shut up!"
The cat's wailing had an unexpected side effect: the door to the main house opened, and Roarke strode across the porch, drawn by the noise. Just at the top of the steps to the sidewalk, he spied Lawrence in front of the willow tree, and paused to watch with interest while Lawrence dug around in a pocket and pulled out a wad of something Roarke couldn't quite recognize from this distance. Slowly Lawrence extended his arm into the leaves, all the while crooning soothing noises. Roarke advanced a little farther, enormously curious and hopeful.
"Lawrence?" he questioned, just above a whisper.
"Good morning, sir," responded Lawrence in the same soft singsong tones he was using on the cat. Roarke was close enough now to spot his assistant's quarry crouching in a fork in the tree trunk, and ascertained with great amusement that Lawrence was doing his utmost to charm the cat out of the tree with the biggest wad of catnip Roarke had ever seen!
Once Roarke came into its sight, the cat had ceased its meowing, and now was eyeing Lawrence suspiciously. Lawrence partially loosened his grip on the catnip and dangled it temptingly in front of the huge blue eyes. "Come on, kitty," he coaxed, "it's all right now..."
All at once the nature of the cat's crouch changed; and before Roarke could give any warning, the Siamese leaped. Roarke took two quick steps back as the cat landed atop Lawrence, who went down with a startled shout and let the catnip fly. Both he and the animal were covered with the stuff. Roarke gave Lawrence a hand; and as the Englishman was gaining his footing they both heard a peculiar pop, just like the previous evening. Instantly they looked around, just in time to see Leslie sneeze. She shook her head hard, sneezed again, picked herself up and doubled over -- still sneezing.
Deeply relieved that she seemed all right otherwise, Roarke pulled her to him and brushed some of the catnip off her bedraggled clothing. "Leslie, are you all right, child?" he asked anxiously.
She let loose one last sneeze, coughed hard for a moment, and finally gave Roarke a plaintive look. "I'm allergic to catnip," she croaked in a startlingly hoarse voice.
Roarke and Lawrence looked at each other in surprise and then began to laugh, as much from relief as anything else. Leslie shot them both a disgusted glare, then sneezed explosively, prompting a chuckling Roarke to lead her back to the main house with a reassuring arm around her shoulders. Lawrence followed them along, curious to hear Leslie's story.
Inside the main house, Roarke detained his daughter for a moment. "Before you go up, Leslie," he said, "I have just one question. Do you remember anything about having been a cat?"
Leslie stopped where she stood, thought it over for a moment and then shook her head. "No, I don't think so," she said. "The last thing I remember after I drank the potion was feeling like someone was rearranging my insides, and then I guess I must have fainted or something. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground with catnip all over me, sneezing my lungs out."
Roarke chuckled again. "I see," he said. To Lawrence he remarked, "The catnip was a very good idea, Lawrence. Thank you for your efforts this morning."
"You're quite welcome, sir," Lawrence said. "I think I should get some breakfast, if you don't mind."
"By all means," Roarke agreed, and Lawrence departed. Roarke then went to Leslie and smoothed her tangled hair, dislodging some catnip as he did so. "It would appear, from what happened this morning, that catnip reverses the potion's effects," he said thoughtfully. "I'll have to test it further, I'm afraid."
"Not on me," Leslie said immediately, meaning to be firm, but sounding pleading instead.
Roarke smiled. "No, you have endured more than enough," he said. "I'll try to think of some compensation. Meantime, I suggest you take a long, relaxing bath, and then rest for the day. Since cats are nocturnal creatures, I suspect you were probably awake all night; so try to get some sleep."
"Best idea I've heard all weekend," Leslie said, and Roarke smiled as she headed up the stairs, yawning and letting out one more sneeze on the way.
§ § § -- October 31, 1983
Leslie seemed back to normal the next morning as the trio saw their weekend guests off on the charter; but she still looked a little pale, and at least one of the departing guests had asked if she was feeling all right. Roarke had noted with some concern that she had eaten nothing at all the previous day and was beginning to wonder if he should take her to the doctor.
Once the plane was safely in the air, Roarke and Lawrence both turned to Leslie curiously and Roarke gave voice to his thoughts. "Are you sure you're feeling all right, Leslie?"
She cocked her head quizzically, and Lawrence scowled at her. "For heaven's sake, miss," he said somewhat impatiently, "you haven't spoken a solitary word all morning."
Roarke eyed him. "If you ask her whether the cat has her tongue, Lawrence, you will be the recipient of the next test version of the potion." Lawrence looked revolted enough by this threat to subside.
All of a sudden there was a horrible noise from Roarke's right, and both men turned sharply as Leslie choked, gagged and began to cough violently, doubling over away from them. She bent so low towards the ground that Roarke caught her at the waist to keep her from falling over. At last, after several agonizing minutes, she slowly straightened, clutching her stomach. Her face was paler than ever.
"What on earth happened to you, miss?" Lawrence demanded in fascination.
Leslie spared him only an irritated glance. "Mr. Roarke," she began, but her voice croaked to the point of unrecognizability, and she winced sharply when she tried to clear her throat. Quickly Roarke signaled one of the native girls, who brought Leslie a glass of pineapple juice. Her expression was one of profound gratitude as she drank without stopping for so much as a breath.
When she lowered the empty glass, Roarke inquired insistently, "Are you all right?"
Leslie sighed deeply, hummed for a moment to test her voice, then finally nodded at Roarke. "I think so, now anyway."
"So what happened?" Lawrence persisted. "Were you sick, or what?"
Leslie rolled her eyes. "Mr. Roarke, I think you're just going to have to tell that J. Anderson Rollins to think up some other fantasy to live out. There's no way that potion's going to work in its current state, because that's the fifth hairball I've coughed up since yesterday afternoon!"
Roarke stared at her in shock, and Lawrence groaned aloud. "I knew there was some reason I disliked cats," he said to no one in particular, and with that stalked away from them. Leslie scowled after him, while Roarke lost his battle to suppress his hearty laughter.
THE END