I had a sudden urge to update this, and so, without further ado, here is Mother Plutarque's, M. Mabeuf's and Sultan the cat's situation in two drabbles. I've been working mostly in drabbles lately in an attempt to simplify my prose.
I hope you enjoy the chapter!
Her cat was mewing.
She stirs in her bed, muttering to the animal in her sleep.
"My darling heart," she murmurs, as though far away.
It pains her that her cat is nothing but bones. Lately, however, she can scarcely open her eyes. The cover of darkness, even in daytime, is almost a blessing. She pretends her dearest has eaten.
She cannot see he hasn't.
She can't pretend she doesn't hear the sound of his howls, however, and they drive her nearly mad.
She picks up her cat, her eyes tearing up as she feels his jagged ribs.
"My darling heart…" she sighs.
He is not going to tell her.
No, it is for the best that she does not know.
He has sold his last book. It was his Diogenes Laertius, and his final joy.
The potion Mother Plutarque needs is still too expensive, even with the money brought in from his final book.
This saddens him.
She is sleeping when he enters the room. He dumps the pieces noisily on her table, in secret hopes that she will awaken.
She doesn't.
As he silently exits her chamber, his eyes look upon the cat.
They will eat well.
She will not know.