Since the honorable Baron Bustopher Jones had been invited out to a dinner party at a Gentleman's club, and since Mistoffelees had begged off the event claiming all sorts of ailments, he and Victoria were sitting several nights later in the drawing room. Since their first conversation in the library, they had been talking more often, and in this instance he had offered to teach her at least the basics of playing chess, an occupation they were currently engaged in.

The door to the drawing room opened and Mistoffelees' mother, Serafine Quaxo, entered, her dark blue satin and black velvet gown sweeping the floor behind her. She paused at the sight of both her son and niece seated in the drawing room, having rarely seen Mistoffelees since his return from his tour of the continent. Sera settled herself quietly in a chair nearby, drawing an embroidery stand with a half-finished tapestry attached to it nearer and turned half of her attention to her work there.

The quiet but enjoyable conversation between Mistoffelees and his cousin stilled at the entrance of the older queen. Mistoffelees was never quite sure what to make of his mother, and perhaps more than a little hypocritically could not quite forgive her for coming back to his uncle when he was just a kit. "Mother," he greeted, voice more chilled than it had been to Victoria. "Good evening."

Serafine looked up, meeting her son's gaze, "And good evening to you as well, Mistoffelees. I hope it finds you well?"

Victoria glanced from her aunt to her cousin, her black-tipped ears flickering slightly at the change in atmosphere at Serafine's entrance.

"As well as can be expected considering I was not feeling well enough to join my uncle this evening," he replied, hedging the answer as much as he could. "How does the evening find yourself?"

Serafine's lips twitched into a private smile, "It finds me quite well. I am glad to find you feeling improved over earlier this evening, I know that the dinner parties can often only aggravate ailments."

"Perhaps it is the thought of being out among possibly disagreeable company that makes one feel worse at the very thought," Mistoffelees said after a moment's hesitation and slight frown. "Once that threat is removed, one may relax again."

"I find that, unfortunately, that is often an accurate assessment. And goodness knows the amount of brandy consumed at such a meal is hardly helping to an evening's feeling of delicacy," the lady of the house replied quietly. The number of parties she'd begged off of due to a headache or a feeling of faintness came to mind.

His smile at that was half genuine and half bitter. "Rather," he replied. "It is hardly the situation one wants to put oneself in if one is already feeling off balance."

"Very true, but I am pleased to hear that you are feeling well enough to join your cousin and myself this evening." Sera's golden gaze trailed to Victoria, offering her a faint smile, "How are you this evening, my dear?"

"Quite well, Aunt," the white queen murmured in reply.

"And how is your game going?" the question was directed to either of the two younger cats.

Mistoffelees glanced over at Victoria, offering her a warmer smile than his mother had come close to. "I believe it is going well as can be expected. Are you enjoying it?" he asked his cousin.

She returned the smile, nodding very slightly, "I am." Her gaze darted to her aunt, "But my cousin is too kind. I have this feeling that teaching me is rather holding him back from his usual challenge."

"One does not always need a challenge when one is in enjoyable company," the black tom replied. "Besides, I find that teaching someone else something allows you to look at it with new eyes. Not enough I would wish to ever become a full time teacher of course, but it can sometimes make something old and familiar look fresh and new."

Victoria inclined her head as she conceded the point, "I suppose that likely is true, and I thank you again for offering to teach me." Serafine remained silent as she watched the two young cats from behind her embroidery.

He shrugged the compliment off. "It's more enjoyable to spend an evening in company than alone," he said. "And this is a nice, mostly quiet engagement that I am quite enjoying. You're welcome then, I suppose, but it is really not too much bother."

His cousin offered him another smile before turning her attention back to the chessboard. Serafine's gaze moved to her son, uncertain how to broach any subject with him, "Have you seen any of your old schoolmates since returning to the city?"

He glanced over, not quite welcoming the conversation but not disregarding it either. "Yes, a few close friends who are also in town. We tend to dine together throughout the week and that habit has not much changed, though it is now less frequent. As to many more distant acquaintances, however, I rarely see them. However, uncle has been kind enough—" the way he said it was far too bitter for him to be entirely truthful—"to introduce me to more of his own set, as well as several business professionals."

Sera's lips quirked upward slightly at the tone, her own nearly matching his, "Yes, your uncle can be very obliging when welcoming someone home and into his set."

Victoria glanced from one to the other, having heard the tone from her aunt more than once in the many years that the older queen had lived with them. It usually came shortly after a conversation in harsh tones behind her father's closed study door. Mistoffelees himself arched a brow slightly at that. "He tries in different ways," he replied, voice a bit wary.

"Oh, undoubtedly. He most assuredly would try differently for his declared heir than for his wayward sister."

That got a long blink out of the black tom, as he glanced a little shame-faced at his cousin before turning his gaze back to his mother. "Not particularly," he said finally, realizing that was saying far too much, and implying far too much bitterness, but he had come there that evening to play an enjoyable chess game, not dance around his mother and their unresolved issues. "After all, declared heir or not, I am just your child and he expresses far little more than disapproval."

"For that I do apologize. My brother has a tendency to..." here she broke off, remembering her place and the presence of said brother's child in the room.

Victoria glanced between them again before rising, "I must beg your pardons, but I just remembered that I agreed to join Charlotte Fairbanks tomorrow morning. I should retire for the night. Good evening, Mistoffelees. Good evening, Aunt Sera."

Mistoffelees bit the inside of his lip, nodding to his cousin. "Good evening, Victoria. Perhaps we shall have a chance to work on the chess game more later." He turned to glance at his mother. "I feel my headache returning," he murmured. "So I believe I shall retire for the evening as well."

Serafine looked from one to the other before nodding very slightly, "Of course. Good evening to the both of you."

Mistoffelees inclined his head to her before all but retreating upstairs, settling back into his chambers at the top of the house, staring out the window for quite a while before finally allowing himself to settle enough to sleep.

Victoria dipped a slight curtsy to her aunt before retreating to her rooms for the remainder of the evening. Sera sat, her gaze focused pensively on the fire in the grate as she considered what she could possibly do to ever bridge the gap that was painfully apparent between herself and her son.

v.v.v.v

Several days later found Mistoffelees standing under the awning of a shop, staring with resignation at the rainstorm currently pouring forth its contents over London. He had left the house in too much of a rush, forgetting entirely an umbrella and his hat was hardly sufficient considering how much rain was coming down, and there were no cabs in sight.

Sighing, he shifted the parcel he had set out to pick up for his uncle, giving the sky a hopeful gaze, alas to no avail.

Coricopat Zimmerman made his way down the street, sheltered beneath an expansive umbrella, the collar of his overcoat turned up against any stray raindrops that might get past the cover over his head. He stepped under the awning of a shop, closing the umbrella enough to shake it out a bit as he let a few people pass by in far more of a hurry than he was. He had been rather hoping to sight a cab rather than return to his flat entirely by way of shank's mare, but it appeared that was not to be.

Still focused mostly on the sky, it took Mistoffelees more than a moment to turn enough to notice that one of the cats passing under his shelter was in fact one known to him. Not that he was entirely sure what to do with the appearance of the lawyer however. "Mr. Zimmerman," he greeted finally. "Good day."

The solicitor startled slightly, turning to the younger cat and tipping his hat, "Good day to you, Mr. Quaxo." His mind quickly flickered back to his conversation with Mac, 'tried and true'.

"How does this day find you?" the smaller tom asked, appraising the mottled tom's demeanor. "Other than damp of course."

"Beyond damp it finds me quite well. I am returning home, actually. And yourself? How does this day find you?"

"Lacking in essential survival gear, but otherwise well enough. It's a fine day, even if the sky is determined to keep crying."

A smile flitted across Coricopat's features at that, "Are you returning home, then, si—Mr. Quaxo?"

Eyebrow arching somewhat at the caught honorific, Mistoffelees nodded. "Yes, I was sent out to pick something up for my uncle, but the wetness of the moment is delaying me. Not enough to cause a problem, of course, but it is somewhat aggravating."

There was a long hesitation before the mottled tom spoke again, "I happen to be going at least part of the way in the direction of St. James Street. If you are not averse to it, you are welcome to share the shelter of my umbrella. At least until a cab can be found and hailed."

The smaller cat blinked for a moment and then he nodded. "If, I mean, if you would not mind, that would be quite wonderful. I could stand here for hours after all waiting for the rain to stop, only to have it give up the moment I was finally back inside soaking wet. I wouldn't wish to impose upon you however."

"It is no imposition. As I said, I am already heading in that general direction," Coricopat opened the umbrella fully again, "Shall we?"

"It is your umbrella, you may lead the way," Mistoffelees said, gesturing. "I am ready whenever you might be." He stepped up to the side of the other, already placing himself under said umbrella.

Cori inclined his head in acknowledgment before stepping out from under the awning and turning his steps toward his flat, "How have you been of late, Mr. Quaxo?"

Mistoffelees' brows went up again at the question, but he nodded. "Well enough. Things have been relatively quiet of late, and I only hope it is not the quiet before the storm. Life moves differently here than in Oxford." Less of it moving differently in London, than it did under Jones' roof.

"I would imagine it does. There is a great deal of difference between the capitol and a city of students, even such a prestigious one as Oxford. It is good to hear you have been doing at least well enough."

"Yes, well, London still carries the mark of plenty of students passing through," Mistoffelees replied. "We just don't rule the place in quite the same way. Or, I should say, they don't rule the place now I suppose. It is strange after almost twenty years to no longer be counted among their number, though I suppose one could always call oneself a student of life, though people rarely do." He realized what he was saying and snapped his mouth shut. "Besides, it is a change to live among others of your age and old professors to living in a household such as my uncle's."

"It is rather difficult to count oneself a student of life when one is in a position where what one has already learned is the strongest necessity," Coricopat murmured. "I can see how it would be a great change to go from the freedom of schoolmates and time spent among them to the requirements of heirship and households."

If his ears hadn't been flat already under the hat he was wearing, they would have flickered then. "Hypothetically speaking," he murmured, unsure whether that was to Coricopat's first statement or his second. He would swear aloud to anyone else it was the first though. "Freedom is still allowed an heir," he said finally after several steps in silence, as if he needed to justify that entire situation. "But the feel of a place is different, between a palace and a schoolroom."

"I do beg your pardon, I fear I have spoken out of turn and said something to offend you again," came the quiet response. "I presume too much. As you say, there is a vast difference between a palace and a schoolroom, though perhaps both have something to teach one?"

"But so few people presume too much, it's a novelty," Mistoffelees murmured. "You could do it as a party trick, and society would adore you." He paused, actually considering the more serious side of the other's words. "Every place has something to teach one, the question is whether it's a lesson one wishes to learn or not."

"I am certain society would throw me out on my ear should it become a regular habit." He thought for a moment before replying to the thought of the lessons, "Even hard lessons are of use at a later date. The unpalatable ones are often the ones we find were most effective in future dealings."

"Well, making a regular habit of it would mean the novelty would wear off, and that's society's most unforgivable sin," Mistoffelees replied, rolling a shoulder. "I never said the lessons one wished not to learn weren't the hard ones, though it's an easy enough assumption to make. Rather, lessons learned about society and the people around you, while not being the hard, painful knocks most regret, may make the world a bleaker place in smaller ways. The ghosts in the attic you'd rather not know." He was a little unsure what to make of joking in one breath and discussing hard won understanding in the next.

Corciopat's smile trended toward bitter, "Oh the ghosts in the attic. Do not think it's only those of society and the people around you who have them. There is a horror that haunts everycat, no matter their station, though the further up the class ladder the harder one strives to hide it I suspect."

"Did I ever imply it was just those at the top of society?" Mistoffelees inquired. "I certainly never meant to, as I am well aware are levels of society, and even that layer underneath that claims no part in society all have attics."

"I have done it again, haven't I? I fear that it may be better for me to not speak when I am in your company as I seem incapable of not giving offense." Coricopat spoke softly, "I fear that I have dealt too long with those of your station who do not recall that there are other levels of society that have secrets and feelings and hopes and dreams and sorrows."

Mistoffelees considered him for a long moment. "Beside the fact I think the majority of my social class was just insulted—not unjustifiably so, however—I find this idea you cannot seem to speak in front of me while you seem to get on fine in front of my uncle an interesting one."

"Perhaps if I returned to calling you 'sir' that would change, but I can't be certain of that. I do find myself begging your pardon again. I am usually alone with such thoughts after a day at the office."

"Well, perhaps those thoughts need more voice then," Mistoffelees said with his eyebrows still arched. "They seem like they've just been dying to get out. Furthermore, I stand by what I asked earlier. No sirs if you can help it please."

"And I shall still try to avoid calling you such," the solicitor fell silent rather than risk saying anything further that might offend the small black tom.

"You've been doing remarkably well so far," Mistoffelees told him, glancing out over the glistening wet street rather than actually look at the other tom.

"I...have a good deal of practice catering to unexpected whims. I really must voice my concern over the familiarity though."

"I'm young enough to be familiar," Mistoffelees informed him. "It's much more for my own sanity than society anyway." One ear flickered up before laying flat again at the mention of whims, wondering if the other knew exactly what a window that gave into his life. "Would familiarity really be such a bad thing?"

"Between a businessman and a client, and quite honestly, between a man of my station and one of yours, yes. There are the societal norms that, even if they are more trouble than they can be worth sometimes, must be observed at least casually. The term of address you've requested is hardly suitable for who you are. Not to mention the fact that should we continue to do business you are my employer just as much as my client and therefore due a good deal of respect that the term of address I would use for another in the professions seems rather inadequate," Coricopat stopped, glancing warily at the other as he realized that he had just offered a lecture rather than a simple answer.

Mistoffelees just tilted his head, as he considered that entire spiel, well aware it had been more of a lecture than anything. "I suppose what I find most interesting," he mused without rancor. "Is the fact you find it acceptable to lecture me but not be familiar. Besides which, the entire conversation hinges of me wishing to be who I am, and the fact that you wish to constantly to remind me. Maybe it's idealistic and foolish to expect anything else from any situation and you are perhaps the more correct in this situation, but can you really blame me for wishing?"

"I...am entirely at a loss as to how to respond to that question, I must admit. To say yes is to obviously run parallel to society but counter to you and to reply no is something that I am sure would have my father, God rest his soul, rolling in his grave. If you were not who you are, which mind you is not something you can change at the drop of a hat or the shedding of an honorific, who would you wish to be?"

"Then say what you wish to say," Mistoffelees responded. "Perhaps that is easier for someone in my position to say than someone in yours, but if I really minded you speaking honestly, do you not think you would be abundantly aware of that at the moment? As to who I would be I—" he cut off and looked away again. "I could hardly tell. There are so many lives one could lead but no way to do so. Running away to join a gypsy caravan sounds romantic until one realizes one would never actually do such a thing."

"You would rather join the wandering gypsies than live in society?" The lawyer glanced at the smaller tom in disbelief, "I am not certain it is so much a would never as a could never. Whether you like it or not you have been brought up amidst wealth and it would be a difficult thing indeed to shed the habits that such a position avails one of." His grey gaze strayed to the rain that poured off of the edges of the umbrella, his thoughts moving to his father who had been a younger son and his mother who had been a daughter of a small lord. They had never lived within their means.

"I am still here, am I not?" he replied, voice dropping slightly. "I haven't run away yet though some days make me consider it. To live completely outside of society though, can you not see how that could be appealing to one who can't breathe wrong but all of society would be discussing it. The freedom to move and travel and live as one wanted, isn't that an ideal? The truth would be much worse, I am sure, but without ideals and dreams, where would one be?"

"One would be living for what occurs today rather than what they cannot reach tomorrow," Cori replied almost testily.

Mistoffelees' head actually flinched back slightly at that. "What of when what occurs today is an endless cycle of dancing around in circles with your companions, rarely saying what you truly feel or think, or being molded to what you're not. What of when your todays are at the whims of Bustopher Jones?" he asked, voice entirely soft and almost too quiet too be heard over the sound of rain on the flagstones and other cat's steps. "Why do you take cats having dreams as a personal affront?"

"Because they do more harm than good. You have to daily deal with the whims of your uncle, true. I have daily to deal with the whims of a half dozen clients all of comparable pride, if not standing, as he does. Achievable dreams are one thing, those that are no more than fantasy harm the dreamer and those closest to them. They always have," Coricopat knew that he had only half answered the question, but he wasn't certain he wished to delve any deeper into that.

"You go home and live, I presume, by yourself, or at least to your own discretion," Mistoffelees replied. "My entire life is plotted out by another's whims. I have a say in what I wear during a day. I have less say in anything else. If I'm lucky, I'll get a passing remark on whom I shall end up with as a wife, or on what profession I shall finally have to settle upon. I am sorry for whoever's dreams harmed you, but can you really claim to understand my life, no matter how much time you spend dancing around the edge of my world?"

"I do not claim to understand your life, anymore than you can claim to understand mine," the mottled tom replied tersely. "I beg pardon for appearing to do so, but you really do have no idea of what goes on outside your circle, no matter how much you may like to believe you do. I am sorry that you find my opinions distasteful, but they are just that. My opinions, which I do have a right to. Yes, now I return home to my own flat to spend my evenings alone with a book or with paperwork that simply must be completed by the next morning or risk a cut in pay for the services of my firm. It was not always so. Law and pandering to the wishes of others for the rest of my living days was certainly not a wish I had as a kit, but here I stand, trapped inextricably within the path of treading as though on eggshells around cats like you and others of your class who claim one minute to find honesty a potentially interesting 'parlor trick' and the next take offense at an honestly stated opinion."

Mistoffelees bit back the childish wish to say that the mottled tom had taken offense with the conversation before he had. It took him a long moment before he could come up with any other civil answer however. "I still appreciate your honesty," he said softly, paying more attention to the cobblestones than the other. "That doesn't mean I always agree with your opinions, nor does it mean honesty cannot cut deep. It's still more refreshing to talk with you than most of the cats I do day to day. But why does it bother you so much? Or are you just taking out pent up aggression out of me, in which case you're as much of a hypocrite as anyone."

"Dreams fade, leaving rather decent holes in their place. Hopes grow rusty and disintegrate beneath the harsh light of reality and leave the ones who were supporting those with said hopes holding broken shells. Dreamers cannot survive, nor can those who live on false promises given by them."

"You're right, dreamers can't survive," Mistoffelees said, finally looking back up at him. "If they instead come out of their cocoons as very bitter men instead. I'm sorry for whoever made you into that, but I disagree. Dreamers are the only ones who change the world, but they need the architects and engineers to back them up. Dreamers can survive, they just can't do it on their own."

"Dreamers reach for the unattainable, and though they are beautiful spirits while their hopes lie within their grasps, or even while they still believe that they are, the disappointment breaks them as a stone might break a bird's wing. The tragedy of it is agonizing. For those few lucky ones who have support, they have to battle past said architects and engineers' own personal convictions. By the time they have, you often find those few lucky ones in even fewer numbers than when they first began," Coricopat sighed heavily, shaking his head. "It is better not to dream than for said dreams to fall by the wayside and lie forgotten until the years decay them into faint memories that lead only to regret."

"How does the entire world not know you're a broken shell of a man anymore?" Mistoffelees exclaimed. "If your view of the world is that harsh and bleak, I'm surprised they haven't found you dead in a ditch yet."

Coricopat's jaw tensed at that, "There are more important things than my bitterness to keep me here and active in the daily charade of life. I have family and friends who need the balance of a quiet word here and there. I am not certain my partner wouldn't have me resurrected just to kill me again in order to express his anger at having me dead in a ditch."

"I suddenly don't want to know what you go home to," Mistoffelees managed to tell him. "It seems unbearably dreary. Do you step on butterflies too, just for the fun of it?"

"No, I happen to avoid anything of such overtly and physically cruel nature. I find a good book, a cup of tea, and a warm fire often take the edge off of this. You happened to catch me at the end of a long day of dealing with engagement papers. I rarely do well dealing with papers dictating the way a person's life shall have to go from this day forth."

"I'm sorry," Mistoffelees murmured. "But you did sort of set yourself up for that with your career choice. It still... can't be fun though."

"I believe I've already mentioned not wanting the position in the first place, but that is neither here nor there now." He paused on the stoop of a dark wood door with a brass knocker, "This is my home. I would invite you up, but I do believe you should deliver that package to your uncle, hm? Feel free to keep the umbrella until such time as we might encounter one another again, the likelihood of a cab between here and St. James is minimal."

Mistoffelees blinked, honestly surprised. He'd been so caught up in the conversation he had in fact completely forgotten to even look for a cab off the street. "Oh. Oh, yes, of course, thank you very much for letting me use it this far," he said, voice contending to his current confusion.

Coricopat withdrew his key and handed the umbrella off to the smaller tom, "A good afternoon to you, Mr. Quaxo."

"Thank you," he murmured, accepting the umbrella after a moment. "A good day to you as well," he added, looking down.

"Thank you," the mottled tom murmured before retreating within the building and up the two flights of stairs to his flat, closing and locking the door behind him. He leaned against the solid wood for a long moment, trying to figure out exactly why the heir to the baron's estate caused such candid responses from him. So much for 'tried and true'.

Mistoffelees blinked at the building door for several long moments in the rain before finally turning his paws back to St. James' Street, unsure of what to really make of any of that.

v.v.v.v

The same evening on another side of town, Alonzo Hughes all but fell into the flat he shared with Munkustrap, though it felt most days like he didn't actually live there considering how many late nights he was out. His flatmate looked up from the newspaper he was perusing, one eyebrow rising, "Good evening, 'Lonzo. How was your day?"

The black and white patched tom managed to make it to the sofa before collapsing down, dropping his briefcase down by the side. "You cannot have just asked me that," Alonzo informed him, giving him a long look. "Let my groan of pain be answer enough."

"That good, hm? How is the illustrious Growltiger today? His latest proposal not accepted?"

"His latest proposal for the control of the opium trade was not only not accepted, but resolutely defeated and cried down from the majority of corners. I have since been yelled at, threatened, and I think I was in danger of having something undignified thrown at my head."

"Has he not yet determined that though the control of the opium trade may be a noble one, even for ignoble reasons, the tendency of gentlemen to indulge in such practices means that they would rather have his head than lose their pipes?" Munkus shook his head, "At least you've apparently escaped with your hide, and job, hm?"

"For the moment," Alonzo agreed. "But next time I come up with any career aspirations, do remind me that my father's job of clerk made a very good living and aspirations are for those who wish short life spans. In fact, remind me that becoming a sheep farmer is a better plan than a politician's aide."

"I shall do my best, but considering my own family lineage and my position as a detective of Scotland Yard I can hardly advise another as to a safe route of life. On the other hand, as a politician's aide you are rather trapped in the current political maelstrom, no matter which way the wind blows. I wish you luck and recommend a retreat when you have the opportunity."

"Sheep farming is a noble profession," Alonzo said weakly from the couch. "The very kings of Ireland could do no better."

"And look where it got them," came the reply. The silver tabby sighed, "I'm sorry, yes sheep farming is quite the noble profession. And you do have a tidy sum put away that could start you on that road."

"I hate sheep," came the next weak response.

The second brow rose to join the first, "Then perhaps horses? Or simply an estate manager for a country lord or something. It would get you away from parliament at least."

"Yes, that might be a plan. I'm thinking parliament is only for the suicidal and the hopeless at this point."

"Can I get you anything? Some tea perhaps?" he folded his newspaper, setting it aside.

"Tea would be lovely," Alonzo said, voice still a little on the weak side. "Henry Growltiger is a great man. I don't think I ever want to see another great man as long as I live though."

Munkus rose, heading into the kitchen as he called over his shoulder, "Everyone said Captain Deuteronomy Hollister was a great man as well. If those two are shining examples of the standard then I am happy with my anonymity and more than pleased to live and die as a small man."

"Small men are good. Medium men might even be nice," Alonzo said with a nod. "I think I like medium men. A nice, happy balance."

"Alonzo, you're sounding delusional again. You really need to try for shorter hours or something," his flatmate called as he set the kettle on to boil.

Alonzo ran a paw over his face. "I know, I'm sorry. I don't know what to do with myself some nights, you're a very, well, small man to put up with me the way you do, even if I do pay half the rent."

Munkus laughed, "It was you or one of my brothers. Putting up with you is a lark in comparison."

"Point," Alonzo said, raising one paw over the back of the couch. He'd met the other Hollisters after all, and there was a reason he made himself scarce at any family gathering. "That being said, I almost hope Growltiger loses the next election."

"You and I both. Can you imagine the level of work that would filter down to those of us who have to enforce the laws he's proposing?"

"I'm trying not to," Alonzo admitted. "Besides, he looks fine from the outside, but he's actually completely insane when you get even a little bit closer to that mind. I mean, truly frighteningly so."

The tabby emerged with a pot of tea and two cups, "How so? Or should I not inquire?"

"Please don't," Alonzo said, shaking his head slightly. "He just... the way his mind twists the world to suit himself, added to the way he can be utterly intense about the smallest things, concerns me when I know he's in a position of power. Also, you are amazing and I do not deserve you as a flatmate, as that is tea you're holding."

"Then we shall desperately hope that he never comes to power beyond one that can be voted down, hm?" Munkus poured a cup of tea for his flatmate and handed it over, "And no, you most certainly do not, but I fear you would go mad should anyone else share the flat with you."

"Agreed and probably," Alonzo said with a nod. "Or they would. All around, I'm sure it would be a mess."

"Very likely. As it is you need not concern yourself with the thought as I am your flatmate and you are stuck with the situation as such," he retreated to his chair with his own cup of tea and his paper.

"Oh good," Alonzo murmured, letting out a sigh as he drank the tea, finally relaxing since he got home. "I'm quite alright with that arrangement, since tomorrow I must again work with my boss."

"Good luck with that. I am sure you shall need it."

"Always do," Alonzo said, sinking further down into the couch.

Your Author, Victoriousscarf: Oh, good god, this chapter. Several things about it: a) You can tell from the first three sentences how many Victorian novels I read because I swear it looks like it came out of Middlemarch. b) This is officially the point where our characters got utterly out of hand. We no longer know what to do with Misto or Cori. and c) Oh Alonzo. He is a very put upon character and his main source of aggravation hasn't even shown up yet. However, he's an easy way to introduce the character of Growltiger without bringing Growltiger onto the stage quite yet. ((Also, he's totally Irish. Just so you know.))

Apparently getting down on one's knees for reviews really does the trick. Thank you so much those who reviewed, it did mean a lot, and we would certainly love to continue receiving such feedback. It warms the heart and all that. Thanks again for the support.

Your Author, Meadowlark: Oh, this chapter. Coricopat was not supposed to be such a broken bird in this one. He was actually supposed to be the sane and balanced one this time through. I'm still considering burying him in a deep hole or throwing him into a cave for the rest of his living days. I had no idea he wasn't the sane, balanced character I was expecting until this scene. All will be explained in later chapters, but God above, these characters some days...

Thank you all for your support! It's great to know you all are enjoying it and we really do appreciate the reviews.