A shorty, I really don't like short chapters. Enjoy. . .
She left her human home early the next morning and arrived at her family den in time for breakfast. She sat down quietly and waited patiently for her mother to serve her. As she watched Jenny she couldn't help but admit that her coat didn't look like either of her parents. Skimble smiled at her over his paper and then looked back at his reading. Electra decided that now was a better time than ever to talk.
"Am I adopted?" She asked quite suddenly.
Skimbleshanks was in the middle of eating and then stopped, Jenny's shoulders bunched and she slowly turned around to face her daughter. Skimble held a paw out to her and guided her to the seat next to his. They looked at each other and then at Electra.
She spoke again. "I've always known that my colors are off from your's. Why didn't I come out looking more like Rumpleteazer? She's always looked more like you than me. . ."
Skimble started to speak carefully, "Electra, lass. We-"
Jenny suddenly latched onto his arm and looked at him sadly, "Do we-"
"Dear, I know you don't want to, either do I. But we agreed we would tell her if she ever asked." He looked back at Electra, "We love you very much deary, and there is no difference from you being our born kit. We both agreed when Alonzo brought you to us, that we wouldn't tell you unless you found out on your own. When you were only a day or two old Alonzo found you wrapped in a dirty blanket under a park bench and brought you to us."
"We loved you from the moment we laid eyes on you dear and that has not, nor will it ever, change." Jenny quickly reassured her.
Electra stared at them with a blank face. Behind the blank look though, her mind was reeling. So Seward had been right after all. "That means Rumpleteazer isn't my real sister. I bet she knew too. I wasn't even born in the Junkyard." At that last phrase her voice fell. "Seward was right."
Jenny became alarmed, "Seward? Who's Seward?"
"Some old tom I ran into last night when I was going home to my human's house." She stared hard at her untouched food as she remembered what he told her, "He said he hadn't seen me since I was blind and then something about me having a pirate heritage." Jenny held on tightly to Skimble's paw. "He even thought that my real father is Growltiger." She shook her head and smiled nervously, "Growltiger's only a story right?"
"Of course dear," Jenny said hurriedly, "Now go play with your friends dear." She smiled but it barely reached her eyes.
"But he is just a story. . .right?" Electra asked again, her eyes full of curiosity and the need to know.
"Listen to your mother young lassie, and go play," Skimble told her sternly.
Electra nodded and left. Outside she found Pouncival, Jemima, Tumblebrutus and Etcetera. Her good friend Victoria was making her way to the Great Tyer. Skimble and Jenny watched her go.
"She can't be the Heir to the Terror of the Thames." Jenny told Skimble while watching the young kit outside, "She just can't be."
Skimble put his arm around her shoulders and held her close. "We'll go to Munkustrap and the other's and ask to form a group to go speak with Growltiger."
"But how can it be possible Skimble?" She asked him desperately and turned to looked at him.
He looked back at her, "Alonzo brought her to us with no knowledge of where she came from or who her birth parents are. It's very possible my love, very possible."
Both Jenny and Skimble fondly recalled the night that young Alonzo had brought them a tiny female kitten who hadn't even opened her eyes yet, her dark coat was mottled with orange and black. It was quite a surprise when she opened her eyes and they were the same shade, if not darker, as Skimbleshanks. The orange tabby mates had been thankful that she slightly resembled one of them in that aspect, it made their story to her believable. The only thing that they worried about was her questions about her dark coat and how it didn't look like either of her parents. But the day they had dreaded finally came and now the information from this mystery cat had put poor Jenny on edge.
Was this quiet, sixteen year old kit, the Heir to the Terror of the Thames?