Free The Prime Minister's Secret Agent by Susan Elia MacNeal

was also because of the nightmares.
    And the screaming.
    The rooms were over the gardener’s flat, but had its own entrance. Maggie had three rooms: a bedroom, an efficiency kitchen and small table with two chairs, and a W.C. During the short winter daylight hours, she could look out mullioned windows for a view of one of the sheep-dotted fields, as well as the snow-covered mountains in the distance. If she craned her neck a bit, she could see the blue-gray waves and rocky shore of the loch.
    The tabby peered at Maggie with large green eyes. “Hmm,” she said to him, peering back. “I suppose you’d like your breakfast now?”
    The cat blinked, and rubbed against her. “You know that word, don’t you?” Maggie asked, petting his coarse fur. He was rough to the touch, unkempt, but warm. No wonder Mr. Churchill so often slept with Nelson.
    She remembered how the Prime Minister had once barked at her, when she was being slow: “This feline does more for the war effort than you do! He acts as a hot-water bottle and saves fuel and power!” She now saw the P.M.’s point. She gathered the cat in her arms and pressed her cheek against his furry back. He had a faint scent, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Like freshly washed sheets hung outside to dry in the summer sun.
    She set him down and headed for the loo, closing the door firmly behind her. “Excuse me, I do need at least a moment of privacy, if you don’t mind.” But apparently, the cat
did
mind, for he scratched at the door until she was finished. When she was washing her hands, he jumped up on the toilet seat and squatted over the bowl.
    Maggie was speechless. She stared, and he stared right back with his glowing eyes, as if saying,
Woman, did you actually think I was going to use a box? Like an … animal?
Maggie shook her head in disbelief, then—giving him the privacy he’d denied her—went down the narrow hallway to the kitchen.
    She turned on the kettle and looked through the icebox. There was some leftover stew she’d saved; it would have to do.
    The cat trotted out to meet her, proud as could be.
“Meh.”
    “Here,” she said, putting a saucer of it on the worn wooden floor. “It’s cold, and the cook wouldn’t know what to do with a clove of garlic if one magically appeared in front of her. But—” Maggie turned on the wireless on the kitchen counter. BBC. “—in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war on, Cat.”
    The cat blinked a few times, as if to say,
Cat? Woman, you denigrate me
. Then he tucked into the stew, eating ravenously.
    “Well, I don’t know your name.” She crouched down to address him. There was only the sound of the cat lapping at the food in his bowl. He was obviously going to leave this up to her. “Schrödinger, perhaps? Things were rather touch and go there for a bit with the vet.”
    He raised his head to glare at her before returning to his breakfast.
    “Not Schrödinger,” she decided, “as you are very much alive and not in a state of quantum flux anymore. And so, your name henceforth shall be—Kitty.”
    The cat flicked his tail in annoyance.
No, not Kitty either, apparently
.
    “Well then, what
is
your name, Jellicle cat? Macavity the Mystery Cat? The Hidden Paw, perhaps?”
    The cat left his food bowl and stalked over to Maggie. He rose up onto his haunches, putting one paw on either side of her neck. He looked into her eyes and touched his pink nose to hers. “Allright, all right,” she relented. “I’ll call you K. How’s that? K for Kitty. K will be your secret-agent name—after all, you’re at a spy training camp. And Mr. K for the veterinarian and on Sundays, when more formality is needed.”
    Satisfied, K gave another
“Meh,”
then dropped down to the floor and began to groom himself.
    “Well, glad that’s settled,” Maggie said, getting up to wash and dress. Then she had her tea and a bannock that she’d saved. K was prowling by the door, keen to be let out. “I thought you were an