Free The Rhesus Chart by Charles Stross

besides) I’d call them “muggles.” But that’s exactly the wrong way to look at the picture. Those of us who have too much to do with the supernatural aren’t wizards, but monsters. Or in danger of becoming monsters.
    Over time, most of our circle have either moved away or started families; we increasingly socialize with workmates because it’s safe and easy. They understand why we can’t talk about certain parts of our office days, and we don’t risk endangering their world view by accidentally exposing them to the nihilistic truth. Our grip on everyday normality is, shall we say, eroding like the cliffs north of Aldeburgh. Lose that grip, and . . .
    “We need more normal in our life,” I say. “Especially now that I’ve been roped into, into . . .” I can’t say it. Into the irregular twilight at the edge of the organization that she’s been quietly slipping in and out of for so long, carrying that damned violin.
    “Easier said than done.” She takes in some wine, then slowly twirls the stem of the glass between her fingers, staring at the film of red washing up the sides of the bulb. I’ve seen this often enough to realize that right now she’s in danger of tipping from anger into bitterness. “We haven’t been normal since—”
    “We could go out more often,” I suggest. “Do normal things, meet normal people. Take up”—I search for a good idea, come up blank—“going to the theater? Opera?” (I detest opera and have no time for classical music in general, but Mo is rather a keen violinist.) “Bingo?”
    Her cheek twitches. “We’re a bit young for that, dear.”
    “We could get a cat.” I’m not sure where
that
idea comes from, but it’s an ordinary people kind of thing to do. Normal folks can also have children, but in our line of work that would be highly inadvisable. Even if we wanted kids, knowing the nature of the world we’d be bringing them into would give us second thoughts. But a cat . . . what could possibly go wrong with
that
?
    “Are you volunteering for litter tray duties?”
    I shrug. “It can’t be worse than riding herd on software updates for six computers, two phones, and a tablet. Can it?”
    “If you’re
sure
—” Her eyes narrow. “Hmm. A cat.” Pause. “Have you ever lived with a cat before?”
    Vague memories of a purring warm lump sitting on my lap during family visits to my great-aunt percolate to the surface. (Ellis Billington’s Fluffy I can safely discount. We are discussing standard-issue, non-supernatural felines, after all, not the alien-in-a-cat-suit kind.) “Not personally, but I’ve had visiting rights—”
    “Oh, good. Well, I think it’d be really nice to know that when things go bump in the night it’s just a cat knocking over the glassware to hear it shatter, so why not?” She knocks back half the contents of her wine glass in one. “Yes, let’s do that.”
    It suddenly dawns on me that I know about as much about looking after a pet cat as I know about flying a jet fighter: it’s all MEOW DAKKA-DAKKA ZOOM to me. “Um. I think we need to do some research first. Vets, food, that sort of thing?”
    “No, Bob.” She smiles at last. “
You
need to do some research. Litter tray duties, remember?”
    “Oh bloody hell.” It slowly dawns on me that while she can’t justify berating me over Pete anymore, she can still extract a cold revenge: making me responsible for a small furry life-form’s well-being, meanwhile adding an extra kilogram or two of ballast to help anchor her fraying connection to normality. “Well, I suppose so . . .” I finish my wine. “But if I’m looking after it, I get to choose what we adopt. Okay?”
     • • • 
    AFTER WE DO THE WASHING-UP, I GET TO SPEND THE REST OF the evening reading FAQs on cat maintenance on the web. It takes about half an hour to come to the unwelcome realization that they’re almost as complex as home-brew gaming PCs, and have even more failure modes.