Free The Last Free Cat by Blake Jon Page A

did, smoothing her warm head with my hand as she angled herself to get my fingers under her chin.
    My sobs subsided. An ounce of calm had returned to my life. Beyond Feela I could see Kris sleeping, curled up like a baby. Kris looked a lot better asleep—neither hard nor arrogant, but young and uncertain, with long soft lashes and a mouth that twitched with his dream-thoughts, like little winces. I almost felt like protecting him; as if he’d ever let me do that. There was a reason he was as he was, and I had to give some allowance for that. Mum had liked him—that was what mattered most.
    â€œIt’ll be all right, Feela,” I said, more to me than to her. With that I must have drifted off again, because the next thing I knew, someone was hammering at the door.
    â€œAre you awake?” asked a familiar female voice.
    â€œYeah?” I grunted.
    â€œTen to nine!” called Mrs. Hurst, who sounded oddly friendly. “Don’t miss breakfast!”
    There was no chance of that. Bleary and weary, we took our places in the dining room, having taken care to lock the door and switch on the soundgarden to cover any cries from Feela. It was Mr. Hurst who served us, a cheery, red-faced man in a striped apron. But there was something false about his mateyness, especially when he pulled up a chair and joined us for a cup of tea.
    â€œSo, do your mums know you’re here?” he asked brightly.
    I welled up.
    â€œHer mum’s just died,” explained Kris.
    â€œOh, I am sorry,” said Mr. Hurst.
    â€œWe’re on our way back from the funeral,” added Kris.
    â€œAh,” said Mr. Hurst. “On your way back from the funeral, is it?” He gave an anxious glance at the door—why, I had no idea.
    â€œShall we be off?” said Kris to me.
    â€œI’ll have to get you to sign the book first,” said Mr. Hurst.
    It seemed puzzling to me that we were signing the visitors’ book now, rather than the night before, but I let it go. Mr. Hurst brought the book to us, handed me a pen, and watched closely as I invented a name and address. Kris did the same, carving it out slowly, as he wasn’t much of a writer.
    â€œWe better go now,” I said.
    â€œJust a moment,” said Mr. Hurst. “I don’t believe you’ve had a receipt.”
    This was getting very tedious. We waited another few minutes while Mr. Hurst fetched us said receipt, drew us into a conversation about the weather, and had just started another one about the price of bread, when Mrs. Hurst appeared at the dining-room door. The two of them exchanged glances. Kris had really had enough by now, and made a quick good-bye. I followed shortly after, and found him on our landing in an aggravated state.
    â€œDoor won’t open!” he hissed.
    â€œWhat d’you mean?” I replied.
    â€œI mean, the door won’t open!” he repeated, demonstrating the point by pressing the smartkey repeatedly against the lock.
    â€œThere’s another lock,” I said, pointing to the old-fashioned key-lock lower down the door.
    Kris let out a snort, then turned on his heels and thundered down to the first floor, where Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were waiting.
    â€œLet us in our bloody room!” he bellowed, just as I arrived on the scene.
    â€œI knew you two were up to something,” replied Mrs. Hurst.
    â€œYou don’t just go into people’s rooms!” I barked.
    â€œI do if I suspect a crime’s being committed,” replied Mrs. Hurst.
    â€œThat’s our things in there!” yelled Kris.
    Mrs. Hurst folded her arms and adopted a smug expression. “I don’t think everything in there belongs to you, do you?” she said.
    â€œThat cat is mine!” I cried.
    â€œWe’ll see if the authorities agree,” replied Mrs. Hurst.
    â€œThey’re on their way,” chimed in Mr. Hurst.
    We were in a desperate situation. A few days before,