Page 57 of Saint Céline
“There’s a cat in there!” Sophia’s hand flew to her chest.
“There is unfortunately a demon in there,” I said tiredly, stepping past her into the living room.
Another scream.
Anya appeared behind Sophia, wearing an oversized Bellamont sweatshirt and one sock, her striking pale eyes widening.
“What is—” She stopped dead. “IS THAT MISS ASTORIA?”
The cat screamed louder.
“Oh my God, she remembers me,” Anya whispered emotionally, crouching down immediately.
“You met her once,” I said, setting the carrier on the floor before Miss Astoria traumatized the entire floor.
“She remembers energy,” Anya replied solemnly.
I unlatched the carrier. Miss Astoria exploded out of it immediately, not gracefully but like a white emotional projectile. She launched herself straight into my lap the second I sat down on the couch, climbing my chest frantically before settling against me with a long, dramatic sound somewhere between relief and accusation. Her purring started instantly, loud andvibrating, her small body pressing so hard against mine that I could feel her ribs rise and fall with every breath.
“There she is,” I murmured, rubbing behind her ears the way she had always liked. The cat began purring so loudly that the entire couch vibrated under us. Sophia stared at us in complete fascination, her dark hair falling neatly over one shoulder even at this hour. “I’ve never seen an animal look at someone like that.”
Miss Astoria blinked slowly up at me before aggressively headbutting my chin. Anya sat beside me carefully on the couch, extending one hand. The cat sniffed her fingers, then immediately ignored her to press closer against me.
“I’ve been rejected,” Anya said solemnly.
“She can smell your chaos,” I told her, my voice lighter than I felt.
“That’s rich coming from an animal named Miss Astoria.”
Sophia smiled faintly from the opposite couch, folding her legs beneath her with that graceful poise she never seemed to lose.
“Who named her?”
“Katherine.”
The room softened instantly. Not painfully this time. Just quieter. Anya scratched lightly beneath Miss Astoria’s chin while the cat tolerated it with aristocratic reluctance, her tail flicking once in warning.
“She really loved this cat, huh?”
I looked down at the white fur spread across my black clothes, the way Miss Astoria had melted completely into my lap like she had been waiting for this exact moment for weeks.
“Yes,” I said softly. That was true. Just not the whole truth.
Sophia watched me carefully from across the room, her eyes sharp with that mother-hen concern. Then gently she adds, “And the cat really loved you.”
Something tightened unexpectedly beneath my ribs. I looked away before either of them noticed, focusing instead on the steady rise and fall of Miss Astoria’s breathing. Anya leaned back against the couch cushions with a sigh.
“Well,” she announced, “this is officially the best thing that’s happened in this apartment since Sophia set that microwave on fire.”
“I microwaved aluminium foil once,” Sophia corrected, her voice carrying that soft aristocratic lilt even when she was defending herself.
“You microwaved a spoon.”
“It was an accident!”
Miss Astoria sneezed.
Sophia laughed softly for the first time all week, the sound light and genuine, and sitting there beneath the warm dorm lights with a ridiculous white cat asleep across my lap while my two best friends argued over kitchen disasters, I felt something dangerous loosen slightly inside my chest.
