Unthinkable

by Nancy Werlin

  “Accident?” Fenella craned her neck. “Where? Everything seems all right to me.”

  “No, no. I meant—could you please relax, Fenella? I’m a good driver. Well, pretty good.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’m only—I’m looking around.”

  “Oh. Okay. Fine. Sorry.”

  “I like traveling in this truck,” Fenella said. Some of her excitement ebbed as she realized she was surely behaving strangely. She forced herself to lean back. She looked at Walker and discovered that, at the same moment, he had glanced at her.

  “Your cheeks are all pink.” He smiled—a quick shy flash—before returning to managing the truck.

  Fenella blinked, caught by surprise. Oh.

  Oh!

  Even in this new world—a world that had fast, glorious traveling trucks in it, a world where women drove vehicles— boys still gave girls glances. Quick glances. Quick, wondering glances.

  Like that.

  She was glad that she had allowed Ryland to be tucked away in back where he could not see that little glance she had just received.

  Or the one she gave back.

  Far too soon, Walker slowed the truck to a stop beside a small white building. The building bore a large placard that Fenella read silently to herself: Veterinary Hospital. All Animals Welcome. The word hospital—the mere reading of it—reminded her again of Minnie.

  Minnie, who had fought Padraig every minute from her capture to her death. Fought stealthily, cleverly, idiosyncratically.

  Fenella curled her hands into fists. The one she would destroy was Padraig. If she had had this truck in Faerie, she would have run Padraig down with it. She’d have had Minnie beside her, yelling encouragement. Smash him!

  “Fenella?”

  Walker was outside the truck. He had opened her door and had his hand out to help her. “You seemed sort of far away?”

  She didn’t answer. She released her strap with little difficulty and jumped lightly down, avoiding Walker’s offered hand. She looked away from him, but could still feel his interest, centered on her. She took in a deep breath. Padraig had looked at her like that too, at the start of it all, and she had hated it. Hated it! But this didn’t feel like that. This felt like—like Robert.

  The thought hit her with a shock. It had been so many years since she had thought of Robert. Robert, her lover; Robert, Bronagh’s father.

  No. She would not think of Robert. He was no longer important. The past was not important. Also, this Walker was not important. Boys liking girls, and girls liking boys, just because of what they looked like, or felt like as you walked beside them, or—she inhaled—because of what they smelled like, that was not important.

  Another moment and Walker had given her back the cat carrier. Again Fenella was careful not to touch his hand.

  Inside the carrier, Ryland was looking tense. She listened to him as she followed Walker into the building. Let’s get out of here quickly. We need to focus on the first task.

  Fenella said, “Now, Ryland. Be a good, obedient kitty for Walker and do what he says.”

  Walker laughed. “Hey, I don’t know if he’ll listen. I’m thinking your Ryland might be trouble. No offense.”

  “Oh, he’ll be good,” said Fenella. “Gentle as a lamb. And obedient. Right, kitty? That’s an order.”

  Walker held open the animal hospital’s front door for Fenella. “Fenella? You probably want him neutered, if he’s not already. Right? I can’t do it, I’m not qualified for that yet, but I could schedule it for you.”

  Ryland issued a screech so loud and so ugly that three people in the veterinary hospital’s waiting area startled.

  Fenella hesitated. Neutered? Could that possibly mean what she thought it meant?

  Don’t do it!

  Fenella said to Walker, “Tell me what that would involve.”

  Chapter 9

  Neutering was exactly what Fenella thought. She told Walker she would think about it. She didn’t look at Ryland in his carrier as she said this, and while he refrained from screaming at her again inside her head, nonetheless she could feel his rage and fear. It felt a bit heady having this kind of power—and over the brother of the Queen of Faerie too.

  She found herself wondering about his sister. Why had the queen transformed and banished her brother, delegating him to help Fenella? Was it a trap of some kind?

  Walker had taken Fenella and the cat into a small room.

  “I need to check in with my boss,” he said. “Wait here for five or ten minutes?”

  Fenella nodded and gave Walker a bright smile. Walker left, although at the last moment he gave Fenella another half-shy, half-bold backward glance that brought a flush to her cheeks.

  When the door closed behind Walker, Fenella stooped to peer into the cat carrier. Walker had placed it on top of a counter that reminded Fenella of the uncannily smooth surfaces in the Markowitzes’ kitchen. The cat’s white fur was on end and his tail was low.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “If you were Padraig, I’d do it, but you’re not. I’m curious, though. Would this neutering affect you in your real form?”

  No, said the cat, with dignity. But I am not interested in having the experience.

  “I understand.”

  Fenella caught herself wondering about Ryland’s sex life. All talk—at least among the tree fey—about the queen’s brother was centered on his purported resentment of his sister, his desire for power, and his cleverness. She tried to think whether there were any other manticores at present in Faerie. She didn’t know. She knew the form was exceedingly rare. Perhaps he thought himself above others because of it? Or perhaps, like the tree fey, his form of sexuality was impersonal? But no, he was a mammal. Also, there he was, shuddering at the thought of being neutered.

  Attend, Fenella! Ryland’s tone was aggressive. You seem to have forgotten that we have other business.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” said Fenella grimly.

  Then why are we here, getting me a medical exam we both know I don’t need? Shouldn’t we be watching your family? Comparing notes on the ways in which they feel safe? Making a plan?

  Fenella shrugged.

  Ryland’s tone sharpened, as if he sensed what she was thinking. You can’t possibly imagine you can do this without me. My sister is right about that, even if she’s wrong about so much else.

  Fenella was curious. “What’s she wrong about?”

  Never mind, he said dismissively. Politics. It doesn’t concern you.

  “But you started to tell me.”

  I didn’t mean to say that. I’m not used to censoring what I say in my own head.

  “Well,” Fenella said provocatively, “you might call it politics, but everyone knows you’re jealous of your sister.”

  The cat snarled. I’m not! Listen, keep your thoughts about her and me to yourself—unless you really don’t want my help after all.

  “But she said you had to help me. Isn’t that true?”

  Yes, snapped the cat.

  “Good,” said Fenella pleasantly. “Not that you’ve been particularly helpful so far. Did you start that fight?”

  It was self-defense.

  “Really?”

  The wise defense is a good offense.

  “Is that so?”

  The cat eyed her. We’ve moved away from the main topic, which is: What are we doing here? Why aren’t we back with your family figuring out how to destroy their safety?

  “I wanted to get out of there,” Fenella replied honestly. “It was overwhelming.”

  Behind the wire mesh of the carrier door, Ryland’s almondshaped eyes met Fenella’s. He blinked slowly.

  Oh.

  They looked at each other.

  His mental voice, when he did finally use it again, was mild. Let me out of this cage?

  Fenella unlatched the door. Ryland stepped daintily onto the counter. Standing at chest level to Fenella, he stretched, arching his fluffy white body and extending his front paws. Coming ou
t of the stretch, he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall behind the counter. He snarled.

  Fenella looked at the cat’s mirrored image. “You don’t like your black heart?”

  My sister has a juvenile sense of humor. The cat twisted before the mirror, checking his appearance in one angle after another. He shot out his claws experimentally and with satisfaction. He raised his beautiful, white, fan-like tail. Then, facing Fenella, he sat down on his haunches and commenced to groom and to talk.

  So. You’ve got cold feet. His tone was pragmatic. You’re trying to run away.

  “No,” Fenella said bleakly. “I know I can’t. I agreed. And I want—what I want. There is no other way for me.”

  The cat continued to groom. You’re distractible too. A male. Who’d have thought it of you, after Padraig? I understand, however. He’s a healthy, strapping young fellow. He takes care of animals! How sensitive!

  Fenella glared.

  With a delicate tongue, the cat licked his paw and used it to smooth out the fur on his chest. The heart is growing on me. Don’t you think it makes me look sensitive too? See, if it’s a sensitive little friend you want, here I am. Pretend that I am as I appear.

  “I am not,” said Fenella between her teeth, “good at pretending.”

  Really? Then why are we talking about the attractive young animal doctor instead of our plan?

  “You brought him up, not me.”

  I was making an observation about your behavior, in case you hadn’t noticed it yourself.

  “I noticed.”

  Excellent. So, to return to the main subject. Having now met your happy, welcoming family, have you decided to give up? Will you go voluntarily back to Padraig rather than hurt them?

  “No. I can’t.” Fenella reached behind herself with one hand. She caught hold of the single chair that the room was furnished with, and sat down on it. Too heavily; the chair skittered on the smooth floor, bumping up against the wall. She looked down, flummoxed, and after staring hard, identified the problem. The chair was on little wheels. How bizarre. What purpose was served by wheels on a chair?

  “I won’t give up,” she said, though her voice shook. “I cannot fail this time.”

  “Fail at what?”

  Startled, Fenella looked up to find the door to the office open. Of course, it was Walker. He smiled at her as if it wasn’t odd to find her talking to her cat. And he didn’t seem to mind when she ducked her head without answering him.

  He said, “So, I have this pamphlet for you. It explains why we recommend neutering.”

  Notice his nose, Fenella. Somebody flattened him once. I can understand. He’s annoying.

  Fenella took the pamphlet. “Thank you.”

  Walker moved past Fenella. “You let Ryland out, good.”

  Ryland displayed pointed incisors to Walker.

  Walker put on a pair of thick gloves. Ryland stood stockstill, visibly tolerating the human while Walker examined his fur, his body, his legs, his mouth and teeth. He even tolerated getting shots, a medical process which Fenella watched with great interest, while thinking again about Minnie. It was only when Walker took up the nail clippers and held the cat down that Ryland let loose again with creative invective aimed into Fenella’s mind.

  “This is a healthy cat,” Walker said at last. “A good weight. Good teeth and gums.” He looked over his shoulder at Fenella. “Where did you get him?”

  Someone gave me to you, said Ryland sourly. A woman who said she couldn’t keep me.

  Fenella repeated it.

  “Really? Near here? Where?”

  You don’t really remember.

  Fenella repeated this too.

  “Oh.” Walker frowned.

  Fenella said firmly, “He’s my cat now.” As Walker removed his gloves, she stood up and stepped close to the counter, and then picked Ryland up in her arms. The cat settled down against her chest, nuzzling close. She found that, automatically, she was stroking him. His fur was lush and soft, and her fingers sank in and disappeared.

  She was going ahead. Of course she was going ahead. And she’d be a fool not to use Ryland’s help as best she could.

  “Can you drive us back to the house now?” she asked Walker.

  “Yeah, sure, of course.” He looked frustrated. “I’m just worried about Ryland getting along with Pierre. We have boarding here. Maybe you could leave Ryland for a day or two? There’s a discount I can get you—”

  No, thank you. We’ll manage.

  “We’ll manage,” said Fenella. “But thank you.”

  In her arms, the cat purred.

  And so, in the end, it was Pierre who went off to board, an hour later. “Only for a few days, sweetheart,” Lucy crooned to the visibly unhappy poodle as she prepared to take him outside to Walker’s truck. “This way, Walker can check your eye and make sure everything is healing the way it should.”

  Once Pierre was gone, Fenella released Ryland from his carrier. She picked him up. He closed his eyes, as if he had instantly gone to sleep in her arms, but she could feel he was awake, alert, and monitoring everything.

  Zach shrugged awkwardly. “Don’t worry, Fenella. Pierre likes the kennel fine. They have a fenced backyard, and the dogs are allowed to mingle. Pierre always makes friends. And when he comes back . . .” He glanced at the cat in Fenella’s arms. “By the time Pierre comes back, we’ll have figured out some way for him and your cat to get along. Or how to separate them reliably. I have no idea how, exactly, but we will.” He paused. “Like, maybe there’s some perfume we can buy to make the cat smell better.”

  “The cat smells bad?” Fenella sniffed at Ryland.

  I do not! Ryland said indignantly. I’m very clean!

  “To Pierre he does,” said Zach. “We could concoct something attractive. Essence of hamburger.”

  “What?” said Fenella blankly.

  “But we don’t want Pierre to eat the cat,” Lucy joked as she came back in.

  Zach pulled her against him. “Just my first idea. I have plenty more. Is there something like catnip, only for dogs?”

  “Could we cage them side by side? To desensitize them?”

  “While we read to them from The Little Prince.”

  “Yes, good! The part about the rose.”

  Fenella felt as if Lucy and Zach were talking in a foreign language.

  “I’m sorry,” Fenella said. “Pierre is the one who belongs here in this house, not me or Ryland.” She swept her gaze around the kitchen to include Soledad and Leo Markowitz. “You’re all being so incredibly kind to a stranger. And her smelly cat.”

  I do not smell!

  “You’re not a stranger,” Lucy said. “A couple of days away won’t do Pierre any harm, and it’ll help you settle in. That’s the most important thing.”

  “Absolutely,” said Leo.

  Chapter 10

  That night Fenella could not sleep, though she was again exhausted. She put on the borrowed pajamas and climbed into bed. As the rest of the household settled, she kept a small bedside lamp burning against the darkness. Its low electric light illumined not only her own face and hands as she leaned her back against the headboard, but also the second bed on the table’s other side. Twin beds, Lucy had called them.

  Against the far wall was a bookcase that held great meaning for Lucy. Lucy had demonstrated how the bottom shelf lifted out to reveal a hiding space. She had told a long story—eyes welling up—of a shirt hidden in the space, and a letter from Miranda describing the Scarborough Curse.

  Fenella had nodded, pretending attention. In truth, she had felt desperate to be alone. But now that she was, that too was not much good.

  Ryland was sprawled out extravagantly in the center of the second bed, his white fur rising and falling with his breath, his black heart-shaped bib partially obscured by one outflung leg.

  She was aware of her family also sleeping, trustfully, in the other rooms of this house. She thought of Lucy’s face when she’d said: We’d m
ake room for all of them! Then, Soledad’s comment: I think we could manage.

  “Fools,” she muttered. What were they thinking, accepting her—and the cat!—on faith? How did they manage in the world? Weren’t there lots of people who would take advantage of them? They should be more careful! The world might have changed a great deal in four hundred years, but people surely had not. It would do them good when their experience with Fenella taught them to be wary.

  From the house tour, Fenella knew where each one of them lay in sleep.

  At the farthest end of the upstairs hall, in the largest room, in a bigger bed than Fenella had ever imagined might exist, were Soledad and Leo. Soledad had been apologetic about the room when she showed it to Fenella during the house tour. “The chaos of twenty-five years.” She’d gestured at a chair heaped with rumpled clothing, at a cabinet on top of which dozens of family photographs seemed to fight each other for space, and at the bed whose homey, faded coverings had plainly seen better days. “I keep thinking I’m going to sort it all out. Maybe we’ll paint the walls a more restful color.”

  “Dark purple?” Lucy was leaning against the doorframe. “Eggplant?”

  “Cream,” said Soledad.

  “Boring!”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Fenella had dumped the cat on the floor, barely hearing the muffled thump he made when he landed on his feet. She felt Lucy’s eyes follow her as she picked up a photograph. It showed Lucy tumbled carelessly on Zach’s lap with the baby—tiny, bald, and wrapped in pink—cuddled up on her shoulder. Zach grinned happily. The little family was crowded into a big soft chair that Fenella recognized from downstairs. Sitting awkwardly on the arm of the chair was a middle-aged woman with long tangled hair as dark as Lucy’s. The woman’s knees were so knobby that you could see their outlines protruding beneath the thin fabric of her skirt. She held a tall, fragile glass of orange liquid aloft in one hand.

  The other hand clutched Lucy’s arm as if she could not bear to let go.

  “Miranda,” Fenella said aloud, softly.

  “That picture was taken the day Miranda came back to us.” Lucy moved to Fenella’s side. “The doorbell rang, and there was Miranda, on the front porch.” Lucy paused. “Not too different from you this morning, Fenella.”