Mercedes Lackey - Reserved for the Cat

Here, the cat said, finally. Wait here. Try and keep warm. When you hear me tell you to, lie face-down on the sand. Remember, you are Nina Tchereslavsky. Nothing else is of consequence.

And then the cat whisked away, leaving her at the foot of the piers, shivering, in the dark.

Was this scheme mad enough to actually work? Well she had no choice now.

The automobile chugged and rattled, the headlights doing little to illuminate the cobblestone-paved street ahead. Fortunately the streetlamps were still well lit, extravagant electrical things that they were. Nigel Barrett gripped the steering wheel and was grateful that this was an enclosed auto. And cursed the fact that the storm had chosen last night to break over their heads.

“Why you insisted on dragging us out this early in the morning, Nigel, I do not know.” Since this was roughly the tenth time Nigel Barrett’s traveling companion Wolf had voiced this particular complaint, Nigel did not bother to repeat his answer.

But his other traveling companion, Arthur Gilbert, did so for him. “Because if we are going to get to Manchester in time to see this singer at the matinee, we have to leave now, Wolf. Nigel’s only told you so a dozen times.”

“Nine,” Wolf replied, with immense dignity, from the rear seat of the enclosed motorcar. “And I don’t know why I had to come along.”

“Because you are the one writing the music for this extravaganza,” Nigel replied, carefully negotiating the narrow street in the semi-darkness. Once again, he asked himself why he lived in this part of Blackpool, where every time he wanted to take the motorcar out, he had to negotiate a maze of medieval lanes. “You have the final word on whether I hire her or not.”

“Arthur knows what I like,” Wolf said tartly.

“Arthur is only the conductor of the orchestra,” Arthur himself replied. “And you know your best work comes when you’re inspired by a particular singer or dancer. I can’t possibly tell whether or not you’d be inspired.” He reached around over the seat and gave the wool-shrouded cage a pat. “Don’t worry, we won’t let you get into a draft.”

“I would be much more inspired if you’d let me write an opera,” Wolfgang Amadeus said fretfully. “I am tired of those ridiculous tinkly ballads you like so much. Sweep! Scale! A challenge! That’s what I need!” The African Grey Parrot pulled the wool covering of his cage aside with his beak, and one beady black eye peered out at them accusingly.

“And opera isn’t going to fill the seats, Wolf, you know that,” Nigel responded without taking his eyes off the street. “And with these moving pictures coming on, pretty soon variety won’t either. Don’t worry, you’ll get spectacle and sweep to fill with music. I’ve seen the future of the stage, and its name is The Ziegfield Follies. Shows with a theme, a regular bill of stars you can count on seeing, that’s what will keep the seats full, even when motion pictures take over the music halls. ”

“I know you keep saying that, Nigel, but you haven’t really explained yourself.” Arthur Gilbert, a slight, fair-haired man with the build of a whippet and nerves of steel, raised an eyebrow at his employer. “I should think people would get tired of seeing the same thing night after night.”

“Do people get tired of seeing William Gillette as Sherlock Holmes?” Nigel demanded. “Or Henry Irving as Hamlet? Or Ellen Terry as Portia? And what about Maude Adams as Peter Pan?”

“Well . . . but those are plays!” Arthur replied, tucking the woolen blanket in around the cage again. “And that’s in London!”

Wolf snorted. Or made a sound like a snort.

“And that’s the genius of the thing,” Nigel said with enthusiasm. “We take everything that people like best about a play—that is, a nice, light story—we add in the kind of music they like, which is where Wolf comes in, but without turning the damned thing into an opera, because last of all, we fit in the best sorts of acts from music hall. We rehearse it all and open it in the slow season, and that’s when all the locals will come. When they get tired of it, we’ll be in holidays, and the holiday-makers will pack the hall. By the time they leave, the locals will be ready to see it again, and when they’re gone, it will be time for the Christmas pantos. That’s when we put together the next show, start rehearsals, and open again after the end of panto season. It’s brilliant!”

“I don’t know, Nigel—” Arthur began doubtfully, when something dark and fast and seemingly as big as a panther dashed into the street in front of them.

Arthur swore, Nigel swore and jerked the steering wheel, narrowly missing the animal, and Wolf swore in German as he was knocked to the bottom of his cage. The brakes shrieked as the motorcar slid to a stop. And the thing leapt onto the hood of the car, every hair bristling, eyes like saucers full of fire.

Help! Help! the creature “shouted” into their minds. My mistress is dying! You must come save her!

Which Nigel, because he was an Elemental Master, Arthur, because he was an Elemental Magician, and Wolfgang, because he was Wolfgang, all heard with perfect clarity.

“Where?” Nigel shouted across the windscreen.

The shore! Follow me! replied the cat. It leapt down to the ground again, and raced down the street. Nigel fed gas to the motor, which fortunately had not stalled, and raced after it.

They broke out of the maze of streets to the broader roads and followed the cat at last to the Promenade that paralleled the seashore as the sun rose dimly behind the clouds and the rain slacked off to a thin drizzle. The cat dashed across the Promenade and down one of the wooden staircases that led from the boardwalk to the sands. Nigel slid the motorcar roughly to a halt and threw open the door, dashing after it, with Arthur closely behind him.

Hurry! the cat screamed into their minds. For a moment, Nigel couldn’t see where the creature was. But then he caught sight of a dark shape just under the pier at the waterline and he raced towards it, grateful that the sand was wet and packed solid enough to run on. The closer he got, the clearer that shape became—a woman, hair down and dark with seawater, sprawled under what was left of a cloak as if she had crawled up on the sand, exhausted, a rough piece of broken timber a little way away from her.

He dropped down beside her and turned her over; she was as cold as ice, pale, and her eyes fluttered open and looked at him, dazedly.

“Miss! Can you speak?” he asked urgently, patting her cheek with one hand to revive her a little.

She answered him in French, which he spoke tolerably well. “Where—”

“Blackpool. England. Who are you?” Arthur asked, as he pulled off his coat to wrap around her. Her velvet gown was in tatters.

“Nina. Nina Tchereslavsky,” she murmured. “The yacht—my friend—” Then her eyelids fluttered closed again.

She is a dancer. A great dancer. A genius, the cat said, dancing with anxiety. She wanted to emigrate to England; I tried to dissuade her, but she thought she could be a greater star than she already is once she performed on your stage. She sold everything and persuaded a friend with a yacht to bring her here. You must save her! Her father was an Elemental Master, he charged me with protecting her when he died—

Ah, that explained it then. This was no cat, it was an Elemental Spirit in feline form. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of her,” Nigel said, lifting the slight girl in his arms. Well, she was certainly built like a dancer. She weighed hardly anything. A dancer. And Russian. . . .