“
As Grimalkin padded over to the fire grate, which was just starting to lick with flames, he caught sight of his own reflection in Eilidh’s brass firebox. A hunched tabby cat stared back at him, crooked of tail and jagged of whisker. His eyes, once lizard-green and flashing with alertness, were now, at 15 years old, cloudy and drawn ever-so-slightly down at the corners, so that his pupils looked unnaturally large. To the unassuming passerby, this might have given them a melancholy air, but, to the more perceptive among cats and humans, it in fact spoke of a profound and restless wisdom. His fur, at one time the envy of the neighborhood for its dazzling mix of browns, marmalades and creams, was now flecked with white and constantly matted with bits of grit that he could never completely lick off. His forelegs were stout, with big paws, the likes of which would not seem out of place on one of his wildcat cousins, excepting his neatly rounded toes; and his ginger hind leg, once his proudest attribute when prowling the communal gardens, had now turned a deep fox-red and was bent in a half curve that he couldn’t straighten out. There was a majesty about him, as there was with all handsome cats grown old, and a robustness to his form that suggested a prodigious Victorian diet of lark pie, pork suet and dripping. He was a thinking cat and, as such, enjoyed a life of quiet intellectual contemplation.
”
”