Page 32 of Red Rooster

Val capped the bottle and set it down slowly, the cat watching him the whole time. He wiggled his fingers and she came to him, slipping right through the narrow bars and padding up to him with her tail aloft, expression bright and eager. He folded his legs and she climbed up into his lap, purring and butting his chin with her head.

Oh, dear. That was lovely.

“Hello, beautiful,” he murmured, reaching to scratch behind her ears.

Her purring intensified and she leaned into the touch, happily kneading his leg.

“Ooh, she loves you,” Annabel said.

“Yes.” He ran his hand down her back, watching her spine lift into the motion. “Unfortunately for her.”

When he glanced up, he found Annabel watching him with sympathy.

“Don’t pity me. It makes me feel pathetic.”

She snorted. “We wouldn’t want that.”

The little cat circled and then laid down in a tidy coil, warm and purring.

“Can I ask you something?” Annabel said.

“Ah.” He smiled. “I knew you didn’t come to bring me a cat.”

“Hey now, I did! Don’t make me out like one of them.” She was of course referring to his captors – whom he guessed were her captors as well, in a way. “But you said some things to Fulk the other day, and I’ve been curious.”

“About what, my dear?”

“You said Alexei Romanov is still alive.”

“He is. Have you much interest in Russian nobility?”

“Don’t get cute.” She tried to look stern, but was smiling. “That whole story – the whole family getting killed? The Bolsheviks? – that’s crazy. Who isn’t interested? But you know what I mean.”

They studied one another a moment, and Annabel’s eyes narrowed, some of her true steel peeking through the youthful veneer. “They left Fulk and me alone for a long time,” she finally said. “And then they called. Things are in motion, Fulk says, and he’s right. Something big is coming. He’s always wanted it to be us against the world, but just the two of us can’t fight off something this big. It’d be nice to know if there’s any friendlies out there.”

“Friendlies,” he mused aloud, stroking the cat. “I’ve never known any in my own life.”

“Not any?” she asked, teasing at first. And then her face fell. “Oh no. Val.”

“Your sympathy is charming, but unnecessary, I assure you. As to your question: I don’t know if they’d be friendly toward you, per se, but there are others. Ones who won’t want any part of any foolish war my relatives see fit to stir up. And who certainly wouldn’t approve of the things they do here in this house.”

Annabel nodded.

“What do you think of my brother? Now that’s he awake.”

She blinked, clearly surprised by the question. But didn’t answer right away; chewed at her lip a moment. Finally, she said, tone careful, “He calls you Radu when he talks about you.”

A burning sensation blossomed in the pit of his stomach, hot and furious. Pain like a wound. He sucked a quick breath through his teeth and lifted his head, stiffened his neck, shoved uselessly at the old waves of rage that lapped and frothed inside him. “Well,” he said, aiming for crisp, coming off tense. “He would. Valerian was my mother’s chosen name for me. It’s the name my father wanted that always turns up in the history books.”

The cat rolled over onto its back and reached up with her ginger paws to bat at his fingertips. Her little claws hooked in his skin, sharp enough to make him smile.

“I’m sorry,” Annabel said.

“Don’t be,” he snapped, and regretted letting his composure slip. He tickled the cat’s soft belly with his fingers and tried to regain his bored, lofty tone. “So what goes on upstairs? With all you aboveground dwellers.”

He thought that would earn an eye roll, or at least one of her snorting little laughs. But instead, she frowned.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but that awful old Dr. Talbot is up to something.”