When she didn’t, Clara looked back with growing concern. Becca had her phone out, something she never did inside the building. Which, the cat told herself, must be why she had turned away.
“Tiger? It’s Becca.” Clara felt her whiskers sag. “I was wondering if you could tell me more about the plant you saw. Would you call me?” And with that, she hung up, but if Clara had any remaining hope that her person had put the matter to rest and would proceed inside the library, that soon dissipated. As she watched, Becca began to chew her lower lip and stare off into the distance. Since there was nothing out there beyond a rather drab brown oak, Clara began to fear the worst. When Becca turned her phone off and began to walk back toward the street, picking up her pace as she left the library behind, she knew what to expect.
“Becca, no!” Clara trotted to keep up. When it became clear that Becca was heading once more into Central Square, the calico began to panic. There was a reason Becca had been adopted by the three cats. She needed the gifts of all three, and just then, Clara felt the burden of being the only cat to accompany her person sorely.
“Please…” She did her best to project her thought, her ears twitching back with the effort. “Laurel, if you can hear me, can you help us out?”
Surely, her sister could pick up on her thoughts. She had already revealed her ability to travel shaded, much as Clara herself did. Ears up and every guard hair alert, Clara waited, hoping to get some sense that her slinky middle sister had heard her call and would respond. All she heard was the twittering of birds, though, and so she scurried to follow as Becca began walking even more quickly away from the library and the safety of the known.
Chapter 32
As the familiar storefront came into view, Clara let herself hope. While she didn’t like the idea of Becca asking more questions—certainly didn’t like the way that that woman Elizabeth seemed to know more than she should—at least she could understand such an action. Her person was thorough, a researcher at heart. Maybe Becca wanted something clarified. Maybe she had forgotten some important information. Maybe she had left her hat. But a quick glance to the velvet cloche that still topped Becca’s brown curls killed that hope.
Still, as Becca approached the storefront, Clara dared to believe. The store’s darkened interior showed no sign of life, and Becca knocked and waited—normal behavior, her cat told herself. Not rash at all. Only Becca wasn’t giving up. After trying to peer inside, her face pressed against the painted glass, she tried again, rapping on the window, to no avail. And so when Becca ducked around the back of the building, hurrying down the alley like some small and timid animal, the little cat began to feel ill.
“No, Becca!” She tried once again to project her thoughts. To implant the idea of the library, so safe and warm. Or, even better, of the cozy sofa at home. Maybe she had too much imagination, however, and she could see all too well where this was all heading. Because Becca, despite Clara’s fervent desire to warn her, appeared to be doing just what her pet feared most. She was going to try to duplicate her stunt of the previous day—only, this time, without a friend to stand guard. Not a friend who could call out to warn her, at any rate.
If she needed to, she would alert Becca somehow, Clara promised herself. Sure enough, as Clara watched, tail whipping in anxiety, Becca stared up at a high inset window with the intensity Laurel would use to gauge the jump to the top of the bookshelf. But Becca was no cat, and when her bottom didn’t twitch in anticipation, Clara began to breathe easier. Until, that is, she saw that Becca’s gaze had been distracted and she remembered. What Becca lacked in feline grace, she more than made up for in logic. Sure enough, a quick exploration of the back lot uncovered that plastic milk crate over by the dumpster, and it occurred to Clara that someone might have left it for just such an illicit entrance. Someone like Gaia, who wanted an easy way in and out. And although Becca was a good three inches shorter than the goth shop girl, when she stood on the milk crate and raised herself on tiptoe, she was able to reach the window.
“Now if only…” Clara’s ears perked up as Becca spoke, more to herself than to any possible passerby, her pet realized. “Yes!” Her agile fingers, so much more flexible than any talon, had managed to raise the edge of the window and from there it slid easily. With a grunt and a bit of a squeal, Becca pulled herself up, her sneakers finding purchase on the brick. And a moment later, she was inside.
“I’m getting rather good at this.” Becca’s musing would have been inaudible to most, but Clara heard her self-congratulations with dread. As much as she wanted her person to learn new skills, breaking into locked buildings was not a good thing. Surely, Becca knew that. Her reluctance to alert her friend and onetime lookout was proof of that. In Maddy’s absence, Clara hunkered down, determined to keep watch and to be ready to alert her person in case of trouble.
This late in the afternoon, the street was quiet, and Clara was grateful for the shadow of the building, which cloaked her spotted coat further even than her abilities allowed. Invisibility wasn’t everything, however. Despite her abilities, the calico was a housecat by nature, only venturing outside to accompany her person. Not being able to see Becca or, even worse, smell her warm scent, was unnerving, making the little beast feel even more vulnerable. As much as she trusted Becca, she couldn’t help but wonder if this entire venture was misguided and if, perhaps, the person she loved was in way over her head.
A muted crash made Clara jump. Here, in the rear of the building, she was protected from the street. Even if a car were to pull into the lot, she could duck behind the dumpster. Besides, that sound was from inside the building, she realized as she willed her fur back into its proper confirmation. That sound, more of a thud, had probably been occasioned by Becca knocking into something inside the darkened store. No cries of alarm or pain had followed, and none of that horrid squealing of bicycle tires that she could only too well remember.
“Becca?” Clara tried once more to reach her person. The only response was a thump and a soft grunt. The cat could stand it no longer and, bracing herself against what she might find, she shimmied through the brick wall toward her person.
The room Clara found herself in wasn’t that dark. Granted, the afternoon sun was clouded by the glazing on the bathroom window as well as a rime of dirt. And while Becca had opted against turning on the electrical light, she had opened the door to the storefront, where the early twilight illumined the colored paint on the window, if not much else. Still, there was no reason for a creature to bump and flail, as Becca seemed to be doing. An upended side table explained the earlier crash, and even now her person shuffled slowly, hands out in some weak improvisation of whiskers.
Whiskers! Of course! Clara had forgotten how dull human senses were, and so as she sat back and watched her person fuddle, she tried to come up with a way to help her. Clara couldn’t exactly turn on the lights for her. Cats simply didn’t do that, and she was sure there was a good reason why. Nor could she guide her, as dogs seemed to do for their humans at times.
“If only Laurel were here.” She never thought she’d miss her sister. Only now it would be so useful to have her here. She could suggest that Becca close the door to the storefront. If she did that, she could turn on the overhead light. Surely, the slight glow that would leak out the bathroom window would not cause any alarm.