No one knew how old the strange black kitten was, for a start. He was a great deal smaller than Boris, but then Boris was huge, everyone said so. He was nearly as tall as Bianca and Tasha but he was thinner, as though he’d never been properly fed. He kept appearing here and there, always hunched over or half hidden behind a box or a pile of papers. He was quiet too, now he knew that he had to be. He could slip through the passageways and galleries like a shadow.
“He’s too quiet,” Bianca said later that afternoon as the shadows were gathering along the terrace outside the Egyptian Gallery. “I don’t like it. He’s such a sly little thing. I expect he’s off somewhere sniffing around where he isn’t wanted.”
“Or he’s spying out the museum’s treasures,” Boris suggested. “What do we really know about that skinny old tabby cat who brought him here? He could be a master criminal and Peter’s his cat on the inside.”
Tasha was still feeling guilty about abandoning Peter earlier. She should have gone back to the Weapons Gallery to find him. Should she look for him now and say sorry? Or would that just make it worse? She was only half listening to Bianca and Boris, so she didn’t argue with them for once. Afterwards she wished she had, because as soon as Bianca had wandered off to flutter her whiskers at a visitor and Boris had gone to enquire when supper would be, a small dark shape stole out from behind a statue of a lion goddess and slunk away. Tasha sat watching from the terrace with her mouth open, but all her words were frozen.
[Êàðòèíêà: img_26]
It’s just Bianca and Boris – you don’t need to mind them, I never do, she should have said. Or,I wish I hadn’t left you behind in the Weapons Gallery. I didn’t mean to, I was just scared we’d get into trouble…
She tried to be friendly– that night she left a space on their pile of tapestries for the black kitten to sleep. But instead he huddled himself up inside an old wooden jewellery box, all on his own. Tasha lay there in the dark, watching him and worrying.
The black kitten didn’t notice that Tasha was peering at him over Boris’s fat ginger tail. He was squished into the tiny jewellery box, the worn velvet lining soft under his paws. He was quite comfortable and he wasn’t hungry. He was warm and dry, and Old Ivan had said he could stay.
[Êàðòèíêà: img_27]
But he didn’t belong. Not like the others. Clever funny Tasha, and Bianca who melted all the visitors’ hearts. And Boris, who was obviously going to be the biggest, fiercest, most rat-scaring cat in the whole history of the museum.
Peter sniffed, and sighed, and turned round in the tiny, tiny box– which was quite difficult. Perhaps it would be better tomorrow, he thought hopefully, as his head nodded lower on to the edge of the box. Perhaps tomorrow things would be different…
[Êàðòèíêà: img_20]
“Are you sure you’re even a cat?” Boris peered down, his whiskers brushing the little black kitten’s nose. He was looking sideways at Bianca and Tasha, wanting them to laugh along.
“What?” Peter blinked. “Of course I’m a cat.”
“Are you? Really? I mean you don’t know anything else about yourself. Maybe you’re a skinny little ferret.” Boris sniggered, thinking that he was being very clever and funny. “Or perhaps you’re a rat! I’ve seen rats bigger than you!”
Peter shuddered. He had seen rats too, while he was out on the streets with Herring. Their yellow teeth and glittering eyes would be stuck in his memory forever.
“Leave him alone,” Tasha growled. “You aren’t funny, Boris. Maybe you’re an elephant? Stop being mean.”
[Êàðòèíêà: img_28]
Peter was still thinking about rats and hardly heard her. But he heard Bianca laughing, a high squeaky little laugh that made him feel hot and embarrassed and miserable all over. His ears flattened down and his tail drooped, and he skulked silently away from the three kittens.
“Off you go, rat cat!” Boris called after him, snorting with laughter, and Peter hung his head. He’d really thought that today might be better. Today was supposed to be the day that he fitted in. How could he ever be a real museum cat when he knew nothing about who he was, or where he came from? All the others had been born at the museum – they were never going to let him be one of them. Wherever he went in the galleries, there seemed to be a proper museum cat peering down its nose at him.
He couldn’t stay.
Peter slunk through the Dinosaur Gallery like a tiny patch of shadow and crept into a room full of stuffed animals. None of the museum cats liked this room much– it smelled strange and there were too many large creatures with teeth. The enormous she-wolf just by the door made him feel quite shivery. But in here he had a good chance of being left alone to work out what he was going to do. He settled down behind a glass case with a sabre-toothed tiger in it and began to wash slowly. It helped him think.
[Êàðòèíêà: img_29]
Herring had told Peter that the museum was a safe place, where cats were well cared for, and Peter could see that this was true. He had been very well fed. He closed his eyes for a moment, blissfully remembering the treat of cold chicken that the Old Man had put down as part of their supper the night before. It made his whiskers quivery just thinking about it. And he was warm and dry with a comfortable place to sleep. Even though he had woken up feeling as if the jewellery box had given him corners!
But it wasn’t enough. Smoke licked his ears affectionately whenever she strolled past, but no one talked to him. No one curled up around him to keep him safe in the dark, the way Herring had. And before that, someone had loved him. Peter couldn’t remember his mother or father, or his brothers and sisters,but he knew he must have had a family, once. He almost remembered someone licking him gently as he fell asleep.
The museum was a place to stay, but that didn’t make it a home. Peter stopped licking his paws and breathed out a tiny sigh. He didn’t want to leave the good food and the warm bed and go back to wandering the streets. Especially not on his own.
But wasn’t a home worth hunting for?
[Êàðòèíêà: img_30]
Peter was still sitting behind the sabre-toothed tiger, trying to come up with a plan, when a scuffling noise made him jump. He peered out from behind the glass case, hoping that it wasn’t one of the enormous rats that Boris had so enjoyed telling him about on their tour.
It wasn’t a rat. Staring back at him with wide panicked eyes was Tasha, her fur all on end and her whiskers bristling.
“What’s the matter?” he gasped. “Are you all right?” The tabby kitten looked terrified, as though something was after her. Peter glanced worriedly around the gallery, wondering what it could be.
“Oh… It’s you.” Tasha panted. The fur along her spine flattened down a little and she took a deep breath. “I thought… Oh dear.” She padded her front paws up and down, looking embarrassed.
“Is someone chasing you?” Peter asked, his whiskers flicking anxiously back and forth.
Tasha shook her head slowly.“No…” She looked behind her and then edged a little closer to the tiger case. “Promise you won’t tell the others?”
Peter felt something inside him swell up like a little balloon. A secret! Between him and Tasha!
“I promise,” he said earnestly, hoping and hoping it wasn’t some horrible trick that Boris or Bianca had put her up to.
“I’m-really-scared-of-the-wolf,” Tasha said in a fast, muttery gabble.
[Êàðòèíêà: img_31]
“Oh…” Peter looked over at the entrance to the gallery, where the huge stuffed wolf stood on a high wooden block, baring her teeth. He could almost hear her growling from here, even though he knew she was stuffed. “Me too.”