Chapter 4 HOW TO FEED A FAMILIAR WHO HATES YOU

I have made a terrible financial decision.

This was my first thought at 6:00 AM when the silver cat who lives in my cottage stared at the bowl of oatmeal I had lovingly made him and then, with great deliberation, pushed it off the table.

The bowl did not break. The cottage floor is dirt in the kitchen. The oatmeal, however, made a very sad plop.

Rowan — because I have decided to call him Rowan even though he has not agreed to it — looked at the oatmeal, then at me, then back at the oatmeal, as if to say, This is what you think I am worth?

"It's all we have," I whispered. "It's that or dried plum leaves."

He flicked his tail and jumped onto my only warm hearthstone. The hearthstone, for the record, said meh when I tried to light it this morning. Just a puff of grey smoke that literally formed the letters m-e-h before disappearing. My grandmother's cottage is bullying me.

Mr. Finch's words from yesterday at the agency were still in my head: Do not expose to strong emotions, pepper, or sudden loud blessings. May shift unexpectedly. Not our liability.

I snorted at the memory. May shift unexpectedly. Sure.

I looked at this fluffy, fat, very grumpy cat currently grooming himself like he owns Cottage 7B.

"I don't believe you," I told him.

He paused his grooming to stare at me.

"Mr. Finch said you 'may shift.' You know, like into something else. But you haven't. You've been here two days and you are just... a cat. A very rude cat. I think he said that to make you sound more expensive so I wouldn't ask for a refund."

Rowan's blue eyes narrowed.

"Yeah. I think it's a scam. You're just a cat with a fancy moon collar."

Mrow.

I took that as How dare you.

You need to eat," I told the cat.

Rowan flicked his tail.

I got on my knees. "Look. I know you are a Tier-1 familiar. You are used to roast chicken and fresh milk from actual good witches. I am a failing witch who failed certification three times. My hearth says meh. My cottage leans to the left. But I have a plum tree. Plums are food."

He stared.

"Okay, fine. What do cats like?"

No answer. Of course.

I went through Mrs. Albie's old book: Feeding Your Familiar For Dummies Who Somehow Got A Familiar.

Chapter 1: Cats like fish.

I do not have fish. I have plums.

I looked at Rowan again. He was now lying on his back on the hearthstone, exposing his very fluffy belly. It was a trap. I know it was a trap.

But his collar glowed faintly blue. He looked... cold.

Without thinking, I reached out and scratched his belly.

For one second, he let me.

He made a noise that was not a meow. It was a purr that vibrated through the whole cottage. And for that one second, the hearthstone under him glowed. Not meh. Gold. Warm.

Then he realized what he was doing, bit my hand — gently, but still — and rolled over, offended.

"OW! You — you liked it!"

Mrow. Translation: I tolerated it.

I stood up, cradling my bitten hand. "Fine. You don't want oatmeal. What do you want?"

He jumped off the hearthstone, walked to my pantry, and sat in front of it. Staring.

There is nothing in my pantry. There is a single tin of sardines I was saving for when I am truly starving, which is now.

"Oh. You want sardines."

He blinked slowly.

I opened the tin. The smell was terrible. He immediately shoved his entire face in.

"Okay! Okay, we share!"

We ended up on the floor, sharing sardines from the tin with one fork because I only own one fork. Him as a cat, me as a girl in an oversized coat that used to be my grandmother's. The cottage was still cold, but the spot where he had been lying was warm when I touched it.

When he finished, he looked at me, his whiskers full of fish oil, and sneezed.

Achoo!

A tiny puff of silver sparkles came out. Nothing else. Just a cat sneeze.

...I laughed. "See? No shifting. Mr. Finch lied."

Rowan sneezed again, glared at me like I was the reason his nose itched, and curled back on the hearthstone.

I swear, for a second, as he curled up, I thought his shadow on the wall was too big. Too tall. Like a man's.

But that was probably just the sardine fumes.

I cleaned the tin and put it by the window for Mrs. Albie to see I was trying. My grandmother always said a familiar will only stay if you feed it with intention, not just food. I have no intention. I have no magic. I just have cold oatmeal on the floor and a cat who thinks I am an idiot.

I sat next to him on the cold floor anyway. My shoulder brushed his fluffy side. He didn't move away this time.

"If you are going to stay," I whispered, "you have to tell me what you actually like. I can't read minds. I can barely read hearthstones."

He looked up at me, his blue eyes too knowing, and rested his big silver head on my knee. Just for a second. Just enough to make my chest hurt.

The hearthstone, from across the room, glowed gold for two full seconds before going back to meh.