“Actually, the damaging nature of corsets has been wholly exaggerated…” Fenella started to say.
“Where now?” Lovelace interrupted. She had always felt a little unsettled about Fenella’s scent. Probably because the young woman spent all day touching clothes worn by or about to be worn by other humans.
Fenella’s scent hadn’t bothered her too much before this adventure began, but after so much time in close proximity, Lovelace rather felt a headache coming on.
“Somewhere familiar,” said Cressida. “Somewhere we won’t bump into Anachronauts every five seconds. Or strangers in blue robes with a pineapple obsession,” she added with a sceptical look in Monterey’s direction.
“I didn’t make it up!” he insisted. “Lovelace was there, weren’t you, love?”
Lovelace nodded solemnly. “Blue space nuns looking for a Jade Pineapple. Or a jade pineapple, I’m not sure how proper their nouns were. I understand the scepticism. I wouldn’t believe him either.”
Monterey scratched her behind the ear. “I can always count on you to have my back, darling.”
“You often sound entirely irrational,” she informed him. “Even for a human.”
Cressida pressed on through the time aisle, somehow finding room for her entire gown despite the narrow angles. “Here we go,” she said, pushing on a door. “This is a good one.”
Scent flooded over them as they stepped out into a wide, airy room thick with humidity, spiced oils and the overpowering scent of large sardines being grilled to perfection.
Lovelace was going to need a swooning couch.
“I know this place,” she said, sniffing the delicious air. “Are we in Egypt?”
“This is that palace,” said Monterey, snapping his fingers. “The one we ended up in by accident that time, when we were trying to get a run up on the library of Alexandria.” He pointed an accusing finger at Lovelace. “You met Cleopatra here.”
“Yeah, we’re going to do our best to avoid Cleo this time around,” said Cressida. “She’s not my biggest fan.”
As she spoke, a small woman in jelly sandals, a bobbed black wig and a flowing gold gown stepped out from behind a red granite pillar, widening her kohl-lined eyes at them all. “Brilliant,” she said, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “More time travellers, Cressida? I warn you, my guards are trained to taser Anachronauts on sight.”
“We’re not Anachronauts,” Monterey said with hearts in his eyes. “Also, your pedicure is fabulous.”
Cleopatra looked more exhausted than Lovelace had ever seen her, despite the excellent makeup job. It couldn’t be easy, being a Pharaoh trapped in a lifelong time bubble that meant you were constantly assaulted by anachronisms and unwanted guests.
Lovelace stepped forward and, in the universal cat gesture of friendship, wound herself slowly around Cleopatra’s ankles.
“Oh, hello, Lovelace,” said Cleo, giving her a scratch behind the ears. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?”
Best. Pharaoh. Ever.
The feast was glorious. Dishes for days, and twelve different kinds of fish. Lovelace was in heaven.
Monterey was happy too, lolling around on cushions beside the Pharaoh, flirting like mad while mentally ticking ‘swap fashion tips with Cleopatra’ off his bucket list. Lovelace was happy for him.
“Tell me something about the future,” said Cleopatra at one point, her fingers idling in a dish of honeyed figs.
“I already told you about platform shoes, the Met Gala and holographic underwear,” said Monterey. “What more do you need to know?”
“I want to know about cats,” said Cleopatra. “They’re sacred here in Egypt, you know.”
“Well aware,” said Lovelace with her mouth full of eel. “Good job, Egypt.”
“But ours don’t talk. Except those like you and Boswell, who come from the future.”
“Wait,” said Oxford, rousing himself from the sullen flop he had been in since they arrived in this heavenly place. “You’ve seen Professor Boswell? Is he all right? Is Ruthven with him?”
“I want to know,” said Cleopatra, ignoring Oxford with ruthless Pharaoh privilege. “When cats first began to speak as humans do. Have they always had this skill in secret? Are ours pretending they cannot speak? Is it something that changes a thousand years from now? Two thousand years? Surely you know.”
Monterey hesitated. An odd look crossed his face, as if he did know the answer, but couldn’t find the words to express it. As always, when unsettled, he looked across the table to meet Lovelace’s gaze.
Cats cannot shrug. It was the only gesture she could think of that conveyed her own thoughts. She swallowed the last of the eel.
Cressida didn’t have an answer either. She frowned as if trying to work it out. Fenella, beside her, ate some grapes.
“It’s recent,” volunteered Oxford. “In the scheme of things, I mean. A new development within our lifetimes.”
“That’s right,” said Monterey, sounding relieved someone else had started them off. “No talking cats in twentieth century media… or even in the twenty-third, if my recent marathon of the Coronation Street reboot is anything to go by. Lovelace, you must know more?”
“Cats have spoken for as long as I remember,” she replied, reaching out a paw to hook a promising dish closer to her. Marinated chunks of something, decorated with blobs of sea urchin pulp. She had been hoping for mullet, but now that this dish came closer to her the scent was more suggestive of crocodile.
She was going to eat it regardless.
“And you must be…” Monterey invited, then trailed off.
“Never ask a lady her age,” said Cressida, amused. “Talking cats go hand in hand with the discovery of time travel. I never heard a cat speak before I came to Chronos College.”
“Me neither,” said Fenella.
