It had dawned on Katya that she should be afraid. The Prince had taken a handgun and placed it on Zeus’s temple, fired one shot and their pet, which trusted him like a blind man, dropped to the floor.  She had once trusted him like that. He had shown her the world. The good, bad and indifferent of it and she had laughed and understood nothing. 

He kept her close. Barthelona’s mean streets, the unrest there amid the art of Gaudi and tapas at eleven. She was his hostage. On the last day before the cruise, they had ridden the bus to see the Black Virgin and he had led her once again down the wrong path. He was always leading her against the natural flow of felinity, exposing the others in their cat world for what they really were, frail, unpredictable and wanting. 

 He had called his other kittens, the give-me kids.  Katya’s eyes opened wide at the Prince’s view of things and grew very quiet.  A tear welled up and streaked down her face and hung for a moment from her chin before she brushed it away. 

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