Put thoughts of the unquiet dead from your mind a moment, Constance. A cat knows if your attention is divided, and they will not stand for it. Cath will wander into the keep if you avert your eyes for a moment, just to teach you a lesson.

But you know better. You offer a direct look, then slowly blink and look away: I feel safe with you, you say. You crouch low, hand extended for Cath’s inspection, open and inviting. And when the cat comes over and puts one furry face in your palm, holding you in place with one claw, you scoop and lift before Cath can scamper away.

There’s a tricky moment where you worry you might drop the dear, a moment where you struggle to lift all four of her paws off the ground. How heavy is this cat? But you are a daughter of giants, and you will not be denied in this. That last paw rises, and now you have the darling in your arms, held close, fingers offering placating scritches through the fur.

“Hush,” you say, as she finishes the treat and begins to wiggle the wiggle of escape. “You need to stay with your Auntie Constance, Cath. Now be a dear.” You shift your weight, cup Cath close to your shoulder, and raise your chin to survey the restless dead. Approach, shades! They are permitted. Just don’t ask for you to do anything with your hands. You are already beginning to sweat, holding this strangely heavy cat.