The first thing I noticed was the appalling lack of hay. The second was that I had thumbs. They dangled off the ends of my… arms, pale and useless. I wiggled them. Horrifying.
Just an hour earlier, I’d been Bartholomew, purveyor of gossip and premier mouser of the royal stables. My days consisted of naps in sunbeams, judging the quality of fallen saddlebags, and listening. Oh, the listening. Grooms, knights, visiting dignitaries—they all spilled their secrets near the hay bales. I knew who was cheating at cards, which duchess had a secret fondness for cheap ale, and the real reason the chancellor’s toupee was always slightly askew.
Then Prince Caspian arrived. You know the type: jawline you could slice cheese on, hair that flopped heroically, and the IQ of a decorative turnip. He was moaning about the “unbearable burden of royalty” and how he wished for a “simpler life, a life of noble purpose, free from trivialities.” He was polishing his own reflection on his ridiculously oversized sword at the time. He saw me, mid-yawn, and said, “Oh, to be a simple creature like you, without a care in the world!”
There was a flash of weird, violet light from the cheap amulet he bought from a traveling merchant (I’d heard the man bragging it was just polished glass), and suddenly, I was here. Buried in silk sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and entitlement.
A servant entered. “Your Highness, your breakfast is prepared. And your new boots have arrived.”
I stared at him, my mind racing. Thumbs were one thing, but conversation? I’d always been a talking cat, of course, but only fools like Caspian spoke to animals. Now, I was expected to… human. I drew on years of eavesdropping on the upper crust. “Splendid,” I said, my new voice a booming baritone that felt ridiculous. “Do try not to trip over your own feet on the way out, Reginald. You’ve been looking unsteady lately.”
The servant, whose name was actually Reginald, paled and bowed so low he nearly headbutted the floor. Point, Bartholomew.
Later, I looked out the window. Down in the courtyard, I saw him. The Prince. My body. He was, and I say this with no exaggeration, trying to stalk a pigeon with the sort of dramatic, theatrical stealth that would get you killed in about five seconds in the wild. He crouched, wiggled his hindquarters (my hindquarters!), and then pounced, landing flat on his face in a puddle. He came up sputtering, looked at his muddy paws with disgust, and then seemed to remember himself. He stood tall, puffed out his chest, and declared to a nearby horse, “Aha! I have passed the first trial of this enchanted quest! The kingdom is safe!”
The horse just blinked.
That afternoon, I was dragged into a council meeting. The topic: the ongoing beet tariff dispute with the neighboring duchy of Glowerburg. The ministers were bickering, waving scrolls, and using words like “whereas” and “hitherto.” I was bored. My tail, which was tragically absent, gave a phantom twitch of irritation.
“Your Highness,” the Chancellor wheezed, “your input would be invaluable.”
I stretched, a deeply satisfying motion that involved arching my new, absurdly long spine. “It’s not about the beets,” I said simply.
The room fell silent.
“It’s about the fact that Duke Glowerburg’s youngest daughter is secretly courting our stable master’s boy, and the Duke thinks we’re encouraging a scandal to lower her marriage prospects. He’s using the tariffs as an excuse.”
The Chancellor’s jaw unhinged. “How… how could you possibly know that?”
I gave a lazy, self-satisfied smile, a look I’d perfected after cornering a particularly plump field mouse. “A good king listens at the stable door,” I purred. “Send the Duke a dowry offer for the stable boy. He’ll drop the tariff in a week.”
They stared at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head. But then, slowly, they started nodding. It was brilliant. It was simple. It was the kind of solution you come up with when you’re not distracted by things like “economics” and “diplomacy,” and are instead focused on the far more reliable currency of gossip.
I leaned back in my ridiculously plush chair. Maybe these thumbs wouldn’t be so bad after all. As for Caspian? Last I saw, he was trying to teach squirrels to form a royal guard. It’s an improvement for everyone, really.