A Twitch in the Tale

Richard looked about quickly and saw that just inside the room were bottles of wine stacked on the sideboard for the evening meal. He snatched one and hurled it to smash at a man's feet. Then another, and another. The men looked at him suddenly in panic as their burning comrade flailed backwards into a pool of wine which flared up around him, setting the table aflame and sending fire to leap onto another man's legs. Richard clutched at a Brandy decanter and heaved in into the room before tossing the torch onto its smashed remains and suddenly the whole room was ablaze. The panic was shocking. The party scurried back and forth aimlessly, setting one another on fire in their frenzy, clutching and scratching at the walls and letting loose with a horrifying high pitched squeal. Richard watched in morbid fascination as one fellow fell to his knees clutching at his burning hair. He tore his eyes away from the chaos and ran as fast as he could to the exit.

Smoke billowed behind Richard as he stumbled into the front courtyard and he glanced over his shoulder to see that the flames had spread with incredible speed. Tabitha was standing patiently, the fire reflected in her eyes as she watched the house burn. A screeching, burning figure stumbled from the front door, and she quickly stepped forward. With a spiteful hiss she shoved him back into the flames.

Satisfied that her work was done, Tabitha walked away for a moment and picked up a small docile cat. She walked slowly up to a dazed Richard and handed the cat to him wordlessly. It was an exotic looking creature with a cream coat and a dark head and tail. The cat squirmed slightly in Richard's arms, but was quieted as Tabitha leaned forward and whispered inaudibly into its twitching ears. A playful smile once more danced upon Tabitha's lips.

'Your dreams,' she murmured. She pressed one small pale finger to Richard's mouth before he could answer, and turned to sway out of the front gate and out of his life forever.

*

Whittington sat in his study, a fat hand describing the movement of quill across parchment as he authorised another payment while a servant stood over him The rise of Whittington had been meteoric. Six years ago, the boy had been rewarded with a small fortune for the recovery of Princess Anne's pet cat, a treasured gift from the Sultan of Brunei. With that money and a keen mind, he had established himself as a merchant trader without peer, rising swiftly to become one of the richest men in London. He even supplied the King with substantial loans, and it was now rumoured that with numerous bribes he sought to buy the office of Mayor.

Whittington sat back in indulgent content and stroked the back of one of his many cats. Although the rat problems of London had died down suddenly and dramatically all those years back, he liked to keep them nearby just in case.

He handed the parchment to his manservant and waved him away.

'One moment Sir, if I may?' said the servant. 'Another of the maids has fallen pregnant. That's the fourth this year alone.'

A thin smile passed across Whittington's lips.

'Let her go', he ordered. 'And find me another. You know the sort'. The servant nodded and left, and if he felt any distaste at his degenerate master he did not show it.

He could not afford to.