‘No cat-like sounds at all,’ said Luke. ‘But it growled like a dog when it got knocked down in the sham fighting, exactly the way that Mollie used to growl. You would have to see it to understand it. It was like a dog in every way it acted, but it was still a cat to look at. Anne said she could nearly believe it was Mollie, dressed up in a cat’s skin. And Maggie’s behaviour was peculiar too. You’d think she’d want to fight with a cat instead of playing with it, just from natural dog’s instinct—let alone from jealousy at its coming into her mistress’s home—you know how pets are that way. But not at all. She treated the cat as though it were the oldest friend she had, let it sleep in the same basket with her and everything. Didn’t seem to miss Mollie, either. It almost looked as though the cat had come specially to take Mollie’s place and keep the other dog from grieving over the loss of her playmate. Anne is positive that it is one of Agnes’s cats. Though I don’t see any particular reason for thinking that.’
‘Except that it never cries, miaows, or makes what you called cat-like sounds, eh?’ muttered Giles. ‘Have you or Anne had any news of Agnes?’
‘No,’ said Luke. ‘It is hardly likely that we would, is it? Nine years now since we saw or heard of her.’
‘You haven’t spoken of the cat to anyone at the palace?’
‘No. The beast of its own accord keeps out of everyone’s way. And Anne thought it best not to talk about it—with the wedding toward and all. Black cats are supposed to bring bad luck when they cross your path.’
‘I know,’ Giles nodded. ‘People still believe in superstitions like that; rubbish that has no rhyme nor reason nor sense whatever. While anything unusual that Agnes might do, like curing your leg, they’d call incantation, sorcery, sinful devil-dealing, and what not. “Shragga the Witch!”—Bah!’
‘Poor Agnes!’ murmured Luke. ‘I wonder what corner of the world she’s hiding her old head in now.’
‘Who can tell?’ sighed Giles. ‘And yet you know, sometimes—lately—I’ve had a sort of feeling—I can’t explain it. A feeling that she’s not far off, that that powerful mind of hers is around us, near, now, in touch almost with my own. I haven’t felt so for a long, long time, not since Anne and I stayed that night at the Haunted Inn, and met all those strange dream-folk—who talked to us but didn’t seem quite real . . . I don’t know. Perhaps it’s all nonsense. Maybe it’s just that I’m mortal tired. Yet that matter of the shell’s disappearing is queer enough.—Hah! A busy time for the King’s Finder! Everything’s disappearing. I suppose the castle itself will be the next. But as for the dog, that does not seem hard to explain. The Countess took the spaniel with her for company, most likely. I wish I had known that before I left. It might have helped me in the search. But I was in such a hurry to catch up with her I couldn’t spare much time. How were things faring at the palace when you left?’
‘Oh, well enough, considering all. No suspicion of the Countess’s going seems to have leaked out—though how much longer that can be kept up I do not know. We have been most careful, keeping the wedding guests busy with games, races, shows, dances and what not. The Queen Mother has been wonderful, hiding her worry behind a smiling face and taking part in everything. The Count Godfrey too.’
‘And the King?’ asked Giles.