A Familiar’s Duty

She woke to sunlight in her salt-and-pepper hair and a cat staring at her. For a moment, her mind was lost in the damnable fog that covered her from time to time.

“Good morning…” she crooned, reaching down to stroke his head.

Pause. Brow wrinkle

“…Precious?”

The cat froze mid-blink.

Precious was the name of a Guinea pig his Lady had cared for back in 1953.

She laughed, a thin, tinkling sound, much like teacups knocking together.

“Oh, hush, of course I remember you,” she assured him.

She absolutely didn’t.

From its far corner hiding place, the broom sighed as if it had seen this coming.

Dust spun lazily in the afternoon sunlight. Cat watched his Lady, always his Lady. They had been together all their days, winding forward until now. His Lady was now an old crone, and something was terribly off.

Age clung heavily to her, no matter the concealing spells, and a confusion blinked off and on behind her eyes, reminding him of mice peeking in between the cracked boards.

His tail twitched with irritation.

From her bed, she suddenly said, “Calca fervora—”

The spell, the one that would start warming the teapot, frizzles halfway out of her mouth.

The teapot wobbled, clinked, and then erupted in an explosion of chrysanthemums. Flowers burst from the spout, blooming wildly across the counter like spilled tea.

The pot lid shot into the air; petals cascaded in a colorful, floral waterfall. The lid clanked noisily as it landed across the room.

She froze half-upright in bed.

He froze mid-tail-flick.

She cleared her throat, delicately.

“Yes. Well. They are my favorite flowers.”

A beat passed.

“I… think,” she finished.

He stared at her, whiskers twitching, because what else was he supposed to do?

He remembered when she could call down lightning without so much as singeing a curtain. Now the tea kettle bloomed chrysanthemums.

She blinked slowly at the petals.

He blinked at the truth neither of them said.

She stood, meaning to head for the kitchen. He jumped down, stepping forward, pressing his head against her ankle once firmly, the way he used to when she was a little girl, steering her gently in the right direction.

She smiled, distracted.

“It is going to be a beautiful day,” she murmured.

He did not answer, following her towards the cascading mass of flowers.

Someone needed to watch out for her. Somebody needed to remember how things worked.

That warming spell should have boiled water, not resurrected flora. Truly, we are in the weeds… literally, Cat thought.

She forgets.

I remember.

That is the burden of the Familiar.

If she tries to summon the moon again, I'll lock the window latches myself," he half-growled.

Somehow, she managed to stop the flowers, even dispel most of them. A few clung to the curtains. She warmed the teakettle water by hand, her lips silently moving through the cleanup spell, and even remembered to get out a tin of breakfast for him. But he had not seen her eat, and this was not good.

After careful deliberation, he leaped to the counter and knocked over a box of crackers.

“Oh, what’s that?” she asked, glancing over. “Oh, you want a cracker, do you… Ah, Jasper, er— Toby?” He looked away, switching his tail. He knew the routine; once she got her hands on the box of crackers, he would walk away. She would start eating one tiny cracker at a time, drinking her cup of tea, and he could catch a breath.

The council’s visit last week still prickled his fur.

Two witches and one warlock were hovering on their broomsticks outside her windows. They looked like a coming storm, voices low and grave. But he had heard enough.

“Perhaps a supervised cottage,” one had whispered.

“She has a home,” he had hissed, tail lashing.

“A live-in attendant?” suggested another.

“I am her attendant,” he wanted to yowl, “I have been for nearly 83 years!”

“We will have to see what can be done. This is very rare indeed,” they sighed, eyes heavy with pity. Then they were gone, leaving terror in his whiskers.

His Lady was unraveling, reminding him of an old spell book coming apart at the spine. He did not know how much magic was left holding her pages together.

He needed her grounded.

He also needed to go outside badly, but he’d seen what she could do with three unsupervised minutes. One unattended afternoon, and the potted petunia still crowed like a rooster at sunrise!

If she would sit and eat her crackers, today might not unravel.

The afternoon slipped into evening, with no grand spells or cackling storms, just warm sunlight and a gently sighing tea kettle. Through slitted eyes, he watched her shuffle from one shelf to another. Gnarled fingers brushing books and jars, as if they were old friends, but forgetting them in the next breath.

“Now where did I put the, ah— thing—a—ma— powder…” she muttered to a jar of rose hips as if it might answer. She didn’t need to know he had batted the dragon powder out of sight. One dragon disaster was enough.

“Blooming bright dust... or is it broom bite duster? Broom!” She puzzled out, excited to finally decide.

“NO Broom!” he pushed with his mind, eyes wide now, seeing the broom twitch from its place of hiding. He glared at it; never again could she ride.

“Hector!” she declared to him, “I got it!” For a moment, her eyes looked straight at him, hope rising.

“Er—ah—Barney!” she declared, eyes bright. She glowed in pride, smiling. He slowly looked away, tail dropping off the edge of the table. Hector and Barney, he was not. He yowled a bit at her in heartache.

She blinked at him.

“Yes, well, no need to shout, I can still hear,” She grumbled, stepping close to pour another cup. He exhaled, whiskers settling in a droop.

Evening found her by their favorite window, rocking gently in her old chair. She had kept calling out to him various names throughout the day, each wrong one adding to his heartache.

There was a moment when a flicker of panic flashed behind her eyes, and he had pushed his head into her palm, willing calmness into her bones. At least he could still do that.

Most of the day, he had pretended to sleep, feeling concern and worry nibble away at his heart. He had to remain ever vigilant lest she found trouble again, but finally gave in when she patted her lap, making room for him. He climbed up, curling on her warm lap blanket, feeling the fragile rhythm of her breath against his back. He began to purr, which got her humming.

Humming was his favorite time with her anymore. His ears twitched.

“There once was a sailor who roamed every tide…” She sang softly, off-key but earnest.

The cat tipped his wide eyes up at her, golden orbs hopeful.

She blinked, brow furrowing, then she smiled, looking down, really seeing him.

“Sinbad.” She breathed out in a gentle croon, “That’s my good boy, Sinbad.”

Her hand stroked him as she used to.

Relief melted every muscle in him, and he kneaded her lap gently.

She relaxed, continuing to hum quietly. The chair creaked slowly, her jaw slackened, sleep pulling at her.

She had finally remembered.

He stayed awake in the deepening darkness, guardian to her quiet, ears prickling at the noises of the night.