Welcome to the Mansion. You can leave now. (Mama)

It could have been the best Christmas ever.

He’d been... “sneaking in” was a harsh word: Calley had simply been unconventionally entering the Mansion via treeline approach when he’d first seen her. She was standing with her back to the windows; facing the Christmas tree, and talking to one of the younger, bouncier students. He didn’t remember the Christmas tree being there. But of course, that’s something she’d see to putting up. There were presents and everything: his cat nose twitched, catching a subtle scent of warm cookies even from outside. His claws dug into a branch halfway between the ground and his own bedroom window. Her back was turned, but it was unmistakable. Her black hair was long and loose, hanging past her shoulders. Her skin was the color of a welcoming night. Her hand flicked as she talked to the kid. It was a sharp, clear gesture. No frills, no nonsense. Even the way she stood said it all: there stood a pillar of the Mansion, and unto its base was inscribed ‘Thou Shalt Not Give Me Crap, for I Shall Return It to Sender.’ Part of him cringed just the tiniest guilty bit away; they, errhm, had a lot to talk about. He’d done some things that, in retrospect, she might not approve of. But the rest of him leaned bodily over the branch, towards the window, even his tail tip perfectly still as he waited for that first moment when she turned towards—

Who. The ****. Was that.

The black kitten reeled back, nearly falling off the cold branch. From the back, they could have been twins. Face on? There was no mistaking her. This was not Neena. She was standing where Neena should be standing, doing what Neena should be doing, but she was not Neena.

Frankly, dear, he didn’t give a crap who she was. Calley and Mama were off to a bad start already, but only one of them knew it.

The black kitten clawed its way back to the ground, the idea of a Christmas at the Mansion suddenly like a long dead rat in his catty little throat. Maybe he’d just spend the next few days on the street, instead. There were always tourists willing to feed a homeless kitten over by Rockefeller Center.

A few days and a new outlook on trees later, Calley was back. With cookies. They were about the same as the cookies he’d baked for Kealey a few months back; only this time, when the first batch had burned, he’d grinned and boxed them. Perfect.

The young Italian man dressed in his finest Mansion cast-offs: baggy cargo pants held on only by a belt and a post-Christmas miracle, and a T-shirt made for a man who could have eaten three of him. It had a duck on it. The duck was making a frowny face. Shoes, socks, and combed hair were all overrated.

He showed up at the new counselor’s door with a knock-knock-knock, a tin of chocolate chip charcoal in his hands and a truly sincere smile on his face.

Disapproval Duck, read the caption on his shirt.