They were big, fat drops and that actually made it better. She'd given up running as that had only seemed to make things worse, instead, Ghost was trudging through the waist-high grass on the side of the road along the outer mansion wall. Her shoulders hunched against the pelting wet, though in truth she was probably getting more wet from the tall grass that she was having to navigate. The weather was always erratic when the seasons were changing. She'd left the mansion this afternoon in her usual short sleeves, prepared for the coming chill but in no way prepared for the coming rain. She should have sped home on a breeze. She'd tasted the moisture in the air and now she was kicking herself for thinking that the sluggish bus would have beat the storm.

By the time she'd reached the gate, there was no hope of dryness left and, ever the optimist, Ghost decided that there were puddles that needed to be disturbed. Of course that led to humming all the actual "Singing in the Rain" songs she could remember off of the top of her head. Even that eventually disintegrated into just plain, old fashioned, bare-footed puddle jumping. Even if it was cold enough for her to feel a slight chill and see her breath rise up like small versions of her incorporeal self, the mud gushing between her toes was well worth the risk of a cold.

What had started as gloomy, pelting rain ended up with a pink-cheeked Ghost in higher spirits than when she'd left work. Funny how attitude can make all the difference.

Family Talpidea. If ever there was a family of under-developed fame, it was Talpidea. They had relatives in the Americas, Europe, and Asia--they turned their noses up at Ireland, but then, they weren't well known for handling their liquor. Family Talpidea. This particular member was undeterred by the rain.

It was small. It was gray-furred. It had a paralyzing bite and a long pink nose. It was, like all members of its family, a mole.

The orange-and-ginger stripped tabby was a wet spot on the soggy grass of the Mansion's lawn. A wet spot with blue eyes made darker by the overcast day, and deeper by the intensity of their stare. Their purely innocuous, just-a-part-of-the-lawn stare.

The mole shuffled along the grass from its tunnel at a start-and-stop wallow, its sensitive nose searching.

The orange-and-ginger spot was a foot closer, though it had not moved; clearly it had not, because it was nothing. Nothing at all. Certainly nothing whose rump was slowly raising into the air as its tail cut a downwards arch; certainly nothing tensing for a sudden--

SPLASH!

The mole bolted; a mere foot's movement of its own sent it back down the safety of its tunnel. With laser beam blue eyes set to kill, the cat raised itself up from the soggy grass, and settled its gaze on the prancing nymph responsible for its loss of play time, not to mention a rare snack. With a flick of its tail across the grass that sent fat droplets flying, it toned its gaze down to stun.

His name, in this form, was Sinatra. He was named such by a man with a monkey tail, and so that name would remain. And though he might currently look like a drowned rat, there was no mistaking the Wrath of the Righteous manner in which he placed down each of his paws as he stalked directly over to the girl, walking the outer edges of puddles with a dignity unmatched elsewhere in nature.

He stopped at an exact right angle to her left side. And then, with out warning, he let out a tortured yowl of mourning one could ever in their life hear.

That would teach her for merrily puddle-splashing away his edibles. What had started as a gloriously gloomy, fat-rained day had just dissolved into a funeral for a playmate never caught. Ghost: the Patron Saint of Family Talpidea.

She decided to take the long way around to the garden/kitchen door since it would supposedly be a quick dash through the kitchen and up the stairs to the girl's hall. It also happened to maximize her outdoor time and would potentially minimize her mess. Because she was a mess. There were long and short bits of lawn stuck to her clingy jeans. Jeans that were heavy and dark with moisture, speckled with mud until the hem where the mud caked on was just as thick as the cloth. Her usually wild, ivory locks were slicked down to the sides of her head and face except for that brief moment when she took flight and gravity no longer seemed able to keep its hold. It had nothing to do with her mutation and everything to do with that glorious moment when nothing touched the ground and the body arched through the air straight towards the muddy discoloration on the lawn.

SPLASH!

It probably wasn't good for the grass, but it was getting to be winter. No natural grass looked good in winter. Movement caught Ghost's eye as a bit of soggy earth... flicked of its tail. She tilted her head as her mind reassigned the label of cat to the darker orange spot that she'd initially dismissed as thick mud. The poor creature was certainly glaring at her, but then again didn't cats hate the wet?

He stood and Ghost was able to see the exact musculature of this soggy animal as every hair was slicked tightly to his body and then clumped weirdly where he'd been laying. What was a cat doing laying out in the yard in the middle of a rainstorm? He certainly didn't look happy about it even as he approached her. He stopped in typical cat fashion, just out of reach, and then yowled in a manner that suggested someone had just kicked him and he was tattling... or perhaps someone had stolen his lady friend. It made her jump slightly as she hadn't been expecting such a loud and tortured wail. Ghost looked around quickly. No lady friends in sight.

Ghost blinked away the runnels of water that attempted to slide into her wide eyes. "Well, hello there, what brings you out on such a fine day?" Ghost wiggled her toes deeper into the thick and moistened clay at the bottom of her puddle. She wasn't expecting an answer and she certainly didn't recognize the tabby as a friend and fellow mansion resident. Poor Ghost couldn't even match the cat with the same form that she had met months previous as he was quite saturated. Sure, he'd been dampened before, that helped his odds, but for Ghost that was a lifetime ago. All she could do was be polite, though with his appearance she was beginning to entertain thoughts of dry towels and a hot shower. Ghost crouched and held out her palm a very short distance from her knee. "C'mere kitty, I'd even share a towel as long as you promise no claws."

The slight jump was satisfying, but the woman did not seem nearly repentant enough.

>> "Well, hello there, what brings you out on such a fine day?"

No. Not nearly repentant enough. In fact, Calley would be thoroughly surprised if she even knew the great crime which she had committed. He sat down, the ground squishing most pleasantly under his rear but most unpleasantly into his fur.

>> "C'mere kitty, I'd even share a towel as long as you promise no claws."

In fact, he would be quite surprised if she even knew who he was. It was excusable that she did not recognize him as Calley--in fact, that would be quite surprising if she did. But 'C'mere kitty'? Really? The first time he had met this young woman, it had been on a rainy fire escape in an alleyway randomly used for the contracting of assassins. At the time, he had gained a fairly favorable impression of her--she was decent enough with her petting skills. Clearly an amateur, but decent. And she had seemed to respect Sinatra well enough.

But now, here they stood on another rainy day, and she did not seem to even remember Sinatra. This was an insult, and it could not stand. It would not stand.

The orange-and-ginger tom stood again, and paced with clear intent over to the puddle-hopper. He placed one paw on her bare foot, claws sheathed. Sat down. Opened his mouth, and spoke with quiet simplicity:

"Am I really that forgettable? You were being shot at, at the time. I would think that would make me more memorable." The backwards slant of his ears was most irked as he added: "And yes, a towel would be pleasant. You may carry me." It was a privilege.

The cat just stared her down in a regal fashion only a house cat or true royalty could manage without looking silly. He looked at her with those kitty cat eyes and Ghost was always amazed at how much intelligence they held. As if this creature more than understood her words, he disdained them. It made her giggle to herself as she mopped the dampness from her eyes again and edged her feet out of the puddle as she waited.

Ghost was ever patient. Even in the pounding rain she could find a way to lure him in. The key was patience. Patience and a plan. She was working on the plan. Perhaps there would be some wind trickery running through the grass, pulling a leaf along in a tantalizingly slow crawl through the rain. That would definitely work except that Ghost more wanted to pet and cuddle more than play. If she got him into play mode, he may never come back. She 'hmmm'ed thoughtfully to herself clearly unaware that the cat had a plan of his own.

Curious honey-colored eyes followed the dark, wet ginger fur as the tom cat stood. Here was a cat with a plan. He marched in a princely fashion straight to her. Straight to her and then he lay his paw almost in a comforting manor against her foot, like someone would put their hand over yours when they were about to break the bad news. He sat and opened his mouth. What came out was not a yowl.

"Am I really that forgettable? You were being shot at, at the time. I would think that would make me more memorable." She opened her wide eyes wider. Ghost opened and closed her mouth like a Big Mouth Billy Bass mounted on the wall. If there were sounds coming out, it wasn't from her lips, but from somewhere deeper down along the throat-- certainly nothing coherent. She was simply struggling to put two and two together to get four. Suddenly a cat was telling her that it was five. Ghost sat suddenly in a way that lacked her usual grace. For starters, she had sat right into the puddle she'd stood in moments ago. Sitting in puddles is never a graceful affair. Two, the cat's paw was on her foot and she didn't want to scare him, the talking cat, away.

Something clicked. Talking cat? She'd seen a talking black kitten in the war room. She opened her mouth to ask if it was maybe Calley, but apparently the cat wasn't finished talking.

"And yes, a towel would be pleasant. You may carry me."

"A-yah! Did I make it through the looking glass?" She breathed more to herself than to the cat. Suddenly she did feel a little like Alice, though she seemed securely seated in a puddle on the side lawn of the Mansion. She scrunched her face as she tried to recall exactly what the cat had said. It freaked her out less now that she could remember another talking feline. He was mad at her because she'd forgotten him... he was there when she had been on the receiving end of gunfire? Well that left one and only one instance in her life. Ghost's eyes swiveled around in her head to refocus at the noble creature before her.

"You hissed at me." She accused. It was true, though she'd gone incorporeal first and that had freaked him out. But still, it was something solid to latch on to. That and the memory of a collar that read, "Sinatra." Ghost scratched her head looking to the cat to see if he recognized the name as she said it.

"So you're Sinatra." She said it again like it was an accusation. "You didn't talk to me back then, why the sudden communication?" Ghost was moving to stand or at the very least get out of the puddle. If there had been any doubt that she were soaked before, it was gone the moment she took up residence in a muddy puddle.

Yes, the abrupt backwards sit of unintentional ground acquaintance was quite the satisfying reaction. However, the orange-and-ginger tom was less than pleased with the small tsunami this action sent into his own face. A slow blink cleared the muddy water from his dark blue eyes, with great dignity.

>> "A-yah! Did I make it through the looking glass?"

"No, Alice, the King is still dreaming." The tom snarkly replied, flicking one ear in a failed attempt to get the excess water out.

>> "You hissed at me. ...Sinatra."

With that, a Cheshire tilt came to the set of his mouth. There we go: there you had it. Recognition, at last.

>> "So you're Sinatra."

She accused it, and he sat up more proudly in acknowledgement.

>> "You didn't talk to me back then, why the sudden communication?"

He stood as she did, not bothering to stoop so low as a dog would, and shake out his thoroughly wet coat--instead, with the utmost dignity, he simply continued to drip as if it were the most tolerable thing in the world. "There was a Registration Act on at the time, and cop sirens in the distance. Which do police care more about: meowing cats, or talking cats?" He walked over, and gave the top of his head a solid bump against her leg. "And I believe you mentioned something about a towel."

My, he was even a well read cat. Well read and if ever a cat were smiling it was this one... He enjoyed this far too much for a soggy-coated feline. If she were ever in doubt before, Ghost was entirely convinced now. Under all that fur was a very gifted person.

"There was a Registration Act on at the time, and cop sirens in the distance. Which do police care more about: meowing cats, or talking cats?" He walked over, and gave the top of his head a solid bump against her leg. "And I believe you mentioned something about a towel."

"It was only me." Ghost muttered as she tried to slick some of the excess water from her pants. "You'd seen what I am... I wouldn't have turned you in." Even if she had needed a hug and some reassurance that not everyone wanted to shoot at her, it was a moot point now. The past was the past and the Registration, no matter how bad, was now over. Everyone was behaving strangely back then. She could hardly blame a cat for not speaking up.

Ghost tried not to think too hard about what she was doing when she gently slid her hands beneath the cat and lifted him into her arms. She ran her finger between his eyes with a loving touch and a genuine smile. To scratch him properly, her fingers would probably just make a mess of his wet fur. She wasn't typically a touching person, though animals seemed exempt from that rule.

They were both drenched so there was no point in rushing. Ghost picked her way delicately around the stick and stems that had once been flowering plants in the garden. Remaining silent for the most part, her arms loosely encircling the warmth of the cat. It should be a smooth ride for him at least. She tried to figure out a more polite way of learning the tom cat's identity, but ended up just asking. "You don't happen to know a certain young man named Calley do you?" He was the only other talking cat she'd ever seen in her life. It didn't mean they were one in the same so she had to ask to be sure.

>> "It was only me. You'd seen what I am... I wouldn't have turned you in."

To that, the tom declined reply. The small fact of the matter was that it hadn't just been her: it had been her, the neighbors watching through the upstairs windows, the two assassins who'd just tromped off down the block, and the rapidly approaching police sirens, drawn by certain intended-to-be-fatal gunshots. Oh, and the minor fact that he wasn't allowed to tell anyone the full extent of his abilities--back during the Registration Act, he'd strictly been a Tiger Shifter, as far as the world knew. As enforced by an Explode-a-Kitty Collar which had later made the warm (though temporary) acquaintance of his employer's apartment.

His belly instinctively arced a little upwards as her hands slid under it; his front paws curled to his chest and his hind rose into the air uselessly as she lifted him. And then there was chest-cuddling, and a finger sliding between his eyes. Said eyes closed to a half-lid, an approving purr beginning in his chest.

>> "You don't happen to know a certain young man named Calley do you?"

"I just might, at that." The cat replied, its head rising up to meet her fingers. "I occasionally wear his clothes, and sleep in his room. He can do his own homework, though." The cat stretched one paw lazily out along the length of her encircling arm. "No opposable thumbs, you see."

His eyes blinked lazily upwards, the tip of his rat-wet tail curling upwards slowly. "And what might bring an airy damsel such as yourself out into this weather? Rescuing dragons from towers? Looking in the reflections of puddles for a question to match the answers you own?"

So... Sinatra... was Calley. Calley who was a boy who sometimes wore clothes and sometimes split into more than just only a boy and sometimes just as suddenly took a face dive into a wooden table. A small line formed between her eyes as she tried not to think too hard about it. Ghost did, however, continue the somewhat less than satisfactory scritching. It would have been easier if the fur were not clumped and wet. Though even in his moistened rat form, somehow Calley remained princely.

How did Sinatra/Calley manage to appear so regal while so soaked? Ghost mused along those lines since it was a much safer and less confusing topic to probe. It probably had something to do with the way that he carried himself... Oh, wait, that's what she doing. Making him all splendid and pristine, though no less waterlogged, while she miserably sloshed her way toward the back door.

"And what might bring an airy damsel such as yourself out into this weather? Rescuing dragons from towers? Looking in the reflections of puddles for a question to match the answers you own?"

She couldn't help but laugh like a light tinkling of bells. "While that's all good and existential," She stumbled a bit over the word with no kitty fangs for an excuse. "I was just trying to make it back to from work all in one piece. Much less romantic, but much more true. I am in one piece, but thoroughly doused. Fine weather we're having isn't it?" She beamed down through the streams of water that ran along the planes of her face at the cat in her arms that was Sinatra who was actually Calley.

Ghost tapped lightly at the back door, hoping that someone would look up and take pity on them. It wasn't long before someone skittered away for they must have looked pitiful, though while they waited she could not help but ask, "Why were you out here? I thought cats hate wet and the only thing above their hatred for wet is falling wet."

>> "While that's all good and existential, I was just trying to make it back to from work all in one piece. Much less romantic, but much more true. I am in one piece, but thoroughly doused. Fine weather we're having isn't it?"

She had a laugh like tinkling bells. The cat's ears gave a water-logged flick of utter amazement, as its whiskers fanned upwards towards her face. She could have said anything after that laugh--like, 'I was giving healing hugs to the elderly', or 'I was out kicking puppies at orphans'--and it would have registered the same with him. What she said after that laugh wasn't the important part. The important part was that she'd laughed, like a tinkling of bells. A light tinkling of bells. You just couldn't beat that. Not in human form, anyway.

"The weather is indeed marvelous," the cat replied, through a purr-laugh. Its eyelids slipped lower as it pressed its forehead up against her scritching fingers, trying to encourage her out of this silly finger-tip-petting and into a proper scritching. "Good for dancing in fey circles, I dare say." One eye slipped slightly open again as the purr-laugh continued to rumble. A laugh. Like tinkling bells. Fairy blood, for certain. Therefore: her pedigree was adequate to carry his own self over the puddles of the lawn. Perhaps even sufficient enough that he would allow her to towel him dry, once they were inside.

>> "Why were you out here? I thought cats hate wet and the only thing above their hatred for wet is falling wet."

The orange-and-cream tom's paw, still outstretched along the length of her arm, began slowly sheathing and unsheathing its claws. Lightly. "Ahh, that is the rule, yes." One green eye slipped merrily back open, as its head tilted coyly to the side, directing the course of her fingers to its right ear. "But rules being rules, you see, no self-respecting cat can allow them to stand unchallenged."

The skittering form from inside the window reappeared, inside of the opening doorway. The cat gave things a tough consideration: hmm. Hmm, yes. Yes, he would allow himself to be carried inside: he would not wiggle and twist out of her grip, simply for the joy of breaking free. It was a hard decision, to be sure.

"The weather is indeed marvelous... Good for dancing in fey circles, I dare say." He had a curious grumbly purr-laugh that prompted more resonant giggling from Ghost. Fey circles didn't sound half bad especially in this kind of weather. She giggled even more when the cat's only explanation was that no self-respecting cat could allow a rule to stand unchallenged. That mentality was so very cat. Perhaps when Calley became Sinatra his mind thought more like a cat's as well.

When the girl reappeared with a towel and offered it through the open door, Ghost noticed that the younger girl's breath was immediately visible in the air. Ghost blinked down at the cat in her arms and then tried to breath out steam. Apparently they were both already adapted to the cool air. They'd been out in it too long, but just feeling a touch of the warmer air inside made Ghost's arms prickle up with goose bumps. Funny how sometimes you don't realize you're cold until something makes you realize that you should be.

Ghost wrapped the towel around Sinatra/Calley, taking care not to crowd or confine him. She huddled with the cat close to her chest underneath the small overhang over the door. Ghost hated the feeling of confinement so she tried not to crowd others. Unfortunately that's exactly what damp jeans were: confinement that was worse than the camps made in the form of clingy, constricting cloth. Jeans were bad enough without being soaked through and through. She sighed and the sound whispered lamentably against the doors to the kitchen.

"I think it's too late for me. Go on without me." The drama in her voice spoke of teasing. Ghost rubbed Sinatra's fur through the towel trying to wick away the extra dampness. She then lowered the towel to the stoop of the door so that he could hop out if he wanted, but the towel would be cleaner on the stoop than on the ground. "I think I'm gonna drip towel or not," She grinned, "but it was so worth it."

Now that her hands were free she tried to slick some of the wet off of her pants and pick some of the grassy bits off. She tried to shake free the drips one leg at a time, but it really didn't help with the mud. Ghost ended up sniffling and trying to flick the excess water out of her hair with her chilly fingers. Except that her fingers were a bit muddy and left her hair slightly browner than normal.

The orange-and-cream tom permitted, with great benevolence, both the wrapping of the towel around his own fine self and the subsequent verbing of said towel. A small purr may have even escaped his chest. The young fey had quite the sense of humor.

>> "I think it's too late for me. Go on without me."

The cat approved, and continued purring as much as his rat-slicked fur was foofed and rubbed and made into something that would not ruin the floors in his wake. When she offered him a graceful exit onto the dry stoop, he took it, with a light hop out of the towel.

>> "I think I'm gonna drip towel or not, but it was so worth it."

The tom turned around to look at her, his neck curving back. Her face was suddenly quite a bit further away than it had been. He observed the attempts at slicking her excessive drippiness off, and the browning of her hair. His whiskers fanned out. There was a mathematical measure of amusement, and it was a whisker held precisely forty-five degrees away from a cat's face.

"While that is a good attitude," the cat rumbled, "I fear we must get you inside. Come along: I cannot allow my First Retainer to remain in such a disagreeable state. Proper grooming is key." The tom stood and, without a backwards glance, strutted through the still-open doorway.

A forty-five degree angled whisker was the equivalent to a cat smile. Ghost had always been impressed at the sheer amount of articulation that whiskers could reach. They were in a way like an insects antennae. Except way more adorable. "I love it when the whiskers go," she completed her sentence with her body language. Slender, pale fingers collected at Ghost's mouth pointing forward and stretching almost before fanning out as an attempt to imitate the whisker articulations involved in a kitty yawn.

When the towel was free from all cat, Ghost used it to get most of the mud from her bare feet. She had a few wobbly moments while she tried to get most of the grit from between her toes, but somehow she made it without taking another seat in yet another puddle. She rolled up her pants legs once each so that they would not drag.

"While that is a good attitude," the cat rumbled, "I fear we must get you inside. Come along: I cannot allow my First Retainer to remain in such a disagreeable state. Proper grooming is key."

Ghost grabbed the towel and daintily stepped over the threshold after Sinatra/Calley. She used her opposable thumbs to close the door behind them, sealing out the cold air. A shiver ran the length of her spine as Ghost's body temperature fought to regulate itself again with the new air temperature. "First retainer?" She echoed his words expect that she made it into a question. Ghost stood and walked on the delicate knife edge of her feet in attempts to not actually dirty the floor.

>> "I love it when the whiskers go,"

As Calley watched her hands move, his own whiskers reflectively moved in imitation: which, naturally, lead to the cat not merely miming a proper yawn-flare, but yawning full-out. His jaws stretched, and clacked. He turned a mildly amused glare on the young lady. "That," he accused, "was clearly a dirty trick." Making a cat yawn: a dirty trick, if ever there was one.

The girl shivered as they entered the Mansion. A small shiver may have also run under the cat's clumped fur, or it may have not: it was not admitting to either.

>> "First retainer?"

The cat tilted its head back to peer at the girl, though its steps kept going unerringly forwards. "Indeed," it said; "Lady Ghost of the Mansion, First Retainer. Do you decline the position? It comes with perks: petting privileges, for one. Now: take me to your room. We must get you dry clothes. A cat need take care that his First Retainer does not take a cold, or she may sniffle alarmingly close to his fur."

"Indeed, Lady Ghost of the Mansion, First Retainer. Do you decline the position? It comes with perks: petting privileges, for one. Now: take me to your room. We must get you dry clothes. A cat need take care that his First Retainer does not take a cold, or she may sniffle alarmingly close to his fur."

"Oh, well... those are very tempting perks, sir, but how can I agree to a position where I do not know the requirements? What if I fail to do my Retainer's duty out of ignorance?"

Sinatra/Calley was a charming cat... boy... and it was all too easy to get wrapped up in his game. Ghost draped the cat towel, non-cat side down, atop her head like a winsome cowl and then led the way to the stairs taking them two at a time until she was at the top, breathing faster but hardly winded. All her steps had been taken mostly upon the edge of her foot. Balance and grace, better yet, it probably had taken some practice to manage such a feat so fluidly.

"This way, Master Sinatra." She was already twinkling down the hallway to her door which stood, as usual, slightly ajar. Ghost slipped inside realizing too late that she had left her shoes somewhere on the stoop when she had juggled the towel and cat. It was pretty embarrassing the rate at which she lost shoes. She shuffled through drawers to come up with something clean, warm, and not wet. Since she owned mostly skirts, that was harder than it sounded.