Through the weeping household stalked a small black cat—just past kittenhood, and more gamine than gangly. She darted past the skirts of a grieving wife as the woman buried her face in a handkerchief. Slunk past the door as the priest offered extreme unction to the dying man in the bed. No one seemed to notice her as she leaped lightly up onto the coverlet—no one but the old man himself, who raised a shaking hand in invitation. She nudged her head under it. Let his fingers slide the length of her body, and then nuzzled closer, whiskers brushing his face. He turned towards her, ignoring the dro