Farthest Thing

Leaning heavily on Torloo's assurances that Levity would understand, Murph set a trinket on his desk's upper ledge and gave it a push. "For you."

She stared at his gift for several seconds.

"And I thought … a play …? Since you seemed interested. If you have the time." He couldn't quite meet her eyes. "I wanted to treat Torloo, as well."

"Murph?"

"No good?"

"I didn't say that. But I think …." She left off, leaving him hanging.

He stole a peek. There was a far-off look in her eyes.

Suddenly, she focused on him and asked, "Will you leave the arrangements to me? I know some strings I can pull. Would Shakespeare be all right?"

Murph was honestly grateful that she was willing to take the lead, but he couldn't help grumbling, "You might leave me some part in the balance."

Levity quietly asked, "Are you rebuffing me?"

"From the Italian. Or the French, depending on who you want to believe. A deliberate act of discourtesy. A slight." He frowned over how much he still had to learn. "I assume the term holds significance for the Amaranthine, but in a purely human sense … no. I've never been able to refuse you. I'd hardly rebuff you."

Her eyes took on a shine. "I want to do something nice for you. And I want it to be a surprise. Will you trust me?"

"What might be the opposite of rebuffing? Upbuffing? Buffening?" It was probably a bad sign that he was dithering for prefixes and coining nonsense.

"If rebuffing is discourteous, then the opposite is a courtesy, which is most certainly related—at least etymologically—to courtship."

She had a point.

More importantly, she'd understood his.

He went to stand up, but she caught him by the ear, and he froze in an awkward half-crouch. Then she was leaning in, and he lost his balance. He basically fell into her kiss, which honestly had to be the farthest thing from a rebuff. And far too brief.

She stepped back, held up the trinket she'd clearly accepted, and strolled away.

Murph leaned heavily on his desk, head hanging, hopes soaring, stuffed tail trying to wag.

On the appointed evening, Levity came knocking. Murph was ready for her. Not so much for her two companions.

Murph wore a new set of trousers that Mare Blazelock had arranged, much as she had the illusion that meant his tail didn't need to be crammed out of sight. But it was a little embarrassing, having it swishing free. Or—at the current moment—firmly tucked.

"Canary!" exclaimed Torloo. He wrapped his arms around the waist of a stylish man who began to … purr.

"Canarian Evernhold," he offered. "Cat clan."

Murph dragged his gaze to Levity.

A surprise, she'd said.

Something nice, she'd said.

"Egads, woman! What have you done?"

She laughed. "I knew you'd know him on sight. Isn't this just the most amazing coincidence? He's Spokesperson Twineshaft's nephew!" And to the man who couldn't possibly be standing there, "He's your biggest fanboy."

Murph was no slouch. While not truly complete, his collection was extensive. So though they were hard to come by, he'd secured a handful of old photographs that had survived the centuries. The hairstyle had changed, and he wore current fashions, but Murph would have recognized Canarian LeClerc anywhere.

His favorite playwright of all time held out a hand and said, "Come closer, Kindred. Let me greet you properly."

Torloo came back to Murph's side in order to guide him. "Feline clans do not normally confine themselves to the meeting of palms."

"We can be affectionate souls," Canarian agreed.

"Murph is naturally reserved," warned Torloo. "I do not think he will understand. Please, go slowly."

"Don't tease the poor man," drawled the other person—nay, personage—in the room. "Be civil and shake his hand."

"As you say, birdie mine."

A surprise, she'd said.

Something nice, she'd said.

Then Murph's hand was being clasped by Canarian LeClerc, and Ambrose P. Merryman turned from contemplating his likeness on the vintage theater poster dominating the wall. "This brings back good memories."

"Oh, help."

Canarian peered up at him over the rims of tinted glasses. "Are you all right?"

His eyes were orange. Murph nodded. Then shook his head.

Exuding solicitude, Ambrose glided closer. "Dear boy, there's no need for stage fright. Here, we are in the wings … behind the scenes … out of the limelight. Here, we can be ourselves." And offering his hand, he genially added, "Call me Ambrose."

A surprise, she'd said.

Something nice, she'd said.

Murph sought Levity's gaze and silently mouthed, "I love you."