Byron’s new cat crouched in the corner of their inn room and growled. It had been fine until the inn’s serving girl had waltzed in with (barely) warm washing water and a request to. “See the sweet little kitty.”
Byron had nodded to his bed, where the cat, named Misty for reasons beyond Reba’s understanding, snoozed on the thin pillow.
The girl squealed and grabbed for her. Misty did not take kindly to being woken, or grabbed, and transformed into a maelstrom of fur, claws, and teeth. The maid’s squeal took on a different tone and Misty hit the floor with a thud.
Now the idiot girl was wailing at the innkeeper, Byron was red-faced and furious but, so far, thankfully silent.
When the complaints finally would to a close, the innkeeper looked askance at Reba, who related their side of the story in simple, dispassionate words.
At the end, the man grunted and turned to his server. “Maybe this will start teaching you to be a mite more respectful of others, regardless of whether they walk on two legs or four.”
He quelled her protest with a look and added. “I’ve seen you with Master Grafton’s dogs. If they were younger and had any teeth left, you’d have had your hand bitten off by now. And I know why the lads have banned you from the stables – teasing and poking at my guests’ horses, then demanding recompense when they kick or bite. Stay away from any animal under my roof and show a little more courtesy to the humans if you want to stay here.”
The girl stared at him, mouth agape, then burst into tears and ran from the room.
The innkeeper grimaced. “My youngest sister’s youngest, and only girl. Far too indulged for a lass who needs to work to make her way in the world. I’ll bring up a touch of milk and some offcuts from the stew-meat.”
Byron gave one of his rare smiles. “Thank you, sir. Misty’ll forgive almost anything for food.”
The older man looked at the glaring ball of affront in the corner. “I’ll take your word for it, lad.”
The DNA of Stories 