Misty dashed across the room, chasing the end of the ribbon Byron was flicking about. Reba was fairly sure the giggling farm girl who’d gifted him her apple-red ribbon at their last stopping point did not have this fate in mind for it.
Or maybe she did, she cooed over the snarling kitten as so many others had done, although none after the first had been so silly as to try and hold her. They admired Misty’s grey tabby coat and narrowed golden eyes from a safe distance.
Right now, the hissing ball of fury was bouncing and chirruping, eyes wide and ears perked.
A knock at their door sent her under the bed as the landlord’s voice called through the wood.
“Sorry to bother you, Mistress, but there’s a couple of the lads below want to know if your wee cat’s for sale.”
Byron and Reba replied at the same time. “No.”
“Ah, pity, they think she’d raise up into a proper little fighter, make for good money in the rings.”
Byron looked confused, he’d clearly never heard of organised animal fights. The only beasts he knew of that fought in rings were people.
Reba scowled. “We’ve other plans for her. Tell your lads to make better use of their time, and if they try to get at her in other ways, they’ll find out what it feels like to be in the ring, and losing.”
The DNA of Stories 