Rue heard it at eleven minutes past quiet. A scraping sound — small and deliberate — coming from the kitchen floor. Then a smell like cold water on wood. Rue's enormous ears swiveled left, then right, then left again. She rose from her chair, set her paws down one at a time, and went to investigate.
In the kitchen doorway, Rue stopped. There, in the middle of the floor, was a puddle — already shrinking at the edges — and three small sets of wet paw-prints leading away from it in three different directions. Rue stared at them for a long moment. Someone had been playing something in her kitchen. She chose the first trail.
It led to the pantry, where a faint rustle came from behind the flour sack. Rue hooked one paw around the sack and pulled. There was Sable — the black kitchen cat — crouching very flat, wearing a red shirt, and clutching a chopstick that had clearly been stolen from the second drawer. "That," said Rue, looking at the chopstick, "is not yours." Sable said nothing. The chopstick said nothing. Rue took it and tucked it under her arm.
The second trail curved under the radiator, where the air smelled of iron and old warmth. Rue crouched low and peered into the dark. Fig — a very round orange cat in a blue bandana — was sitting on something small and white and wet. He was sitting on it the way a king sits on a throne: upright, deliberate, and entirely unbothered. "Fig," said Rue. "That is the puck." "It is my puck," said Fig, very seriously. He did not move. The ice cube beneath him gave a faint, damp creak. Rue looked at the ice cube. The ice cube was already losing the argument with the kitchen floor. She waited. Fig waited. Then the ice cube made a small, definitive drip — and Fig, suddenly sitting on a cold wet patch of nothing, scrambled up with great dignity and followed Rue out.
The third trail led to the window ledge. Kit — a cream cat in a green shirt — had climbed up to watch the street below, which was very sensible, except that her shirt-hem had caught on the window latch, and now she was dangling at an awkward angle and looking extremely embarrassed. Rue reached up with one precise claw, found the exact loop of fabric, and freed it in a single motion. Kit dropped to the floor and immediately pretended she had meant to do that. Then the ladle fell. It had been balanced on the edge of the counter all evening, and now it hit the tiles — CLANG — and Rue froze. All four paws stopped. Her eyes went very wide. One. Two. Three. Then she blinked, shook one ear, and got back to work.
Rue herded all three cats down the hall — Sable still looking guilty, Fig still very dignified, Kit still pretending — and saw them each to their beds. Then she turned and walked back to the kitchen alone. The puddle was just a damp patch now. The chopstick lay beside it on the tiles. Rue sat down next to both of them. The refrigerator hummed. The street outside was still. She blinked once, slowly, and the kitchen blinked back. Mystery: solved. Kitchen: retired for the night. Rue turned, walked calmly to the doorway, and disappeared into the dark.
