Nine Lives and a Broken Sewing Machine

How it begins

The cat had repaired the coat while Clara was making tea.

It had been a difficult repair. Old wool, a torn lining, a customer convinced the damage should cost less because it was small.

Now the seam lay perfect beneath her fingers.

Sable sat beside the sewing machine with one paw tucked under him.

Above his head, eight small lights drifted in the warm shop air.

There had been nine at breakfast.

Clara put down the coat.

"No."

The cat opened one eye.

"I haven't asked anything."

"You know what I mean."

Outside, the customer was already returning, early and prepared to be disappointed. Clara could see his hat through the glass.

Sable watched it too.

"The shop needs paying customers."

"The shop needs a new roof. It doesn't need you dying for a sleeve."

"I'm not dying."

"You're doing it in installments."

He considered this with the dignified annoyance of a creature who had recently discovered that people could be ungrateful for the right reason.

Clara had inherited the shop from a witch whose sewing instructions included phrases like wait until the moon regrets it. Most of the equipment worked in ordinary ways, provided she did not compliment it too enthusiastically.

Sable was the exception.

He had stayed after the witch retired.

He had also, apparently, begun deciding that staying required payment.

The bell rang.

Clara moved the repaired coat behind the counter.

"It isn't ready."

The customer looked at the visible seam.

"It seems ready."

"I need to check the lining."

Sable looked away.

After the man left, Clara sat on the floor beside the machine.

"What do you think happens," she asked, "when you stop helping?"

The eight lights moved closer together.

For the first time, the cat looked older than his clever face.

Clara brought down the small cushion she had kept saving for a better chair.

She put it beside her feet.

"This," she said, "is not a wage."

Sable did not answer.

But he did not mend anything else that afternoon.