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She opened her eyes to a blurry world, wobbling on unsteady legs as she made her way to her mother’s soft meows. As the weeks passed and her vision cleared, she spent her days prancing around with her siblings, pouncing on them when they least expected it. When she retreated to curl up by herself, as she often did, she watched the others’ tumbling and wrestling. There was one who intrigued her; his mother was one of the others.
His thick fur gleamed a regal white, like that big glowing circle in the sky when all went dark, and he had absolutely no manners. He sauntered up to all he could, batting at them until they played with him. Sometimes she watched him loll around on their thick cushions, but most days she, despite the intrigue, ignored him.
When they were almost as big as the mothers, they were left alone. Some of her siblings cried for their mother that first night, but she lay sprawled out in the space her mother had vacated in silence.
Soon after, the door opened, and her ears perked up. But it wasn’t the usual big one, balanced on its hind legs, carrying their food. No, this time a small, grey one came in beside the big, pink one, who had visited once or twice before. She watched the grey one take a few cautious steps around the room, like those of young kittens who had just gained control of their unsteady legs. With a slow blink, she licked her paw, working out the mats with her raspy tongue. When she opened her eyes, the grey one was staring, meeting her yellow-eyed gaze with its own dull brown one.
She narrowed her eyes, staring it down, and the grey one approached, its teeth bared in greeting. She hissed, her lip peeling back, but then she was airborne, soaring high above the ground, her face pressed into the small, grey one’s not-fur.
The grey one stopped in front of the pink one, and a noise, a poor imitation of anything with meaning, came out of the pink one’s mouth. The grey one’s head went up and down and up and down, and she found herself batting at it, if only to stop the jerky motion.
She heard another garbled noise, this one from the grey one, but this one meant something, and her ears pricked forward.
Morgana.
She tried it, a warm rush seeping into her and settling into her bones as she tasted the vibrations, feeling each curling purr. Much to her surprise, she found she didn’t quite mind it.
The big, pink one was making noise again, speaking, and patting the grey one on the shoulder, congratulating her. Congratulating? She felt the small, grey one’s Hecate’s grip tighten around her, and they began to move.
She hadn’t known what was going to happen when the small one had first lifted her from her cushion, but now she knew. She knew she would never return to her warm, cozy den, never again begrudgingly curl up next to one of her siblings. She yowled at the realization and scrambled up Hecate’s shoulder, the small one jerking away. Morgana’s claws dug into the soft flesh beneath her, and she hissed when Hecate yelped.
But before she could launch herself off of Hecate’s shoulder, the small one’s grip clamped down on her and she was hurried from the room. Still writhing in Hecate’s grip, she twisted to see a line of small ones outside her home, the next already rushing to invade her home. Her tail whipping from side to side, Morgana resigned herself to her fate as she watched the door close. Somehow, she knew she would never return.
Initial difficulties aside, Morgana found she quite liked her new human (a term she learned from Pendle, the nice, old tom who often wandered around behind the pink one). She liked the spark in her eye when they crept through the castle under the cover of night, Morgana leading the way for her eyes were better adjusted to the night.
Her human was more cat than witch. And yet, when they made their way down the halls, Hecate did not strut as Morgana did. She didn’t walk with her head thrown high and her shoulders pressed back. No, instead, she slid from shadow to shadow, her shoulders hunched and her books held tightly to her chest.
It was only when they flew, soaring high above the trees until their world was a mere speck on a canvas of green, that Morgana’s little human would unfurl. She would let go of the broomstick and reach for the sun with both hands, whooping and cheering in harmony with Morgana’s own tune.
But once they set back down, Hecate would fold again, her shoulders curving under the weight of the jeers and remarks those inferior, idiotic small ones made. In the safety of their own room, a drafty space with too few places to hide (though she made do), Morgana would rub against Hecate’s legs, a purr reverberating deep within her chest, before trotting away to find a good place to lie in the sun.
They spent their afternoons alone, content with their silent solitude. Until Pippa, the small, pink one whose golden not-fur was kept up by a tempting pink ribbon. Her eyes were warm, kind, but not entirely devoid of the glimmer of mischief that lessened the banality of day-to-day life when Hecate had work to do.
The first time Pippa visited their room, using the excuse of a potions project she and Hecate had been partnered for, Morgana refused to move from her spot upon the dresser, glaring down at the small, pink one through narrowed eyes. Hecate attempted to get her down, muttering threats when Morgana scrambled just out of reach. She almost transferred Morgana down before Pippa stopped her, a tinkling giggle escaping her lips. It was a nice sound, Morgana decided, letting her eyelids droop to half-mast as she curled into a ball atop the dresser.
Pippa’s visits became more and more frequent until she was up in that attic bedroom every day, and a familiar face began to accompany her. That ivory furred nuisance, dubbed Oscar since Morgana had last seen him, tried to join her atop the dresser a few times. But the moment his face popped up over the edge, she batted him away, her claws extended. Morgana spent that entire first year watching the two small ones from above, perched atop the dresser or the old rafters that creaked and groaned with the wind.
The first time she approached Pippa, crouched low to the ground, her nose quivering, as she crept up to her, Morgana went unnoticed. Pippa was lying beside Hecate, their fingers intertwined together and quiet murmurs filling the space between them. But that was no excuse. With a huff, Morgana leaned over and patted Pippa’s face with a careful paw.
Pippa yelped then…glowed. Wrinkling her nose, Morgana cocked her head and submitted herself to the petting Pippa offered. She decided she liked how Pippa smelled—like sunshine and the ozone-thick petrichor that arrived with it after clouds had darkened the skies and just the faintest hint of fish at her fingertips. Whenever Pippa left, there were traces of her presence left everywhere in the room: lingering on the duvet; at the desk; the floor where she had lain just moments earlier, bemoaning the fate of her last Potions essay. It was nothing compared to the source.
Rubbing her head against those fish-stained fingertips, a low rumble echoed in Morgana’s chest and Pippa grinned, a bright glint of white slashed across her face. With a sniff, Morgana sauntered away, swatting at Oscar where he lay cuddled up against Hecate’s side. He let out a pitiful meow but moved, and she reclaimed her rightful spot with a smug look.
With a sad look at his small one, Oscar plopped down a meter or so away from Morgana, his blue eyes fixed pleadingly on her. Pressing her back into Hecate, Morgana began to groom herself, her raspy tongue smoothing the errant fur sticking up at all angles around her paw. Oscar crept forward, his belly against the duvet, freezing and staring innocently up at the ceiling when Morgana raised a paw, ready to swat him away. Hecate put a reproachful hand on Morgana’s head, smoothing back her fur and eliciting a grumbling purr.
When Oscar crept forward again, Morgana eyed him but did nothing, her tail flicking idly. In a surge of motion, he threw himself forward and rubbed his face against her own, collapsing to sprawl across her. She put up with it, and any sound even faintly resembling a purr most certainly did not escape her nor echo back at her from Oscar. The next time Pippa came up to their room, throwing open the door as if it were her own room, Oscar at her heels, Morgana did not come down from the rafters. Pippa didn’t glow, but the sunshine she brought with her brightened when Oscar wandered up to perch beside Morgana, rubbing his head against her own.
The years blended together with days filled with the embodiment of sunshine that was Pippa. There were days when the sun dimmed or when the clouds came out, but from where Morgana watched, atop the dresser or in a patch of sunlight in the middle of the room or sitting on the rafters, even when Pippa didn’t glow, she brought a light to Hecate’s shadows.
Morgana watched them through half-lidded eyes, watched as the space between them shrank, and giggles turned to whispers and heavy looks when they thought no one was watching. And sometimes when the air grew fraught with electricity and they stared and stared but never moved, she would yowl and leap between them, rubbing her head against their faces and shoulders as they dissolved into giggles.
Silly small ones. It was their job to be happy, to purr and soak in each others’ warmth as she begrudgingly allowed Oscar to do with her. It was her job to watch, to keep her small one safe.
And she did. Until one day, when the air smelled of heavy clouds and the thick, sickly sweet scent of the coming spring, Hecate stood at the window, arms braced against the sill as she leaned out, her hat balanced precariously on top of her not-fur. She was dressed to fly, had her broomstick in hand, but for some reason known only to her, they didn’t fly. Morgana leapt up to sit upon the sill and followed her small one’s gaze to where it was fixed on some point on the far horizon.
She meowed, drawing Hecate’s attention to her, her small one’s gaze like those of new kittens—soft, unfocused. Morgana gave the broomstick in Hecate's hand an expectant look before cocking her head to gaze up at her small one. Hecate looked down at the broomstick in her hand, surprise etched into her brow as if she had no recollection of how it had gotten there. With a sigh, she returned her gaze to that faraway point on the horizon, her lips tugging downward and her hand tightening around the wood.
Her ears flicking back, Morgana heard the quiet creaking as her small one’s hand tightened and tightened, smelled the bitter, acrid burning when the magic in Hecate’s veins escaped her. Morgana was already pressed against the wall, ears flat against her head and a warning yowl leaping free from her jaws, when the broomstick splintered, exploding outward in a shower of sharp edges and jagged points.
They fell to the floor and with them fell Hecate.
She collapsed, her arms wrapped around herself, little choked sobs escaping her as her cheeks became wet with that salty water Morgana hated to see. Morgana leapt off the sill, landing silently beside her small one and pressed a paw against Hecate’s arm as she balanced on her hind legs, investigating the shallow cuts on Hecate's face and neck created by the remains of the broomstick. Another mournful cry escaped her small one, and Hecate pulled Morgana to her chest, cuddling her close as her breaths came out in gasps and wheezes. Morgana sank into her embrace and waited for Pippa to arrive, to bring the sunshine to this shadowy storm.
But she never did, and they never saw her again. Pippa disappeared and with her went that white-furred menace and the sun. Morgana knew why; she knew it was because of that day when the clouds had drawn nearer and it had rained splinters of wood upon them. For as long as she could, Morgana searched the castle, her nostrils flaring as she searched for that summer smell, the rain-heavy clouds having stolen the sun away. She had to content herself with lying in the spaces that smelled of pink the most, rearing up and batting Hecate away when the small one tried to join her. It was all Hecate’s fault anyway.
Hecate disappeared one day, her broom gone with her, and Morgana searched the castle for her, mournful yowls echoing her betrayal through the halls. But when her small one returned, there was a look in her eye, a suddenly returned shine, that stopped Morgana from shredding Hecate’s second pillow case.
The next time Hecate left, Morgana went with her, perching daintily atop the broomstick bristles as was her duty. They flew that night as they hadn’t done in too long; swooping and soaring in jagged lines just to feel the wind in their face, free falling before twisting up as the ground rushed toward them for that moment when their hearts stopped and nothing else existed. Morgana met Indigo that night. She liked this new small one Hecate had chosen, liked how her face lit up and her eyes shone as if magic were the most wonderful thing in the world. And suddenly, the hole Pippa had left behind didn’t feel so empty.
They went back to see Indigo for weeks, stealing away from the castle to see this small one who smelled soft, sweet, lonely—nothing of the harsh, crackling magic that lived in their bones. At first, Morgana hadn’t understood why there was so much cause to be happy; why Indigo talked and laughed and pleaded with joy. But then she realized that it was her small one who was Joy after so long in the darkness Pippa had left them in.
They had a year of Indigo, of Joy. But then one of the big ones found them and took Hecate aside, leaving Morgana to pace anxiously alone, her tail whipping from side to side with every step. When Hecate returned to her, her eyes red and face drawn, she didn't cry, her jaw set stubbornly, but nothing Morgana did brought a smile to her face. They never left to see Indigo again. And every evening, Hecate would gaze out the window as if they couldn’t just fly out as they had done countless times before.
Then Hecate had gotten that look in her eye, the one that spelled trouble for them all, and they had crept down to the academy’s entrance together, Hecate opening the doors with a quick, murmured spell. There stood Indigo, but before Morgana could welcome her, brushing against her legs, they were rushing away. Morgana darted after them, following them uneasily when they slipped into the headmistress’ office.
Hecate opened a cabinet, the old hinges squeaking and screeching in protest. Morgana’s ears flattened on her head, and she bared her teeth, a hiss escaping her throat when Hecate pulled out a potion. The glowing, blue vial, oozing of ancient and lost magic, made Morgana’s skin prickle and her hackles rise. But Hecate paid no mind, determined as she was to make Indigo like them.
And she did, for a while anyway. For a while, Indigo was like them, but her blood crackled with magic that should never have been hers. The look in her eye soon turned dark, greedy, and she demanded more and more of what never belonged to her. Indigo left one day, Hecate hot on her heels, and Morgana could hear her small one’s harsh, whispered pleas and Indigo’s cold bark of laughter. She went to follow them, but they transferred away, disappearing into inky tendrils and leaving her to roam the halls alone, unease settling upon her like a second skin.
Hecate returned that evening smelling of magic and moss, her cloak rumpled and her face streaked with tears. She flung herself onto her bed, mumbling angrily when Morgana settled onto her back. Hecate’s shoulders began to tremble, so Morgana leapt off them and onto the bed, creeping up to her human’s face, her nose quivering. With a quiet meow, she rubbed her face against her human’s own, grumbling when her fur was dampened.
She settled on her stomach, tucking her legs underneath her, and cuddled up against her small one, her ears pricked up. She had known that potion that smelled of dangerous potential would do nothing but harm. And now Indigo was gone. Everyone left them; why did they do that? Morgana wouldn’t leave her small human alone that night, no matter how heavy her eyelids grew. In the silence of the night, she wondered if this would be the one that hurt them the most, if it would steal away the small one she loved.
After that night, just as Morgana had feared, her human changed. Her eyes lost that spark Morgana loved so much. Now, her little human’s eyes held something else, though sometimes Morgana thought they looked empty, almost like those of the mice she liked to play with, who after a single bite fell limp and dangled from her jaws. But other times, Hecate’s eyes glinted dangerously, boiling with all the fire of the sun in the sky, and Morgana would spend her days slinking around the rafters.
When Hecate had that look in her eye, that bitter, white-hot glare, Morgana found it wasn’t so fun to be around her anymore. Now when Morgana slunk behind Hecate, and her little human had to do that funny dance she did to avoid stepping on her, Hecate yelled, and her fists clenched. The air would crackle with electricity, and Morgana would be forced to flee, ducking under the bed to escape her human’s wrath.
When Morgana stalked up to those funny smelling jars and pounced, smacking them off the table before strutting away, a smug bounce in her step, Hecate didn’t just blow out that loud breath of air, she groaned and twisted her fingers, sending Morgana away. Morgana would appear on the other side of the castle and spend the rest of her day moping before creeping back up to the attic and settling atop the tall dresser to glare at her human. Eventually, Morgana just stopped; it wasn't worth it anymore.
The worst part was that their days were no longer an adventure. They no longer crept around Cackle’s in the dead of night, evading teachers and night monitors. They didn’t fly, didn’t take to the skies to feel that rush, the wind against their faces. Morgana only saw the skies in their dull, regimented drills, a screeching whistle in the background. Life was boring, mundane; they followed a strict routine that the small one refused to stray from.
Hecate was serious now, hardly even cracking a smile whenever Morgana stalked in, some prized ingredient the small one needed in her mouth. She was too much like the big ones at the big, dark den who liked to make her smaller. Hecate had even abandoned her low hanging not-fur that Morgana loved to bat at, in favor of the big, angry one’s style: the rock on top of her head.
Morgana didn’t like that big one. The big one, Hecate’s big one, was too tall, too rigid. Her voice rang like clashing metal, and when she smiled, it wasn’t so much a smile as a baring of teeth that made Morgana want to slink away with her belly pressed against the floor. The big one forced Hecate’s back straight and her shoulders back when the barbs the big one spat served only to curve the small one’s spine further.
But after Indigo was gone, leaving behind a figure of stone, Hecate no longer sought out the shadows, no longer shrank under the hissed words of her fellow witches. She strode down the halls, groups parting before her as if she were contagious, her mouth set in a firm line and her posture impeccable. Morgana watched it all from the rafters, the shadows when she could. She was no longer welcome to walk at Hecate’s side.
Then summer came, and Hecate didn’t throw her things into that big bag of hers; she didn’t pick up her broomstick. They didn’t go to that big, dark house with the two cats who groomed Morgana just a little too roughly and ignored her attempts to play with disdainful flicks of their tails. That summer, Morgana and Hecate stayed at Cackle’s. Morgana spent her days sprawled out in the sun, waiting for Hecate to come back to their room smelling of burnt herbs and magic. And when Hecate began to return with a whisper of tea and biscuits clinging to her clothes, Morgana dragged herself up out of the sunlight and stalked after her.
Morgana followed Hecate to a familiar door, Pendle and the pink one’s scents lingering on the old wood. Knocking, Hecate pushed Morgana away with her foot and a harsh word and opened the door. With a discontented grumble, Morgana slipped inside behind Hecate, flicking her tail aside when it almost got caught in the door. Hecate turned back with a frown, taking a step toward Morgana to shoo her out, but when the pink one called to her, she spun on her heel and strode to where the pink one sat in front of the empty fireplace. She and the pink one spoke in hushed tones that had Morgana’s ears pricking up, their words drifting languidly to her ears as she settled down with Pendle in his basket and reluctantly submitted to his gentle grooming.
Their visits to the pink one and Pendle grew more frequent until the pink one was Miss Cackle and then Ada. Somehow, Morgana’s small one became a bigger one and grew more rigid, more severe as the years passed. They moved out of their attic bedroom to a warm, cozy room near the big ones that used to keep Hecate away from Morgana with menial tasks after her small one had done something bad.
But now, her small one had done something bad again, something so very bad that no one dared speak of it. And yet, there were no menial tasks, no evenings when her small one came trudging back to their room, her slim fingers chafed and pruned from hours of scrubbing. There was a new room with even more places to disappear to, and they didn’t have to go to the big, dark den anymore. But they were alone. Her small one spent her nights by the window, leaning out as far as she could, reaching for the stars as once she did to the sun.
Then somehow her small one became one of those big ones they had spent so many nights creeping around the darkened halls of the academy avoiding. Stacks of paper materialized on the desk in their room, huge piles that smelled of ink and, on occasion, tears that made the perfect resting spot when Hecate was hunched over the desk. And slowly, Morgana watched as Hecate straightened even further and her voice lowered and slowed until every word was a deliberate drawl that elicited shivers from the poor, quivering, new small ones.
She didn’t like it; her small one who had once been more cat than witch was now a big one trying desperately to be more witch than cat. It wasn’t right.
Sometime during the years Morgana spent watching generations of small ones pass through the halls, Hecate summoned a basket, and Morgana was no longer welcome to lie beside her, not even when Hecate tossed and turned, sleep evading her desperate grasp. So Morgana did as she knew Hecate wished; she disappeared. She kept to the shadows, the rafters and went unnoticed by her fellow familiars and their small ones streaming through the halls, excited chatter leaping between them as they rushed to their next class.
But then a new small one, who smelled of old magic once lost, crash-landed into the pond and stopped the big, bad not-pink one. This small one was a disaster in unlaced boots, but Morgana couldn’t help but be intrigued. The small one who knew nothing was so like Morgana’s own had once been, whose familiar, with his broad strokes of white fur, reminded her of another she had once known. This Tabby, still a kitten himself, knew nothing, couldn’t fly, wasn’t fit to be a familiar. And yet, she found she enjoyed their simple innocence and unwavering loyalty to each other; that was the bond she had once had.
So, she reappeared. Not to everyone, but to this helpless familiar, whose small one so desperately needed a teacher. And for some reason, Morgana’s big one refused. Like Morgana’s own once had, this small one came trudging back up to the drafty, old, attic bedroom late in the evening, her fingers sore from scrubbing and chopping. But unlike Morgana once had, Tabby didn’t wait alone. She retook her place atop the dresser and watched as he waited for his small one to return. When he discovered her there, she let him join her before disappearing into the shadows the moment his small one returned.
But she wouldn’t leave, not yet. She watched his small one come in, her feet dragging, and settle down at her desk, pulling crumpled pieces of paper and uncapped pens out from her mess of a book bag. Some nights, the small one wouldn’t even make it to her desk and would collapse onto her bed, curling in on herself as her body shook and a shower of salt rained down her cheeks. Tabby would join his small one on the bed, curling up against her, and that was when Morgana would stalk away.
The evenings Tabby’s small one was free of Hecate were spent with two others, the three giggling and talking together. It was then that Morgana recognized the spark in Mildred, the glint in her eye that was the reason she spent so much time with Hecate, the keen grin that stretched from ear to ear. Sometimes Hecate would appear at the door and peer in suspiciously, but as long as everything was as it should be, she never entered.
So life continued, and Morgana hardly ever saw her big one. Perhaps it was better that way.
But then one day when Morgana returned to their room, Hecate was upset and her eyes were wet and she was choking out fragments of speech, clutching Morgana to her and burying her face in Morgana’s fur. And for the first time in years, Morgana could hear Hecate’s heart beating, an uneven stilted beat. With her ear pressed against Hecate’s chest, soothing vibrations traveling from her to her human, she heard a name she hadn’t in nearly double the life of a simple cat.
Pippa.
And then Pippa was back, but she didn’t glow, not like she used to. It was dimmer, older, flatter; it was all wrong. Morgana watched the Spelling Bee from the rafters, gaze flicking between the black and pink hats beneath her, only Ada keeping them apart. Snippy comments and hurt remarks made their way up to her, and she flicked her ear in irritation, claws digging into the wood to keep from launching herself at them and knocking them both to the ground. At least then they’d all be together again.
After the Spelling Bee, a horde of small ones having streamed out of the hall, cheering and screaming in celebration of the storm Tabby’s small one had summoned, Morgana stalked down the corridor, ears pricking up when she heard a familiar heavy clomp heading her way. She ducked into the shadows as Tabby’s small one appeared in the hall, her messy laces swinging against her boots, tangling as she walked.
The small one paused, gasping when she found a yellow-eyed gaze staring back at her from the shadows. She tried to approach, holding out her hand and making soft clucking sounds with her tongue. Morgana eyed the small one; she was not some simple house pet to be won over with a few flattering coos. But she did allow the small one to stroke her head for the briefest of moments before darting out of reach.
The small one’s gaze searched the shadows, but before she could call after Morgana, Hecate was there. She followed the small one’s gaze, but Morgana was already gone, hidden in the rafters.
The small one told Hecate that Ada wanted to see her, and when Hecate arrived in that small room, looking around for the headmistress, Morgana remembered why she had taken a shine to this small one in the first place. She watched as Pippa came in and the two spoke, Hecate’s voice shaking as she told Pippa of the day when wood rained from the sky. And when they embraced, Morgana stood and rubbed against their legs with an approving meow, purring when she heard that tinkling laugh for the first time in far too long.
After the small one so rudely interrupted Pippa and Hecate, Morgana followed the two back to the room she shared with her human. As Hecate prepared the tea, Pippa knelt beside Morgana and buried her fingers in Morgana’s thick fur, murmuring softly about how much she had missed her. After a moment, she stood, chuckling at Morgana’s grumbled complaint, and snapped her fingers. Morgana stood as well, her nose quivering as she scented the air before she allowed their furry intruder to rub his face against hers. Oscar purred and brushed up against her before he sank to the ground, pulling her with him and pillowing his head on her shoulder. She tolerated it for a few minutes, but when Hecate and Pippa began to set up the game with the squares and the little knights and castles, her eyes gleamed.
She sprang up onto the table, scattering pieces onto the floor with a self-satisfied flick of her tail before sitting in the middle of the board, blinking expectantly up at them. Hecate scooped her up and deposited her on the floor, shooing her away, but laughed, sharing a soft look with Pippa. With a satisfied meow, Morgana sauntered away and curled up against Oscar again. Half asleep, her chin resting against Oscar’s back, Morgana watched them through one, heavy-lidded eye, her ear lazily flicking toward them to catch the quiet murmurs. When she shifted and stretched, her front legs extending out in front of her as her back curved, Pippa was glowing again; a proper glow this time.
Hours later, when Pippa left, gathering Oscar into her arms, and Hecate watched her go with a half-raised hand and soft eyes, Morgana knew she wouldn’t be sleeping in the basket that night. Her small one was back, and she was there to stay.