Frosted Roses Tour: Guest Post: Sarah Pennington

Today we have the pleasure of a guest post from Sarah Pennington. Her beautiful Snow White and Red Rose retelling releases today! 

A Day in the Life of the Cat

Hello, readers of Live. Love. Read! Sarah Pennington, author of Gilded in Ice, here! Thanks so much for having me here! For today’s guest post, I’ll be doing something a little different than the norm: instead of me telling you about my characters, I’m going to let him do it himself. Cat, it’s all yours.

Good morning! Lovely day, isn’t it? No, no, stop looking around like you think you’re hearing ghosts. I’m over here. Up a bit — ah, yes. Now you see me, sitting here on the wall. What, didn’t they tell you that cat is my species, not my name?

You want to know what my name is? Sorry, I’m afraid I lost it. Most people just call me what I am — though some people make it sound like an insult. Kona, on the other hand, calls me chaton, which goes to show you what a lovely gal she is. 

Who’s Kona? I’ll get to her in a moment. If you’re in a hurry, according to the author, you can go read about her in the book she wrote about both of us, or you can visit somewhere called Fantastical Notions. Your choice. I’ll wait — or, at the very least, I’ll come back. A cat can’t always afford to hang around in one place too long, you know. People start trying to catch you. Or throwing things.

I’m told that I’m supposed to tell you about a day in my life, though there’s not much to say. I’m a street cat these days, with the whole city for my home. On good days, I’m not sure if that’s an upgrade or downgrade from where I used to live. On bad days — when you get the kind of downpours where you could drown on dry land or when the lake elementals get disturbed mid-hibernation and whip up a blizzard over the city — I don’t have a doubt which it is.

In any case, no two days are really the same for me. Every day, I wake up and decide where I’ll wander. No point in staying in one place when it’s so easy to hop on the back of a streetcar and ride somewhere else, after all. One day I might prowl the rooftops of the Old City; the next I’ll lounge around the Innsjøby College campus; and on another day again I’ll nose through the streets of the southeast corner. When I get hungry, I’ll find a restaurant or a cafe or even just a market stand that seems friendly and see what I can get at the backdoor. I’ve found a few favorites — Anton’s on Mercer Street has very tasty chicken, and there’s a little Hellethene open-air place whose cook makes the best souvlaki I’ve ever had — but I try not to go anywhere too often.  

Occasionally, for special occasions or when I want a treat, I’ll visit the restaurants downtown — there’s always tasty scraps to be had, and the chefs at the Ologbo Po believe it’s good luck to feet stray cats — or sneak into a theater or playhouse to catch a show or concert. Or I’ll go even further to the mansions up on the lake side of the city, to . . . to see what’s happening, I suppose you could say. Though I don’t make my way to that part of the city too often. I might be pedigree, but I find I don’t fit there quite like I should.

Of course, the other advantage of never going the same place too often is that it’s safer. There’s always someone who wants to get their hands on a cat like me. Better not to give them a pattern to follow.

There is one thing that stays the same every day, though. Each evening, I ankle down to a tenement apartment in the southeast corner, up to the fire escape where two lovely ladies are waiting for me. One’s Kona Dennel, the gal I mentioned earlier — the one who calls me chaton and knows just the right ways to brush out my fur and stroke my ears. The other’s her twin, Roselle — just as nice a girl, but she has her sights set on becoming a vet, so I find her sister to be the safer choice. They let me stay nights at their apartment in the winter and on rainy evenings — no small blessing, since they barely seem to have room for their own family there. 

But even if I’m not their guest, we’ll meet to chat and trade stories of the day until there’s nothing left to say. Without them, my life would be a lonely one, since I can’t risk talking to most people. But I know I can trust them. They’re true friends, not mockingbirds. They’ll do just about anything for the people they care about, and I’d do the same for them. But I can’t help but wonder . . . just how far does anything go?