“We should take her back right now. Maybe we won’t get in trouble. Let Mother and Father deal with her,” Melia said.

Ash was watching Eleanor with narrowed eyes. She glared back at him. Thea might just be a little girl, but this was Mr. January. The one who’d caused every horrible thing she and her friends had gone through. The one who’d cursed Eden Eld in the first place. And he’d dragged her up in front of those horrible thrones, talking about hurting her friends. He was definitely already wicked.

A bush near Ash’s foot rustled, and a small, gray form marched out, mewling furiously. Eleanor blinked in surprise. An extremely fluffy kitten planted itself at Ash’s feet and set about attacking his bootlaces. And Ash broke into a grin—not sly like Mr. January’s, but a genuinely delighted smile that lit up his whole face.

“There you are,” he said with pleasure, and scooped up the kitten. It hissed and swatted at him, flailing in his grip. “Don’t worry, we didn’t give you up.”

“I hope having a pet is worth putting Thea through all of that,” Melia said icily.

“She never comes out for me,” Thea complained.

Melia frowned. “That cat of Ash’s is the reason you were punished, and you like it?”

Cat of Ash’s. Mr. January had three animal servants. The huge and fearsome graveyard dog, the cruel rattlebird, and the sharp-witted, occasionally very helpful cat-of-ashes. The cat-of-ashes had helped them as much as she could—or as much as she felt like, at least. And this was her. A tiny, floofy, precious version of her. “Kitten-of-ashes,” Eleanor whispered, and a half-hysterical giggle leaped to her lips. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“She’s so cute,” Eleanor laughed, and gasped. The kitten hissed fiercely at her and swiped a paw through the air. Tiny sparks rained from her claws.

“I rescued her from the Empty,” Ash said, looking mildly concerned as Eleanor wheezed with laughter, her eyes watering.

The kitten-of-ashes. Her grown-up self would kill Eleanor for seeing this. The thought sent Eleanor into a fresh spate of giggles, but she bit the inside of her cheek hard to stop them.

She knew the laughter wasn’t really because it was funny. She knew it was because she was too scared and worried and frantic to go on. But that didn’t make it any easier to keep the laughter from erupting every time the kitten bared her little white fangs.

Ash cradled the kitten against his chest and stroked her ears. She still looked grumpy, but a raspy purr started up in her throat. Eleanor stared. The cat-of-ashes hated Mr. January. And here she was, two pounds of fluff and spite, cuddling up to him.