The Roost was no orphanage, but Pocket had known no other place. Sir Corc had brought him here from Airlann, an island somewhere to the west. He was just a babe at the time, the memory impossible to capture, but Pocket had come across a crude map of the isle while cleaning near the Campaign Hall. It lay crumpled, torn, smudged and forgotten beneath a discarded bookshelf. Rescuing it, Pocket hung it across from his bed. He stared at it now, a flat, mysterious scribbling of a place he had once been, ragged proof that he came from somewhere.

A yawn came unbidden and Pocket lay back on his bed, cradling the sausage Moragh had given him. He was fearful to close his eyes, worried that he would sleep through the funeral. But close they did and Pocket dozed in half-sleep, warm and protected, rolling to his side, curling into himself. He became aware of a softly stuttering breath near his ear and smiled to himself, waiting. Seconds later, a clipped yowl demanded his attention. Pocket rolled over to see Napper’s orange, whiskered face, staring at him expectantly.

“Hello, handsome cat,” Pocket said in a gleeful whisper, reaching over to scratch the soft fur between Napper’s ears. The cat continued to stare at him, eyes narrowing slightly at the sensation of Pocket’s fingers. Changing his approach, Pocket hooked his fingers under Napper’s jaw, the cat lifting his face cooperatively, allowing his favorite spot to be tended. The scratching ceased as did the contented purring and Pocket hooked his arm in front of him on the bed. Napper walked into the space made for him and circled it twice before lying down, snuggling into Pocket.

“I nearly forgot!” Pocket admonished himself. “I have something for us.” He sat up, receiving an annoyed look from Napper. “Oh, you will forgive me when you see what it is.”

He fetched the clay jug from its perch and pulled the cork free of the wide mouth. Pocket took a healthy swallow from the jug, the milk pleasant, thick and still cool. Napper had risen, suddenly alert and reached up to place a paw on Pocket’s chin. Pocket giggled, echoing softly into the jug. Removing it from his lips, he tipped the jug so that the milk was just about to pour free, then held his hands steady as Napper nosed in, licking at the liquid. When the cat was finished there was still a good deal left, which Pocket drained between mouthfuls of the sausage, occasionally pinching off bits of the meat for Napper.

“We should go,” Pocket told his friend, who looked up seeking more sausage.