I figure you might be awake in there, though. I don’t think anybody ever told me if you shifters stay awake and, well. Anyway. I figure it’s not much to just read for you for a little while. If you don’t remember anything about it afterward, hey, next month I’ll know better, right?”
Cassie snarled again.
“Right, then,” said Miguel. He pulled the chair around so he wouldn’t quite be facing the cage and opened the book.
The Hunting of the Snark might be completely frivolous and silly, but it was fun to read. Miguel had to pay just enough attention to it that he didn’t have to pay attention to Cassie, who gave up snarling and lay still instead, staring intently at Miguel. Though he tried not to look at her, he couldn’t help but glance over now and then, and after a while, he had the impression she wasn’t even blinking. Maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe black dogs didn’t need to blink either, and he’d just never noticed because no back dog had ever stared at him with such intensity and hatred. He could have done without Cassie staring at him like that now. Not that the monster was really Cassie. That was the whole point.
Miguel read the whole poem. He didn’t let himself read too fast. Just the right pace for the poem. It was a fun poem, complete nonsense with its Barrister and Baker and Beaver, and its five signs of a Snark, and seeking it with thimbles and forks and soap and everything. And finding out it was a Boojum, of course, at the end. But every line flowed right off the tongue. He’d always liked it, but he thought he might never be able to read it again without thinking of this surreal scene: himself sitting outside a cage with bars wrapped in silver wire, with an unblinking monster on the other side waiting for its chance to kill him.
It was a weird afternoon.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said at the end. “Maybe you’ll be able to shift back tomorrow, huh? What should I bring to read? Probably not Alice in Wonderland .” He paused.
Cassie didn’t answer, of course. She just stared, her fiery gaze so filled with animosity Miguel was little surprised it didn’t blister his skin. He pretended not to notice. “Well, I’ll think of something. Something not too long. One of Shakespeare’s histories, maybe. All those power politics and things, it’s just like reading black dog history, you probably love the histories, huh? Or, hey, I could read you The Taming of the Shrew .”
Cassie snarled, a slow, rising sound.
“Just kidding. Richard III , then. At least Act I.” Miguel sauntered out. He didn’t let himself sag and shudder until he was up the stairs with the door shut firmly behind him.
It had been worse than he’d expected, seeing her like that. Being hated like that. He had kind of expected to see something of Cassie in that monster, at least glimpses, at least now and then. But he had seen nothing.
Probably the real girl had not even known he was there.
But he knew he would go back anyway, the next afternoon.
He rearranged some of the piles of books in the morning, though, before he went back downstairs. But though he finished dusting, he didn’t actually put all the books back on the shelves. Sometimes books were more useful in stacks. Disorderly stacks that didn’t quite keep to alphabetical order.
He also found himself thinking, as he stacked up books, about what Cassie might like. Short stories by O. Henry? “The Ransom of Red Chief” was funny. “A Retrieved Reformation” had a nice ending. Maybe she would like short stories better than Shakespeare.
Maybe he should ask her what she liked before the next full moon.
He took both O. Henry and Shakespeare with him when he went downstairs. But as it turned out, he didn’t need to choose which to read to her. Cassie was already
Cassie snarled again.
“Right, then,” said Miguel. He pulled the chair around so he wouldn’t quite be facing the cage and opened the book.
The Hunting of the Snark might be completely frivolous and silly, but it was fun to read. Miguel had to pay just enough attention to it that he didn’t have to pay attention to Cassie, who gave up snarling and lay still instead, staring intently at Miguel. Though he tried not to look at her, he couldn’t help but glance over now and then, and after a while, he had the impression she wasn’t even blinking. Maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe black dogs didn’t need to blink either, and he’d just never noticed because no back dog had ever stared at him with such intensity and hatred. He could have done without Cassie staring at him like that now. Not that the monster was really Cassie. That was the whole point.
Miguel read the whole poem. He didn’t let himself read too fast. Just the right pace for the poem. It was a fun poem, complete nonsense with its Barrister and Baker and Beaver, and its five signs of a Snark, and seeking it with thimbles and forks and soap and everything. And finding out it was a Boojum, of course, at the end. But every line flowed right off the tongue. He’d always liked it, but he thought he might never be able to read it again without thinking of this surreal scene: himself sitting outside a cage with bars wrapped in silver wire, with an unblinking monster on the other side waiting for its chance to kill him.
It was a weird afternoon.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said at the end. “Maybe you’ll be able to shift back tomorrow, huh? What should I bring to read? Probably not Alice in Wonderland .” He paused.
Cassie didn’t answer, of course. She just stared, her fiery gaze so filled with animosity Miguel was little surprised it didn’t blister his skin. He pretended not to notice. “Well, I’ll think of something. Something not too long. One of Shakespeare’s histories, maybe. All those power politics and things, it’s just like reading black dog history, you probably love the histories, huh? Or, hey, I could read you The Taming of the Shrew .”
Cassie snarled, a slow, rising sound.
“Just kidding. Richard III , then. At least Act I.” Miguel sauntered out. He didn’t let himself sag and shudder until he was up the stairs with the door shut firmly behind him.
It had been worse than he’d expected, seeing her like that. Being hated like that. He had kind of expected to see something of Cassie in that monster, at least glimpses, at least now and then. But he had seen nothing.
Probably the real girl had not even known he was there.
But he knew he would go back anyway, the next afternoon.
He rearranged some of the piles of books in the morning, though, before he went back downstairs. But though he finished dusting, he didn’t actually put all the books back on the shelves. Sometimes books were more useful in stacks. Disorderly stacks that didn’t quite keep to alphabetical order.
He also found himself thinking, as he stacked up books, about what Cassie might like. Short stories by O. Henry? “The Ransom of Red Chief” was funny. “A Retrieved Reformation” had a nice ending. Maybe she would like short stories better than Shakespeare.
Maybe he should ask her what she liked before the next full moon.
He took both O. Henry and Shakespeare with him when he went downstairs. But as it turned out, he didn’t need to choose which to read to her. Cassie was already
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