Trixter by Alethea Kontis Page B

little else to do in the countless years she’d been in residence.
    “Yes, your majesty,” Trix said into the bow. He raised the spirit-cloth high into the air and spun about, pantomiming a swipe across the windowsill and shutters directly to his left.
    By the time Trix had pretended to clean the living area, Papa Gatto had begun to clean himself again. By the time Trix was done waving his arms around the kitchen, Papa Gatto had curled up into a fat, fluffy ball in his square of sunlight, snoring as he periodically winked in and out of oblivion. Trix took the opportunity to investigate the cottage in its entirety.
    The bedrooms beyond the kitchen were small and equally clean as a whistle. Had he not heard the story from Lizinia herself, Trix would never have thought this place was once inhabited by a hundred cats. Nor was there much evidence that a girl lived here. There were no flowers in pots, no looms, no paints. No sticks, no stones, no pretty leaves nor fragrant herbs. Trix discovered no other instrument besides the piano in the front room. Trix had never before considered a life without mementos—now that he had, he deemed it a rather sad life indeed. More than ever he looked forward to traveling with Lizinia and introducing her to…well…everything.
    There was no true “top” to the house but Trix found the bottom, through a small cellar door opposite the pantry. Even this room was spotless, every jar on every shelf arranged just so and turned so that the labels—written in Lizinia’s very neat hand—were visible. There was an enormous vat where presumably the girls had been dipped in their deserved rewards. It was empty of either magical gold or magical pitch.
    Even the feyest of cats had limitations, it seemed.
    When Trix was through sating his curiosity, he made his way back up the stairs to where Papa Gatto still slumbered. Trix took his original spot in the other window’s square of light, now slightly fading. He sat cross-legged on the floor and watch the cat a while. Instead of Papa Gatto’s image blurring at the edges, the outline of the cat seemed crisp and clear. It was the bulk of the animal that was hazy now, smoke curling in and around on itself to the sound of slow and even cat snores.
    Trix let the magical dust cloth slip to the ground. “Finished!” he announced.
    The cat snapped back into reality with a cough and a scowl. Trix tried to look a little less proud of himself than he was feeling. For an all-seeing, all-knowing entity, Papa Gatto didn’t seem to be aware of how little dirt was in this place. Not that he would check anyway—Trix had a feeling that Papa Gatto could not travel beyond that square of light from which he currently reigned.
    “Imp,” said Papa Gatto.
    “At your service, your majesty,” said Trix. “What would you have me do next?”
    “You must fluff the mattresses,” the cat said without pause. “Beat them until the feathers fly.” With a stretch and a yawn, he curled about himself and became smoke on a sunbeam once more.
    Trix shrugged, got up, and walked back to the bedrooms. These must have been the tasks the cats had set to Lizinia and her sister all those years ago. A decent enough interview for a housemaid, perhaps, but none of this gave the cat an ability to gauge Trix’s fitness for travel. Papa Gatto was playing with him, that was obvious, like a mouse on a string. And Trix didn’t mind going through the motions, however ridiculous, he only wished he could peek his head out a window and keep Lizinia informed as to his status.
    Trix shook out the mattresses and then reassembled them as they had been before. He collected the feathers and brought them back to the main room, where he dropped them in a quiet pile atop the magical dust cloth.
    “Finished!” he exclaimed, and again the cat reappeared in a huff.
    “Scamp.”
    “That’s ‘Prince Scamp,’ if you don’t mind,” Trix said playfully.
    Unexpectedly, Papa Gatto did not frown at