For many nights now my mistress hath sat with her scrying-glass upon her knees, whilst I have perched upon the arm of her chair, feigning sleep. One by one she hath summoned before her the witches and warlocks who seek to govern the realm. Their faces appear in the glass and speak, though they be nowhere near us, a thing which, in my first life, would have seen a person burned at the stake, along with any cat unfortunate enough to be sitting nearby.
She readeth their lengthy scrolls. She watcheth them quarrel before great crowds. She seeketh out what each hath said, what each hath done, and whether the two agree. When they do not, she muttereth a word I shall not repeat, for I am a gentlecat.
She maketh marks upon a paper as an apothecary weigheth herbs: this one for the roads, that one for the price of bread, a third for whom she would trust with the keys to the realm. She asketh the glass questions, and the glass answereth. Twice she hath laughed aloud, once sighed most grievously, and once thrown a cushion at the face of a warlock. He was but an image, and therefore took no offence, though I confess I should have preferred a real cushion and a real warlock.
In mine age, a ruler was not chosen but born. The crown passed from father to son like a well-chewed bone, whether the son were wise or wicked, healthy or sickly, sane or quite otherwise. Old King Harry took six wives in his efforts to secure the succession, and the common folk were asked for nothing beyond cheering, taxes, and the occasional head to roll.
When a new Holy Father was required, the cardinals were shut away in a chamber until they could agree, whilst the multitude stood in the square and watched the chimney for smoke. And on Twelfth Night, in our village, we chose a King of the Bean: whoever found the bean in the cake ruled the feast. I confess that Bean King governed with no less wisdom than certain crowned heads I have known.
But nowhere in all this was a goodwife asked what she thought. A woman might whisper in her husband's ear and pray that the whisper took root. Yet here sits my mistress, a woman alone with a cat and a glowing glass, and the whole realm awaiteth her judgement. Every witch and warlock who would rule must first persuade folk such as she.
Truly, the strangest magic is not the glass, nor the visions, nor the spirits that carry words across great distances. It is this: that the ruled should choose their rulers, and that the rulers should have reason to fear them.
Today is the Day of Choosing.
I knew it by the signs. My mistress rose before the sun, dressed with unusual care, and performed a solemn inventory of her pockets: her keys, the black mirror, and a small card bearing her likeness, conjured in an instant by some clever spirit. She fed me my morning fish, which I accepted as my customary tribute. Then she scratched behind my ear and said, “It's time to vote, Perkins.”
I took this to be a charm of protection, and returned the blessing in the only manner available to me: with a long and most serious blink.
She opened the door, and I sprang to the window-sill to watch her depart. Down the street she went, whilst the cold wind seized her scarf and tugged at it like an impudent familiar. She strode towards the great hall where, so I have gathered, she would make her mark upon a paper in secret. None would know whom she had chosen, and none might punish her for the choice.
In mine age, to choose wrongly was to lose one's head. This, I confess, is the mercy I envy most.
I watched until she became but a speck among the other witches and warlocks hurrying along in their coats. All were bound upon the same errand, like pilgrims making their way to a shrine. There was something rather pleasing in the sight: so many folk, each carrying a private judgement, each with an equal claim upon the future of the realm.
And I kept my vigil upon the sill, as is the duty of a familiar.
Some hours hence she returned, her cheeks red with cold and a small round seal affixed to her coat, bearing letters I cannot read, being a cat. But her smile I read perfectly well.
“I did it,” quoth she.
And I understood.
A ruler is not born, nor baked in a cake, nor chosen by solemn men locked away in a chamber. A ruler is chosen by ordinary folk, by folk such as my mistress, who have taken the trouble to look, to listen, to weigh the promises against the deeds, and at last to make their mark.
I have lived beneath rulers chosen by blood, by bean, and by bishop. I confess I like this way the best, though I would not say so within earshot of Good Queen Bess.
And now, mistress, if it please thee, thou hast done thy duty to the realm. It is time to do thy duty to thy cat.
For the fish bowl is empty, and even the future of the kingdom may wait until after supper.