Sperantia crouched low to the ground and tucked her tail over the top of her front paws, listening carefully. It was mercifully easy. Although her native language was Spanish, as trial and instinct had taught her, Sperantia predominantly thought in English and was exceptionally fluent in that language. This was partially because, she had learned only yesterday from her still-resurfacing memories, her adoptive English manner annoyed her life companion as much as her oriental appearance did.
“You are not Spanish,” he'd said flatly once, as if it were the worst insult he was capable of giving. Sperantia had chuckled.
“Neither are you,” she'd pointed out. He'd ignored that remark with an adorable sense of self-righteous dignity.
Her aptitude and affection for the English language had stronger roots than provocation, though: Sperantia really wasn't Spanish. She'd been created here, on Shaman, and it was here that she'd spent the first twenty years or so of her life. It was here that she'd gotten to know the fairy, over both of their protests, and it was here that they'd kindled a relationship closer than any original-familiar pairing before them. Shaman was home, in a way that Spain could never be. Sperantia had never told Mallos that she'd felt that way, but she suspected he knew.
It was impossible to say if most, or all, of her memories had returned. They still felt detached, cold; like she was reading someone else's memoirs whenever she visited them. Not once, since she remembered who she was, had Sperantia felt affection for Mallos. Not once had she cared for him, or been angered or annoyed or hurt by him. Before now, she hadn't even tried to find him. Curiosity more than anything else drove the cat onto the castle grounds on this cool, damp morning.
The bushes were disgustingly moist, and the freshly fallen rain which had been clinging to its leaves now clung to her fur – but she could hear every word exchanged between the captain of the guard and his lieutenant.
“...couple more, the king said,” the captain – an easy-going, mellow man, by his tone – was saying.
“Should we be worried?” The lieutenant asked, not sounding worried at all.
“Probably not,” the captain shrugged. “It'd likely be wasted on Mallos. But it has been four days, and he hasn't got his magic.”
The lieutenant nodded and they parted ways. From her position under the bush, Sperantia heard him shouting orders to his men – more volunteers for a few small scouting parties.
It appeared she was four days too late.
When she was sure the captain had departed, Sperantia wiggled out from under the bush and trotted through the flower bed, using the greenery as cover. Her memories told her that Mallos had all the luck of a four-leaf clover and had a knack for worming his way out of tight spots, so he was unlikely to be in any real danger. Even if he were, could she bring herself to feel anything? The question had interesting implications, but no answer.
The servants' side-door had been left open. Sperantia saw her opportunity and walked towards it, fighting the instinct to bolt. Running would only draw attention. To understand who she was and where she came from, it was better to be unseen.
Sperantia
la soledad es un tipo de veneno
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