Scots terms
Sabre – (Not a Scottish term) It’s a kind of sword.
Crinoline – (Not a Scottish term) Is the foundation garment worn by women in the 1850s/1860s to get the very famous large skirts. Cage like constructions usually made of spring steel. Iconic in Gone With the Wind.
Lassie – girl, occasionally women.
Bonnie – nice, pretty.
Mirrors can trap a soul – I’m not sure if this is solely Scottish, but this was/is a belief held by some in Scotland. After someone dies all the mirrors in the house are covered up to prevent their soul from being trapped. It was common in the past for the body of the deceased to be kept in the home prior to the funeral. I’m not sure how common it is, but it’s still practiced in my family.
Script
What is Chronos? How many times have I asked that? Usually not in such polite terms.
I think it’s obvious by now that the things in the shop scare me a wee bit. It’s best not to touch them, but having said that it’s not like any have actually caused me as much harm as they mean to cause the customers they’re intended for. Better safe than sorry in my opinion. But what happens when avoidance doesn’t work?
There are a few things I’ve never seen in the shop, things you might expect to see. I’ve never seen a weapon, be it sword or gun or sabre, not even in a frame on the wall or beside the jewellery in the glass cabinet. I’ve also never seen much military memorabilia, no medals on colourful ribbons, or uniforms stripped of their honours. There aren’t many stuffed animals either. You know the expensive ones you can get, made a century ago, perhaps longer, who’s eyes are crooked and stuck on with toxic glue. Along the same lines, I’ve never seen a China doll. The ones with the porcelain faces and rosy cheeks, the ones that wee girls used to dress up in the latest fashions, with corsets, crinolines, and flounced skirts. I’ve never seen anything of the kind anywhere in the shop. Not that I’ve been looking. It’s strange how you don’t realise something’s been missing until it appears from nowhere.
The one that materialised on one of the half-filled bookshelves in the shop didn’t look to be that old. I wouldn’t think it was out of place in a shop today. It had dazzling red hair falling in ringlets around its shoulders, paired with smooth pale skin, and shiny, almost watery, green eyes. Whoever made it wanted to be certain everyone knew it was meant to be a Scottish lassie, going so far as to make it a wee tartan dress. The bow holding the ginger ringlets in place was even made of tartan.
It was a bonnie thing, and I don’t say that often. Masterfully made and lovingly maintained, there wasn’t a missing piece or scratch that I could see. As I mentioned, it wouldn’t have looked out of place on the shelf of a shop today. I know people have a thing about China dolls, given all the horror films and books about them, but they’ve never bothered me. I’ve always wondered how, though, they’ve gained such a creepy reputation. Is it solely how they’re portrayed in horror or is it some leftover cultural belief, like how mirrors can trap a soul?
This doll wasn’t Chucky, it wasn’t cobbled together grotesquely, and it didn’t have a sinister expression and knife in its hands. It was a China doll. And I thought nothing else of it.
Until it moved.
The next time I was in the shop it was gone from the bookshelf. That’s not unusual, not in the shop. A customer, or even one of my familiars, may have done it. Reid’s always going around finding things, moving them, stashing them way like a squirrel. I’d begun to think that a customer had bought it until I saw it propped on top of a pile of magazines on a card table. I’ll admit, because I hadn’t really been expecting it, I did jump a wee bit. Catching its eyes as if I were the one acting strangely. I laughed it off, because it’s a China doll, it’s allowed to be moved.
Except it kept moving. At first it was once a day, then multiple times during the same day, until I’d be cleaning a mirror and I’d see it shuffling in the reflection, only for it to be stationary, propped on something staring at me with its glassy gaze when I turned around. I’d be at the counter, cleaning the glass or arranging a display of antique postcards, and I’d hear scratching, the pitter patter of feet on a wooden floor, like a rat scurrying along.
I ignored it the first few times, then assuming it was a rodent, would go to investigate. When I’d reach the source of the sound there’d be nothing there. Except her. The ginger doll.
I knew she was moving around the shop. I knew she was no off-the-shelf China doll that would sit prettily in a collection. And I was starting to believe she was out to get me. I shook it off or at least tried to. Despite appearances, my life’s not a complete horror show.
I really tried to ignore the noises, the unsettling feeling I got when she wasn’t in the place I’d seen her before. I didn’t want to mention anything to Fionn or Reid because of how ridiculous it was. They wouldn’t believe me. I hardly believed me.
There was usually someone in the shop with me whenever she moved. It could be a prank by Reid, still trying to get me back for dismissing him. Even Fionn had a comedic streak. Inevitably there came a day when it was just me in the shop. I don’t like it as much as I used to, there’s something about the silence that feels heavy, almost suffocating, like the weight of all the objects and the fates they’ll change float in the air like dust. It was especially stifling this day, and up until the end I had hope that the doll wouldn’t move, that it would just be a prank by my familiars.
I swear I’ll learn someday, to never have that kind of hope when it comes to the shop.
I found her quite quickly when I started my shift. She was sitting on a vanity table, her back propped against the mirror. I walked quickly past, keeping my eyes to the floor, as if not making eye contact would keep me safe. On my way back she was still there, and my heart began to lighten. She hadn’t moved.
I walked past, almost got to the end of the pathway, almost to the counter, when I heard the clatter of something dropping to the floor. I stopped, frozen. Stiffly, I forced myself to turn around, to look, and the doll wasn’t sitting on the table anymore. She was standing in the middle of the aisle, staring me down with those glassy eyes.
She wasn’t that far away, no more than two metres, and given her size I could definitely outrun her. So that’s what I did. I whirled around and began to sprint for the door, only to feel something dig into my ankles, like needles or nails, making me lose my balance and sprawl hands first onto the floor.
I tried to scramble up, but the needles were seeping up my legs, like I was being flayed one inch at a time. In my panic I began to use my arms to slide across the floor, but a force hit my back so hard my arms couldn’t keep me up.
In my panicked struggle, I found myself on my back, a weight on my chest, watery eyes staring into mine as my throat began to tighten, my airway shrink until I couldn’t breathe. At first, I thought it was a panic attack, but it felt more like there was a pressure on my throat, like someone was pressing down on my windpipe stopping me breathing.
Lights began to dance around me, everything hurt so much I felt like I should be flailing in a pool of my own blood. Then there was a flash of black, a breath of air as something whooshed past me. Suddenly the pressure was gone, the pain was gone, my lungs filled with air and my throat opened.
I scrambled to sit up, clawing at the skin of my throat as if that would let the air in faster, frantically inspecting my feet and legs for injury or blood. There were scratch marks, as though I’d walked through brambles or got stuck in barbed wire, but no other injury.
My gaze began to focus better and I stared at the back end of what I could only call a wild animal, if it was an animal at all. Its fur was thick and glistened like a raven’s wing, a pure midnight black that shimmered when the light hit it. It had four legs and four large paws, claws visible between its fur. Five, long, agile tails swished in the air, flicking in one direction and then the other, never getting’ crossed or twisted.
There was a distant crunching sound before pieces began to fall to the floor, sounding like someone had dropped a plate and it had smashed into a thousand pieces. Looking closer I saw clumps of ginger hair amongst the shards of porcelain, finally joined by the shreds of a tartan dress.
The creature turned to face me. The only animal I can liken it to is a black panther, a giant predatory cat you would only like to be near if it was on the other side of protective glass. The black fur and feline face were the only similarities between this creature and a panther. For a start, the one before me had three eyes, two regular ash grey, and a third which sparkled with shards of gold, like stardust, on its forehead. It had a thinner face than most predatory cats, a longer nose, more dog like than cat. Its five tails fanned out behind it like a peacock’s.
You think I’d be scared. I probably should’ve been. Instead, I reached my hand out slowly, warily, ready to snap it back at the slightest movement. My fingers reached the fur on its face, brushed past the thick whiskers and up towards its pointed ears.
“Chronos?” I questioned uneasily.
The creature leaned into my hand, briefly closing all three of its eyes. I heard his voice in my head, asking if I was hurt. I said I wasn’t, marvelling at how a wee black cat could become…whatever I was stroking.
Chronos beckoned me over to my regular hiding spot and told me to sit down. I watched as all five tails wrapped around the three-eyed creature before me, and began to shrink it, until all that was left was the wee shite I knew.
I was told to close my eyes. I felt something curl up in my lap, and my hands found Chronos’s soft black fur, out of instinct or habit, I wasn’t sure which. I continued to hear his voice in may head, like a lullaby, soft and gentle as it coaxed me into a place between sleep and consciousness. A place where I wasn’t quite dreaming, yet I wasn’t fully awake.
I saw an animal, a creature with black fur and too many tails. It roamed the wilds of a foreign country, through blazing deserts and freezing mountain ranges. I watched it hunt and sleep and try to survive. I observed as humans preyed on it, wondered at it, and tried to capture it. The creature fought them off, time after time, until the humans adapted, they strategized, they grew in numbers and cunning, until the creature was trapped in a cage, bound with enchantments and ancient runes.
The creature, with its three eyes and five tails, was Chronos. I couldn’t tell how long Chronos was in the cage, trapped by the greed of humans. But, one day a woman came upon the cage, upon his captors. She ignored them and went to sit by the bars of the prison. In a soft, gentle voice, like a spring breeze blowing the chill of winter away, she offered Chronos a deal. If Chronos agreed to be her guardian, to remain in her shop for a hundred years, then the cage, and the hunters, would no longer be a source of harm.
I knew who this woman was, or rather what she was. One of the many Madam Norna’s that has come before. Yet this one was interfering with something. Why? Had it not been Chronos’s fate to be imprisoned? Had she made an exception?
Chronos agreed and was liberated from one cage only to be put in a more spacious one. This incarnation of the shop was the oldest I’d seen, early medieval at the latest, maybe earlier. Chronos transformed from mythical creature to domestic cat, shedding his black fur for the stripes and patches of ginger. The then Madam Norna explained that being a cat would invite less questions, and invoke less fear from the customers.
A century would go by, Chronos would change from ginger, to grey, to white, to tri-coloured. Eventually the ruse that Chronos was different cats ended, with black becoming the chosen shade. Their deal was done, yet Chronos never left, he didn’t want to.
The creature in the cage became the immortal guardian of the shop, a domesticated cat that hid a wild creature within. Chronos thought that it’d always be just the two of them, no one ever explained that Madams come and go. When the apprentice arrived, and the Madam explained, Chronos was upset. The apprentice wasn’t made to feel welcome.
Just like with the first Madam, Chronos became fond of the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until centuries past. Like the shop, its guardian became a constant. And also like the shop, Chronos wasn’t a vessel of Fate, its guiding hand. Chronos was stationary in a world that was moving. The shop and its guardian were constants, beings that rarely changed, who observed life go by and kept watch over the items and belongings that had more purposes to serve.
Chronos admitted that despite the centuries in the shop, it was always a source of pain when an apprentice turned up. It meant saying goodbye to a close friend, to family. But eventually Chronos would grow as fond of the apprentice as the Madam, until they became the Madam, and the cycle began all over.
I asked him why he hadn’t left, why he hadn’t reclaimed his freedom. There was silence for a while as he contemplated. Even if he’d grown fond of the first Madam, the one who’d saved him, why hadn’t he left after she was replaced?
Safety.
In the century he had changed furs more time than people change occupations, the shop had become his home, and the Madam his family. Out in the wilderness he was hunted, not just by humans. He had to fight to survive, to live, from one day to the next, with no purpose. The Madam had given him a home, given him a purpose, given him a place where he could belong, and where he was valued. Chronos didn’t see the shop as a cage, didn’t see his guardianship as a service, he saw it as a way to live. He guarded the shop and the Madams in exchange for a safe place, a place where he’d always be welcome, valued, and treated with respect.
There were probably a few hundred insightful and thoughtful things I could’ve asked him next, but I chose why a black cat? He could’ve been a Bengal with their dark stripes and spots or even the much-prized Siamese. This one was easy for him to answer. He’d been sick of everyone touching him whenever they came into the shop, the customers ogling, prodding, naming prices they were willing to pay, even trying to steal him a few times. No one went near a black cat, he told me, they brought bad luck. He did mention, however, that there had been a few times in the past where he’d voluntarily changed his colour. Mainly during the many witch trials. On other occasions he did it because he was bored and fancied a change.
I’d opened my eyes, and Chronos was still in my lap, his eyes closed, his chest moving up and down rhythmically. I knew he was still awake, he was just comfortable, and so was I. Sitting in my – our corner of the shop, tucked away from the customers and from the world, I suppose he wasn’t the only one that felt safe. Despite the things in the shop that may mean me harm, I knew then, as this tiny monstrous creature was curled in my lap, that I really did have nothing to fear. Not physically anyway.
*pause*
I should probably stop calling him a wee shite, shouldn’t I?
Script – Scots
What is Chronos? How many times have I asked that? Usually no in such polite terms.
I think it’s obvious by noo that the things in the shop scare me a wee bit. It’s best no tae touch them, but havin’ said that it’s no like any have actually caused me as much harm as they mean tae cause the customers they’re intended fae. Better safe than sorry, in ma opinion. But whit happens when avoidance doesnae work?
There are a few ‘hings I’ve never seen in the shop, things ye might expect tae see. I’ve never seen a weapon, be it sword or gun or saber, no even in a frame on the wall, or beside the jewellery in the glass cabinet. I’ve also never seen much military memorabilia, no medals on colourful ribbons, or uniforms stripped ae their honours. There arenae many stuffed animals either. Ye know the expensive ones ye can get, made a century ago, perhaps longer, who’s eyes are crooked and stuck on wi’ toxic glue. Along the same lines, I’ve never seen a china doll.
The ones wi the porcelain faces and rosy cheeks, the ones that wee girls used tae dress up in the latest fashions, wi corsets, crinolines, and flounced skirts. I’ve never seen anythin’ ae the kind anywhere in the shop. No that I’ve been lookin’. It’s strange how ye dinnae realise somethin’s been missin’ until it appears frae nowhere.
The one that materialised on one ae the half-filled bookshelves in the shop didnae look tae be that old. I wouldnae think it was oot ae place in a shop today. It had dazzling red hair falling in ringlets aroond its shoulders, paired wi smooth pale skin, and shiny, almost watery, green eyes. Whoever made it wanted tae be certain everyone knew it was meant tae be a Scottish lassie, goin’ so far as tae make it a wee tartan dress. The bow holdin’ the ginger ringlets in place was even made ae tartan.
It was a bonnie ‘hing, and I dinnae say that often. Masterfully made and lovingly maintained, there wasnae a missin piece or scratch that I could see. As I mentioned, it wouldnae have looked oot ae place on the shelf ae a shop today. I know people have a ‘hing aboot china dolls, given all ae the horror films and books aboot them, but they’ve never bothered me. I’ve always wondered how, though, they’ve gained such a creepy reputation. Is it solely how they’re portrayed in horror, or is it some leftover cultural belief, like how mirrors can trap a soul?
This doll wasnae Chucky, it wasnae cobbled together grotesquely, and it didnae have a sinister expression and knife in its hands. It was a china doll. And I thought nothin’ else of it.
Until it moved.
The next time I was in the shop it was gone frae the bookshelf. That’s no unusual, no in the shop. A customer, or even one ae ma familiars, may have done it. Reid’s always goin’ roond findin’ things, movin’ them, stashin’ them way like a squirrel. I’d begun tae think that a customer had bought it until I saw it propped on top ae a pile ae magazines on a card table. I’ll admit, because I hadnae really been expectin’ it, I did jump a wee bit. Catchin’ its eyes as if I were the one actin’ strangely. I laughed it off, because it’s a china doll, it’s allowed tae be moved.
Except it kept movin. At first it was once a day, then multiple times durin the same day, until I’d be cleanin’ a mirror and I’d see it shufflin’ in the reflection, only fae it tae be stationary, propped on somethin’ starin’ at me wi’ its glassy gaze when I turned roond. I’d be at the counter, cleanin’ the glass, or arranging a display ae antique postcards, and I’d hear scratchin’, the pitter patter ae feet on a wooden floor, like a rat scurryin’ along.
I ignored it the first few times, then assumin’ it was a rodent, would go tae investigate. When I’d reach the source ae the sound there’d be nothin’ there. Except her. The ginger doll.
I knew she was movin’ roond the shop, I knew she was no off the shelf china doll that would sit prettily in a collection. And I was startin’ tae believe she was oot tae get me. I shook it aff, or at least tried tae. Despite appearances, ma life’s no a complete horror show.
I really tried tae ignore the noises, the unsettlin’ feelin’ I got when she wasnae in the place I’d seen her before. I didnae want tae mention anything tae Fionn or Reid because of how ridiculous it was. They wouldnae believe me. I hardly believed me.
There was usually someone in the shop wi’ me whenever she moved. It could be a prank by Reid, still tryin’ tae get me back fae dismissin’ him. Even Fionn had a comedic streak. Inevitably there came a day when it was just me in the shop. I dinnae like it as much as I used tae, there’s something aboot the silence that feels heavy, almost suffocatin’, like the weight ae all the objects and the fates they’ll change float in the air like dust. It was especially stiflin’ this day, and up until the end I had hope that the doll wouldnae move, that it would just be a prank by ma familiars.
I swear I’ll learn someday, tae never have that kindae hope when it comes tae the shop.
I found her quite quickly when I started ma shift. She was sittin’ on a vanity table, her back propped against the mirror. I walked quickly past, keepin’ ma eyes tae the floor, as if no makin’ eye contact would keep me safe. On ma way back she was still there, and ma heart began tae lighten. She hadnae moved.
I walked past, almost got tae the end ae the pathway, almost tae the counter, when I heard the clatter ae somethin’ droppin’ tae the floor. I stopped, frozen. Stiffly, I forced maself tae turn aroond, tae look, and the doll wasnae sittin’ on the table anymore. She was standin’ in the middle ae the aisle, starin me doon wi’ those glassy eyes.
She wasnae that far away, no more than two metres, and given her size I could definitely outrun her. So that’s what I did. I whirled roond and began tae sprint fae the door, only tae feel somethin’ dig intae ma ankles, like needles or nails, makin’ me lose ma balance and sprawl hands first ontae the floor.
I tried tae scramble up, but the needles were seepin’ up ma legs, like I was bein flayed one inch at a time. In ma panic I began tae use ma arms tae slide across the floor, but a force hit ma back so hard ma arms couldnae keep me up.
In ma panicked struggle, I found maself on ma back, a weight on ma chest, watery eyes starin’ intae mine as ma throat began tae tighten, ma airway shrink until I couldnae breathe. At first I thought it was a panic attack, but it felt more like there was a pressure on ma throat, like someone was pressin’ doon on ma windpipe stoppin’ me breathin’.
Lights began tae dance aroond me, everythin’ hurt so much I felt like I should be flailin’ in a pool ae ma own blood. Then there was a flash ae black, a breath ae air as somethin’ whooshed past me. Suddenly the pressure was gone, the pain was gone, ma lungs filled wi air and ma throat opened.
I scrambled tae sit up, clawin’ at the skin ae ma throat as if that would let the air in faster, frantically inspectin’ ma feet and legs fae injury or blood. There were scratch marks, as though I’d walked through brambles or got stuck in barbed wire, but no other injury.
Ma gaze began tae focus better and I stared at the back end ae whit I could only call a wild animal, if it was an animal at all. Its fur was thick and glistened like a raven’s wing, a pure midnight black that shimmered when the light hit it. It had four legs and four large paws, claws visible between its fur. Five, long, agile tails swished in the air, flickin’ in one direction and then the other, never getting’ crossed or twisted.
There was a distant crunchin’ sound before pieces began tae fall tae the floor, soundin’ like someone had dropped a plate and it had smashed intae a thousand pieces. Lookin’ closer I saw clumps ae ginger hair amongst the shards ae porcelain, finally joined by the shreds ae a tartan dress.
The creature turned tae face me. The only animal I can liken it tae is a black panther, a giant predatory cat ye would only like tae be near if it was on the other side ae protective glass. The black fur and feline face were the only similarities between this creature and a panther. Fae a start, the one before me had three eyes, two regular ash grey, and a third which sparkled wi’ shards ae gold, like stardust, on its forehead. It had a thinner face than most predatory cats, a longer nose, more dog like than cat. Its five tails fanned oot behind it like a peacock’s.
Ye think I’d be scared. I probably shouldae been. Instead I reached ma hand oot slowly, warily, ready tae snap it back at the slightest movement. Ma fingers reached the fur on its face, brushed past the thick whiskers and up towards its pointed ears.
Chronos? I questioned uneasily.
The creature leaned intae ma hand, briefly closin’ all three ae its eyes. I heard his voice in ma heid, askin’ if I was hurt. I said I wasnae, marvellin’ at how a wee black cat could become…whitever I was strokin’.
Chronos beckoned me over tae ma regular hidin’ spot and told me tae sit doon. I watched as all five tails wrapped aroond the three-eyed creature before me, and began tae shrink it, until all that was left was the wee shite I knew.
I was told tae close ma eyes. I felt somethin’ curl up in ma lap, and ma hands found Chronos’s soft black fur, oot ae instinct or habit, I wasnae sure which. I continued tae hear his voice in ma heid, like a lullaby, soft and gentle as it coaxed me intae a place between sleep and consciousness. A place where I wasnae quite dreamin’, yet I wasnae fully awake.
I saw an animal, a creature wi’ black fur and too many tails. It roamed the wilds ae a foreign country, through blazing deserts, and freezin’ mountain ranges. I watched it hunt and sleep and try tae survive. I observed as humans preyed on it, wondered at it, and tried tae capture it. The creature fought them off, time after time, until the humans adapted, they strategized, they grew in numbers and cunning, until the creature was trapped in a cage, bound wi’ enchantments and ancient runes.
The creature, wi its three eyes and five tails, was Chronos. I couldnae tell how long Chronos was in the cage, trapped by the greed ae humans. But, one day a woman came upon the cage, upon his captors. She ignored them and went tae sit by the bars ae the prison. In a soft, gentle voice, like a spring breeze blowing the chill ae winter away, she offered Chronos a deal. If Chronos agreed tae be her guardian, tae remain in her shop fae a hundred years, then the cage, and the hunters, would no longer be a source ae harm.
I knew who this woman was, or rather whit she was. One ae the many Madam Norna’s that has come before. Yet this one was interferin’ wi somethin’. Why? Had it no’ been Chronos’s fate tae be imprisoned? Had she made an exception?
Chronos agreed and was liberated frae one cage, only tae be put in a more spacious one. This incarnation ae the shop was the oldest I’d seen, early medieval at the latest, maybe earlier. Chronos transformed frae mythical creature tae domestic cat, sheddin’ his black fur fae the stripes and patches ae ginger. The then Madam Norna explained that bein a cat would invite less questions, and invoke less fear frae the customers.
A century would go by, Chronos would change frae ginger, tae grey, tae white, tae tri-coloured. Eventually the ruse that Chronos was different cats ended, wi’ black becoming the chosen shade. Their deal was done, yet Chronos never left, didnae want tae.
The creature in the cage became the immortal guardian ae the shop, a domesticated cat that hid a wild creature within. Chronos thought that it’d always be just the two ae them, no one ever explained that Madams come and go. When the apprentice arrived, and the Madam explained, Chronos was upset. The apprentice wasnae made tae feel welcome.
Just like wi’ the first Madam, Chronos became fond ae the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until centuries past. Like the shop, its guardian became a constant. And also like the shop, Chronos wasnae a vessel ae fate, its guiding hand. Chronos was stationary in a world that was moving. The shop and its guardian were constants, beings that rarely changed, who observed life go by and kept watch over the items and belongings that had more purposes tae serve.
Chronos admitted that despite the centuries in the shop, it was always a source ae pain when an apprentice turned up. It meant saying goodbye tae a close friend, tae family. But eventually Chronos would grow as fond ae the apprentice as the Madam, until they became the Madam and the cycle began all over.
I asked him why he hadnae left, why he hadnae reclaimed his freedom. There was silence fae a while as he contemplated. Even if he’d grown fond ae the first Madam, the one who’d saved him, why hadnae he left after she was replaced?
Safety.
In the century he had changed furs more time than people change occupations, the shop had become his home, and the Madam his family. Oot in the wilderness he was hunted, no just by humans. He had tae fight tae survive, tae live, frae one day tae the next, wi no purpose. The Madam had given him a home, given him a purpose, given him a place where he could belong, and where he was valued. Chronos didnae see the shop as a cage, didnae see his guardianship as a service, he saw it as a way tae live. He guarded the shop and the Madams in exchange fae a safe place, a place where he’d always be welcome, valued, and treated wi’ respect.
There were probably a few hundred insightful and thoughtful things I couldae asked him next, but I chose why a black cat? He couldae been a Bengal wi’ their dark stripes and spots, or even the much-prized Siamese. This one was easy fae him tae answer. He’d been sick of everyone touchin’ him whenever they came intae the shop, the customers ogling, prodding, naming prices they were willing tae pay, even trying tae steal him a few times. No one went near a black cat, he told me, they brought bad luck. He did mention, however, that there had been a few times in the past where he’d voluntarily changed his colour. Mainly durin’ the many witch trials. On other occasions he did it because he was bored and fancied a change.
I’d opened ma eyes, and Chronos was still in ma lap, his eyes closed, his chest movin’ up and doon rhythmically. I knew he was still awake, he was just comfortable, and so was I. Sittin’ in ma – our corner ae the shop, tucked away frae the customers and frae the world, I suppose he wasnae the only one that felt safe. Despite the ‘hings in the shop that may mean me harm, I knew then, as this tiny monstrous creature was curled in ma lap, that I really did have nothin’ tae fear. Not physically anyway. *pause* I should probably stop calling him a wee shite, shouldn’t I?