Two large green eyes open from the shadowy side of the concrete planter outside of the corner shop on Baines St, in Melitown, and meet with the golden eyes of the resident tabby. They exchange coded blinks before rendezvousing across the street in front of the antique store.

“You’re early,” the elder cat says, grooming his ears with a quick thrice-over before nodding to the elaborate bell pull with rings suspended at heights for every manner of visitor that the long-haired black cat pulls, returning his nod.

“Yes, I have news to report right away, Uncle,” Philemon says over the clattering, taking a seat on the black and white penny-tiled entryway. “I thought you’d want to hear it too.”

The heavy wood and glass doors open, and they step together into the showroom filled with ornately carved cabinets and cases filled with velvet linings and glittering objects. Philemon notices a case displaying paper and feather fans and gulps as the plumes spark a memory of a particularly delicious feast from his kittenhood. He swallows once more and forces his eyes to a deep, round ceramic bowl on a rosewood stand. He startles to find a plump speckled goldfish swimming lazy circles inside it. A laugh like birdsong snaps him to attention. “Good morning, little Prince and my dear neighbor Fasol,” it sings out as its owner pads across the ancient carpet that did not look its seemingly impossible age. The small ruby silk slippers peek with each step from the long black layers of a silk skirt and a long lace shawl over a delicate black blouse with obsidian buttons that match the beads of several long strings roped around the woman’s neck, sparkling from bangles at her wrists and embedded in the many rings on her red-nailed fingers. Mme Tuor, his patron, beams down at him from beneath her shiny black fringe.

“Kika, my darling, I believe our guests could do with a meal. Will you set us up in the courtyard?” she says, to the swirl of smoke that is forming into a much taller woman at her side, who gives a slight bow, sending the long spiral of blonde curls pulled back with a pink ribbon tumbling over her shoulder, and back again as she rights herself. She turns to the cats and holds out a notebook that reads, “Good to see you again. One moment while I ready breakfast.”

Fasol nods, “Good morning, Madams! My nephew seems to have some news that couldn’t wait for our scheduled check-in.”

“Exciting! You never have to wait for our appointments. And Fasol, you’re so close, and yet we hardly see you,” she says, turning the sign on the door. She leisurely steps back through the main room towards the blue velvet curtain beneath the dramatic spiral staircase that leads to a mezzanine of bookcases and cabinets paired with a handsomely carved railing circling the room. Small tables between comfortable reading chairs dot the overlook, lit by brass and green glass-shaded hanging lamps, waiting for customers the elder cat has never seen enter the store from his perch at the tiny corner grocery across from it. “We can head back. By the time we arrive, Kika will have the table set and be thinking us slowpokes,” the small woman laughs.

They follow her through another large room of art, statuary, and furnishings from times and places far off into a hallway lined with tapestries and turn a few corners until they see the glow of sunlight ahead. Around this last corner, they enter the walled garden at the center of the building, surrounded by balconies leading to each floor of Tuor’s mysterious space. It reminds Philemon of the heart of Florist Row, a few blocks away, when he’d visited the Queen of the Melitown hive with his mother. This building was probably as old as the one surrounding the original hive. Had the Madam been there since the beginning? He knows Melitown is old. Older than Ottarstedt and possibly all of the Obvious cities. Not many were old enough to potentially have been there when the town grew up around the hive. Maybe when the sturdier structures were stood up? And just because someone is ancient doesn’t mean their arrival in town was early on, he considers. There’s the Gorgon with the gallery, probably centuries old but relatively new to the area. And the devil at the bakery has lived life at a scale that is hard for someone from the Colony to grasp fully. The lifespan of most cats could fit neatly within an Obvious’s, with room for several more. Not every cat could master the Veil and be like Grandma Rue.

“Here we are,” Tuor says, waving them through the doorway into the lush, greenery-draped stone walkways to a sunken, tiled circular recess of cushioned seating around a built-in titled platform draped with a colorful table runner and piled with delicate ceramic bowls of water and cups of tea. The tall woman in pink and pale yellow, with more elbows than arms, is spreading cream cheese on a bagel. She sets it on a plate and waves the cats to the opposite side of the table, where trays of smoked salmon await them.

“Thank you, Kika, darling,” the Madam says to the blonde, who nods and steps back. “We’re missing a place setting, though, my love. Where is yours?”

The cats have slipped into their places, and both steal a glance at each other, whiskers twitching and tails curled upwards in twin question positions. The table is set for four. Kika holds up her notebook, and the words “I’ve already eaten” appear before changing to “She might wake in time to join.”

“Do you have a guest, Madam? I can be speedy in my report and be off,” Philemon says apologetically.

“Oh no, my dear, my little one has her own schedule. We never know when to expect her to join,” she says, clearing nothing up for them. “Kika darling, you want to hear Philemon’s report too—I know you do. Come join us,” she says, patting the seat beside her.

Kika’s shoulders broadcast her silent sigh as she settles into the cushions. Tuor reaches for her notebook and extends a small strip of the back cover, locking it into the front cover and creating a tented sign on the table, angled towards the rest of them. “There we are, ready for your active participation.” Kika narrows her large faceted eyes and twitches her long, feathery antennae.

“Now then, Philemon. It’s been almost four months since you set out and three since you made contact with your interesting target. And you are still positive she is our anomaly? What of the younger one?”

“Yes, that’s just it. It’s stranger than I thought. Yesterday was their birthday, and now there are three Eleanors.”

Kika’s head tilts, and Tuor’s ruby lips form a tiny O. Her bangles tinkle as she claps her hands together. “Fascinating! What is the new one like?”

“The elder Eleanor and the six-year-old one were just as surprised as I was. This one says she is twelve and has no memory of anything that happened after the appearance of the younger one when the original Eleanor turned 12.”

“So, every six years, a new Eleanor appears?” Tuor thinks out loud, hands on her cheeks, eyes closed, searching her memories.

“The strangest thing to me is that the teenage Eleanor thinks she’s Obvious and has no knowledge of the Obscure. Ellie, the little one, can tap into the Veil in new ways as she likes. She can manipulate her clothes as if she were wearing a Loomewe’s charmed stitchery. She can disappear and reappear anywhere she’s been before, all without incantations or being taught. And, from what she’s told me, she only learned about the Obscure in the last few months after meeting a Wildling here before they moved to Ottarstedt.”

“Iwa rarely walks. The young stag, then?” Kika’s notebook asks in her curly script.

Tuor blinks, thinking on this. “The River Wildlings rarely speak. This Eleanor is from Melitown?”

“Aye, Madam. She was born here eighteen years ago, and the little one has gone unnoticed for six years,” Philemon answers.

“The Veil’s been hiding her for six years. They move away for college, and the Veil begins to recede,” posits Tuor.

“Why?” Kika’s notebook questions.

Tuor points a shiny red nail to the page, “Good question. That is the question.”

The black cat licks his paw and wipes some salmon from his whiskers. “Has anything else unusual happened with the Veil in the last six years? Anything suddenly changing here in Melitown?” he asks.

There is a loud thump overhead, and all eyes in the courtyard rise to the balconies overlooking the courtyard. The kikimora’s notebook changes to “I will see to the little missus” before it, and she dematerializes into a ribbon of smoke and sinks into an open door on the floor above. Fasol and Philemon give each other another glance.

 Tuor smiles at the cats and picks up her tea cup.  “This morning’s leaves promised interesting news and a handsome messenger. And there was a symbol of a sail, so I believe we should stay the course. Are you willing to watch over the girls longer, young Prince? We never assumed this observation would involve a six-year cycle. It’s well established in even Obvious knowledge that cats are free spirits who come and go as they wish so they shouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t stay. You don’t have to take up a permanent residence.”

Philemon shudders at the thought of returning to his coddled life as the next in line for the Colony’s throne. “And miss the opportunity to unravel this mystery? This will be a breakthrough in Obscure sciences, I know it!”

“A cat of Science through and through!” she grins. “Before you return to Ottarstedt,” Tuor says, taking a more serious tone and folding her hands in her lap, “I think there’s someone you should meet. Do you know your way around the Wilds?”