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The slide of pages turning, the soft crackling hiss of the candle and the fire’s burning almost cover it. The almost slithering rustle of rapidly beating paper wings. I ignore it, like I always do.

If she wanted attention, she’d be flying in front of me, not slipping around behind my back. When I keep hearing the rustling, with longer pauses between each rush of desperate beating, I turn around.

She’s trying to get to the top of the bookshelf? Certainly seems to be where she’s aiming. “You’re a cat now?” I laugh, as I lift her to the top.