“Well, then,” Freddy said in her highest, squeakiest voice. “One day, a kitten was walking on two legs through the lemon tree grove.”
“Lemon tree grove?” Bridget asked.
Freddy nodded. The girls never pointed out the more absurd points of her stories. Kittens walking on two legs never aroused their curiosity the way the mundane did.
“Yes.” Still high and squeaky. “A lemon tree grove because the kitty cat wished to steal the lemons.”
“Why?” Izzy asked.
“Because he wished to make tarts.”
“All of the lemon tarts ever?” Bridget asked.
“All of them,” Freddy confirmed. “But first he had to put them in his pockets.”
“Those must be some mighty large pockets.” The deep voice settled over the three of them like a heavy cloak.
Freddy shot to her feet. “Mr. Webster.” Said high and squeaky. “Oh, ah.” She shifted the register of her voice to normal as the girls giggled. “Mr. Webster. What are you doing here?”
“Trying to discover how the cat will fit all the lemons in his pockets.” The small candle she’d brought with her and set on the bedside table and the low flames chattering in the grate illumined his long form leant against the doorframe. He’d become a diagonal line in the frame, from boots, ankle-crossed, at the bottom corner to his shoulder and head resting against the frame on the other side. The hall slid by like black silk behind him. He shifted slowly to stand upright and entered the room fully. “May I join you and find out? I’m all curiosity.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” The girls nearly vibrated the bed with excitement, heads bobbing, feet bouncing.
“My gratitude, ladies.” He sat at the foot of the bed, on the side opposite of the one she’d risen from at the announcement of his arrival. “Continue, then, at your leisure.”
Freddy pressed a hand to her cheek. They felt cooler than they should. Surely an inferno rushed through them. Would she really have to adopt her silly voice to tell her silly tale before the man who’d so recently seen her naked, done delicious things to her? He’d never want to again.
She swallowed a groan and found a solution. “Mr. Webster, perhaps since we have you at our leisure, you could entertain us with a tale. You are, after all, a performer.”
The girls’ excited vibrations became such that they might shake the entire house down. “Please, please, oh please!”
He laughed, held up flat palms of reassurance that he would accede to their commands. “I cannot say no, can I?” He caught her gaze on him, smirked. “Perhaps I shall tell you what happened to the cat with the world’s lemons in his pocket.”
“Yes!” Izzy exclaimed, throwing off her blanket and bouncing to her feet in a surprisingly fluid movement.
“Get back under there, little one,” Grant said. He moved quickly, too, standing, guiding her back down, and tucking her in before perching on the edge of her side of the bed. “No escaping now. Promise?”
She nodded. “What happened?”
“The cat’s pants became much too heavy. And after only the third tree. There had to have been, oh”—he counted out all of his fingers twice—“two hundred lemons in his pockets. At least.”
“Two hundred,” Bridget said, pulling her blanket up over her mouth and shaking her head. “Impossible.” Her eyes narrowed. “How did he move about with that many lemons?”
“In my story,” Freddy mumbled, “he was going to have a bucket. Many of them.”
“Shh,” Grant said. “Let me finish.”
Three mouths snapped shut, leaving only the clink of teeth to rattle the silence and rival the chattering fire.
“Excellent.” Grant rubbed a hand through his hair, taking his time, the scoundrel. “The pants were magical, of course.”
“Aah,” Izzy and Bridget said together, as if the entire cosmos made sense finally.
“Yes,” Grant confirmed. “He slipped a lemon in, and it stayed in there good and well, but no matter how many he stuffed inside, you’d never tell from the outside. His pants still looked sleek and fitted, not knotty with two hundred lemons.”
The girls nodded sagely.
“But …”
