Chapter 3: Names in the Rain

Soon the assistant brought over a food box. Even from across the room, I could smell it—it was the fish I’d been dreaming of.

My heart skipped a beat. Jackpot.

Isn’t this the little chef I’ve been looking for!

I rubbed my face against his hand, purring like crazy.

No dignity at all. Sometimes I wondered if he slipped something special into the fish.

There had to be a secret ingredient—maybe a dash of love, or a sprinkle of magic. Whatever it was, I was addicted.

Otherwise, how could it taste so good?

Mr. Forrest tapped my forehead and scolded, “Useless.”

His words were sharp, but his eyes were soft. I knew he didn’t mean it.

He set the fish in front of me, and I dove in, eating like it was my last meal.

Didn’t matter who was watching. I ate with all the gusto of a cat at Thanksgiving.

As always, I licked the plate spotless.

If there was a contest for cleanest plate, I’d win, paws down.

A bunch of kitchen staff stood around, watching me chow down, and from somewhere, a voice piped up: “This plate is licked so clean—just like the one that noble person in the mansion eats from.”

I froze, tail twitching. Did they know? My secret was hanging by a thread.

Guiltily, I hid behind Mr. Forrest. Would they recognize me?

I peeked around his legs, trying to look innocent. Maybe if I stayed quiet, they’d forget all about me.

Working in the kitchen seemed pretty chill. Soon Mr. Forrest tucked me into his jacket and strolled back to his own quarters.

I didn’t fight it at all—just went along for the ride.

Let’s be real—I’m not just here for Mr. Forrest’s looks and cooking skills.

Okay, maybe I am. But can you blame me? He’s got it all.

Mr. Forrest lived in the outer mansion—not some far-off place, just a small, tidy house.

It was the kind of spot you’d expect for a country doctor or a schoolteacher, not the head chef of a royal mansion. But it fit him—quiet, clean, and just a little mysterious.

It looked simple, nothing like what you’d expect for a head chef.

No gold trim, no fancy rugs. Just a few houseplants, a bookshelf, and the scent of herbs and flour. It felt like home in a way I hadn’t felt in ages.

“You fat cat, you’re really heavy,” Mr. Forrest said with a pout, carrying me into his study.

His arms didn’t even shake, but he made a show of struggling, just to tease me. I flicked my tail in protest, secretly loving the attention.

As a cat, I sprawled shamelessly on the desk—and then I saw something!

The whole study was filled with portraits—of me!

My jaw would’ve dropped if I had one. There I was, in every pose: sleeping, stretching, eating fish. It was like a shrine to my own fluffiness.

So Mr. Forrest secretly loves the immortal too?

Or maybe he just had a thing for fat orange cats. Either way, I felt oddly flattered.

The signature read “Dale.”

Dale. The name rang in my head like a distant bell. It felt important, somehow.

Weird—I can’t read, but at a glance, I knew it was pronounced Dale, like it came from deep in my memory.

The letters danced before my eyes, familiar and strange. Maybe I’d heard it in another life.

I stared at the paintings, lost in thought, when Mr. Forrest flicked my forehead.

The snap brought me back to earth. I blinked up at him, startled.

“You little rascal, still pretending?”

His voice was playful, but there was something sharper underneath. He knew more than he let on.

I looked at Mr. Forrest in surprise. His long, fox-like eyes sparkled with mischief.

He looked at me the way a cat looks at a mouse—amused, but a little hungry. I shivered, but not from fear.

Wait, how did he figure me out?

Did I slip up? Maybe my meows were too articulate. Or maybe he just had a sixth sense for trouble.

“You figured it out? Fine, I’ll be honest—I’m actually an immortal,” I said, tilting my furry head up at him, trying to look sincere.

I tried to look dignified, but that’s tough when you’re covered in orange fur.

Mr. Forrest burst out laughing, tears streaming down his face.

He laughed so hard he had to sit down, wiping his eyes. I felt my ears burn with embarrassment.

“Let me see—which immortal can’t even take human form?”

Ouch. Low blow. I puffed up indignantly.

I got anxious. Doubt my cat smarts if you must, but how could you doubt my immortal status?

I stomped my paw for emphasis. “I’ll have you know, I’m very magical when I want to be!”

That mutt king is willing to live and die for this immortal!

I tossed my head, remembering the king’s desperate pleas. If only he could see me now.

“Who says I can’t take human form? When I do, I look like this!” I stood up, pointing my furry paw at the beauty’s portrait hanging in the center of the study.

The painting was delicate, ethereal—a face that could launch a thousand ships. I tried to look just as regal, but my tail betrayed me, swishing with nerves.

Mr. Forrest’s eyes crinkled with amusement, then suddenly a fluffy white tail appeared behind him. He wrapped it around me, lifting me from the desk and into his arms.

The tail was impossibly soft, like being hugged by a cloud. I felt myself relax, even as my heart pounded.

“Little fat cat, we animals can’t become immortals. No matter how much we work at it, at best we’re just sidekicks for immortals.”

His words stung, but there was kindness there too. Like he was trying to protect me from disappointment.

I stared, dumbfounded, at Mr. Forrest’s swaying tail, then looked at my own thick, stubby yellow one.

Side by side, it was no contest. His tail was all grace and elegance; mine was just… hungry.

Sigh—comparing just makes you want to throw yours away.

I tried to hide my tail behind me, but it refused to cooperate.

How come when Mr. Forrest’s tail sways, it’s all elegance, but when mine does, it just says, ‘When’s the next meal?’

I’d have traded a year of fish for a tail like his. But then again, I’d probably trade anything for fish.

“You really are a fox demon?”

I squinted at him, looking for clues—pointed ears, sly grin. He sure fit the part.

Mr. Forrest teased me with his tail. “What? Don’t I look like one? Am I not beautiful?”

He twirled, showing off. I had to admit, he was stunning, in a wild, untamed way.