I swallowed, sipped my brew, and tried to figure out how to go on with the conversation.
Although witches often had foresight, and I was wondering if my repeated dream had been some kind of forewarning or premonition, such insights were another thing that many people frowned on. Although everyone had brain jabs, which is what Old Mother had called them, most folks just ignored them.
Frank was looking at me searchingly, as if he wanted to peer down into my soul and pull out the truth. Whether he would have continued our conversation, I don’t know.
Neither of us had heard the front door open and close, but there was no doubt about her presence when Mrs. Penn said, “Ah, you’ve already made coffee.” She slipped into a seat next to me. “I was going to do that, but this is better. I don’t have to wait for it to brew.” She smiled, then glanced from Frank to me and back again. “Did I interrupt something? Were these serious matters you were discussing?”
Seeing that neither of us were actually rushing forward with a summary of our conversation, she asked, “What did the orphanage board and the town council say?”
Apparently, I’d been accepted in a semi-permanent role as house tender and child babysitter. They’d given me a salary, too. I now had money for extras, although what I would use money for was a mystery, because every time I needed something, Mrs. Penn always took over the payment.
“I think Shama wants a cat,’ Frank said after a moment of silence in which we were all savoring our mugs of coffee.
“I didn’t say that. Not exactly,” I said, fidgeting because I definitely didn’t want them to get a kitten for me when I was sort of expecting one to arrive via mysterious ways.
Unfortunately, timing is everything, for at the exact moment that Frank mentioned that I wanted a cat, two hair-tossed and pajamaed boys stumbled into the room with big smiles on their faces.
“Mommy said that cats keep the mice and rats away,” Carlo said, his eyes big with excitement.
In a lower tone, the one that Frances had begun using to express his of late slightly depressed state, he said, “Yeah, but Dad said a bullet is better. Only, we still had rats and mice, and he had a rifle, which he took with him to go hunting. I don’t think he ever shot a rat.”
I could almost see the thinking process going on his head. Frances was mulling over the situation between his mom and dad. He’d definitely chosen sides. But I think there might also be an element of feeling like he was betraying his father each time he made a negative comment about how things used to be.