The cat – dark, spotted, distinctively kittenish despite its size – is sprawled in a corner of her room. She didn't think Javrat had any indigenous wild cats. Descendant of some exotic pet? Those laws could use some work.
Mulaghesh sets down her crossbow. The cat – or whatever – scoots over, following a slice of sunlight.
"Hells, you can't wreck the place any worse. But if you're staying, you're doing the dishes."
The cat fixes her with a piercing look.
"And I'm calling you Shara."
Mostly because the original is sure to hear of it – if she hasn't already. With Shara, who knows?