The world was gray. Soon it would be winter, and it seemed that even the bones of the earth were infected with the cold. Clouds blanketed the sky with more gray, but their presence did little to instill a feeling of warmth. Tantomile would have felt cold even in the midst of summer.
Remembered words traced the edge of her consciousness, feelers of thought that disturbed her. They never fought. This was something altogether unexpected, some part of her plan that had gone unreasonably awry, and it made her angry. She was never angry. It was part of why she was here, instead of out on the streets somewhere. Hers was a calming presence, meant to settle disputes, not to begin them. And here she was, sitting alone, contemplating, and not nearly as calm as she pretended to be.
Her insides churned. No. He had no right to control her. I forbid it. Her heart was not his, not entirely. It is wrong. So was he. His very existence was wrong, to the core, though none of the Cats here knew it.
Alone on the streets, a young queen is helpless. She was never helpless, drawing on the strength of the earth beneath her feet. But it was easier to be seen escorted than to constantly defend, and so, in desperation, she had created him. He looked like her. He spoke as she did. It was only with great effort that he could pull away and move independently. For all the world, they appeared to be twins. And so that was what they had become: Tantomile the Witch's Cat and her twin brother Coricopat.
She wanted to scream. He was her creation, how dare he dictate what she was allowed to do? For all her life until she had created him she had been alone, even after he had come into her life she had been utterly alone. It was not entirely because she possessed the gift of sorcery, but also because she was quite unlikable. Now, when she had found what might be called love, he denied her of its joy.
That was how Plato found her. He murmured something about looking for her all day; she did not hear. She felt as if her heart was frozen within her chest, hardening against the creation that dared to disobey her.
Common sense dictated that Coricopat was, despite her anger, correct. It was grossly unfair of her to find love in a tom that had already taken a mate, and to throw her concerns to the wayside. She had her duty to the tribe to think of, failing that there was also the issue of Victoria. Part of her retorted that she had never liked Victoria that much, and did not particularly care if her delicate feelings were hurt.
Somehow, Plato's presence brought a sense of comfort, of warmth, and desperation to the cold environs of her heart and the world around her. Soon it would be winter.