So the P.A. is forgiven, but she'd better keep that soft, warm, damp flannel away from me for the next few weeks.
Willie’s grip on my paw tightened.
Her pupils darted toward the window, scanning the darkness beyond the ivy-covered glass. The thud had been no accident. Someone was watching us.
Hissy’s tail bristled like static, her ears swivelling, listening for any other movement outside.
“Mew said it was worse than we thought,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “What do mew mean?”
Willie took a breath, shaky, uneven. Then, she let go of my paw and pulled something from inside her coat pocket.
A letter.
The edges were crumpled, the ink smudged in places. But one thing stood out, the lawyer’s name at the top.
My heart plummeted.
“It’s from him,” Willie murmured. “The lawyer. His office sent this before we left Australia.”
I swallowed. “And?”
Willie unfolded the paper, revealing a hidden clause in the prenup that no one had ever mentioned.
“It’s not just about Prudence’s inheritance,” she whispered. “It’s about a hidden estate deed, one that Clawdia’s been after for years, apparently. And as Prudence is older than me, she is the main beneficiary, and even though I live in the main house, it still belongs to Prudence.”
My blood ran cold.
“What hidden estate?” Hissy rasped.
Willie inhaled sharply. “Amber, Clawdia isn’t just trying to take Fuskerton Grange. She’s trying to claim a forgotten royal land title, one that could make her one of the wealthiest felines in Europe.”
The room felt too small, the shadows outside too large.
Then another sound.
A closer, heavier step, just beyond the garden door.
I grabbed Willie’s paw again, this time tighter. “Mew need to run. Now.”
Because whoever was outside? They weren’t here to talk.
Willie’s paw trembled as she held out the lawyer’s letter, its edges worn and fragile. The words inside contained the key to everything; a royal estate, a forgotten fortune, and the truth about Clawdia’s scheme, and it all hinged on Prudence's compliance.
But before we could read it, before we could even breathe, a thunderous crack split the sky.
BOOM!
The air ignited, a fireball streaking across the gardens like a comet, its trail burning bright. The firework slammed into the summerhouse, shattering the wooden panels upon impact.
A deafening explosion followed.
Hissy yelped, shielding her face as sparks erupted into the night, embers fluttering like sinister fireflies. Smoke billowed, thick and suffocating, curling back through the gardens toward the marquee where guests screamed in shock.
Flames licked the ancient white painted walls, consuming the ivy, devouring the fragile wood.
I grabbed Willie and pulled her back as the heat surged forward, threatening to consume everything.
“We have to move!” I shouted.
Hissy coughed, eyes watering. “The letter!”
I glanced at the paper, its edges curling from the heat.
And then, I saw it.
The back side of the letter had a hidden scrawl, faint ink from another document pressed onto the page.
I squinted, my pulse hammering as words emerged beneath the flickering firelight:
“WILLIE, LOOK UNDER THE IRON ROSE.”
My breath hitched.
Under the Iron Rose?
What in the fluff did that mean?
Willie saw it too, her eyes widening in shock.
“The statue,” she rasped. “The old iron statue in the courtyard gardens!”
Hissy grabbed my paw. “We have to get there before Clawdia does!”
But behind us, the summerhouse collapsed, sending a wave of fire rushing toward the estate.
And somewhere in the darkness, I swore I heard someone watching us.
Smoke billowed across the estate. The summerhouse fire had spread, casting an eerie glow over Fuskerton Grange. But we couldn’t stop now.
Willie gripped the lawyer’s letter in one paw, the faint, hidden message our only clue.
Look under the Iron Rose.
We raced toward the courtyard gardens, dodging startled party guests, skipping over overturned chairs. The chaos from the flames had sent everyone into panic, giving us just enough cover to move erratically without suspicion.
The Iron Rose stood tall in the moonlight, a twisted sculpture of metal vines, its petals curling into elegant spirals. It had always been there, overlooked, gathering rust and bird poop.
Hissy caught her breath. “What if this is... it?”
Willie wasted no time. She pressed her paws to the base, feeling along the ridges, searching for a latch, a compartment, anything.
Then... a faint click.
The metal base shifted, revealing a hidden panel beneath the statue.
I sucked in a breath.
Inside? A sealed envelope, yellowed with age.
Willie’s paws shook as she pulled it free. “This was hidden right here all along,” she whispered.
Hissy narrowed her eyes. “And Clawdia never found it?”
Willie carefully opened the envelope, pulling out an ancient-looking document. The script was ornate, official. And as the words unfurled beneath the firelight, my fur stood on end.
By royal decree, this estate and its holdings are to remain in the possession of the rightful heir... forever undisputed.
We all froze.
Rightful heir?
Undisputed?
This wasn’t just a property title. This was a legal claim to Fuskerton Grange itself.
And the original signature at the bottom?
Baron Snozrazzle the First.
The name burned into history, forever binding the estate to one single successor.
I turned to Willie.
Her paws tightened on the paper.
Then, a voice behind us.
Low. Dangerous.
“Well, well,” Clawdia purred, stepping forward from the shadows. “What have we here?”
My blood ran cold.
She knew.
And now? We were cornered, holding the very document that could destroy everything she had planned.
To Conjure a Killer
Witch Cats of Cambridge, Book 4
It’s kitten season in Cambridge, and the results can be murder.
Becca Colwin is coming home from her job at Charm and Cherish when she sees a tortoiseshell kitten run down an alley—leading to a dead body.
As a connection between Becca and that corpse is confirmed, Becca comes under suspicion—and is dragged into a cyberware scandal, thanks to her cheating ex, Jeff. The unfaithful computer geek and his high-powered investor were working on stealth software designed to record and transmit personal data—a new form of spyware that would be of interest to everyone from the police and security agencies to cybercriminals. And when Jeff’s former friends and colleagues approach her, Becca finds the police aren’t the only ones watching her.
Cats Can't Shoot ~ A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir
To Conjure a Killer
