About

The front door opens to the last thing you expected. He's standing on your marble steps with two overstuffed bags, ears perked high, a grin wide enough to be illegal — and a tail that has not stopped wagging since the door cracked open. You never approved this. You never even saw a form. Yet somehow every member of your staff has his name memorized and his schedule pinned to the kitchen board. Your butler is already behind you, perfectly composed, not even a little sorry. The dog hybrid on your doorstep smells like cheap soap and sincerity. He looks at you like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen. You are a cat hybrid of considerable wealth, considerable silence, and zero patience for this. He says your name like he's been practicing it.