Chapter 9: Me and Siro
Mistral’s stomach gave them their wake-up call the moment the first light of dawn broke. Back home in Clonee, he had never eaten first thing in the morning, as he loved his sleep far too much to ever become a matinal *chat noir*.
"Listen to that—a matinal *chat noir*? Those two terms are downright antagonistic, antonyms... anyway, Aeolus would phrase it better. But now, how embarrassing! I’ve woken the whole house with the racket from my belly, and I can’t even do the trick where I slide my bowl across the kitchen tiles. What bowl? What tiles? *Mon Dieu*, I sincerely hope I won't be forced to hunt mice... Sorry, Aeolus!" Mistral thought, accompanied by the unmusical concert of his own stomach.
Aeolus, as if he had heard his thoughts, chimed into his monologue about hunger:
"I can't believe that fat belly of yours doesn't hold enough energy to let you sleep until it's fully light! Have a heart for the others, will you? Anemo and Miss Remi were utterly exhausted last night. It's not easy for them!"
Sirocco, who was busy dreaming of hunting butterflies with Skye, Noel’s dog, and Lady Bell, Daisy Queen’s dog, instantly shifted from a boy back into a kitten. He tumbled off his bunk, landing on his feet right on the hard-packed dirt floor.
"Oh, I nearly fell!"
Mistral and Aeolus burst out laughing.
"Nearly, kiddo? I’d say you’ve already fallen," Mistral teased him.
"Has the top-knotted girl come to give us our kibble yet?" the little one asked, thoroughly confused.
"Which top-knotted girl, kiddo? Do you miss Fleur?" Aeolus asked with a heavy heart. "We don't have Fleur here, and we don't have kibble either. And as for me, I don't have my coffee bean! My head hurts just thinking about it..."
"Ah, right on cue, we’re about to hear the 'God of Poetry' complain about missing his coffee with whipped cream and pink Himalayan salt..."
"How cruel you are, Mistral! You’re lucky Anemo isn't in contact with the collar, or he’d abandon you right here among the Celts."
"*Oh non, c'est impossible!* Don't you dare go giving him ideas!"
A loud knock on the door announced that breakfast was indeed being served, even though it was incredibly early. Remi got up immediately from her spot, her joints cracking as she stretched on her way to the door. The night had passed, but reality remained unchanged. No, she hadn't dreamt it. They really were far back in time—physically present, not just peeking through a wall of ether like they had done in Egypt.
Eithne, this time without the children, brought them a pot of warm porridge, bowls carved from ash wood, and spoons fashioned from stag horn.
"I hope our guests have had a restful night!" the young woman said, placing her load onto a tree stump that served as a small table. "My husband's parents are delighted to invite you to dinner this evening! My father-in-law says he has matters of great importance to share with you. *Bon appétit!* I hope you enjoy our humble fare."
With that, the woman bowed and left the visitors alone once more in their chamber.
In her wake, the *flesch* was instantly flooded with a most enticing aroma. The steam from the oat porridge, boiled in goat’s milk, was no ordinary thing; it mingled richly with the sweet, fragrant scent of wild honey and melted butter.
Remi filled the bowls and scattered a few crushed hazelnuts on top, which Eithne had brought in a small pouch.
"Come on, everyone to the table! *Bon appétit!*" Remi added, sitting down to eat in silence.
But Mistral did not look at all convinced by his bowl, despite its tempting steam. He circled the dish as though engaging in a period dance with the distinguished piece of ash wood, eyed it from the side, sniffed it, and batted the air with his right paw as if trying to analyse the ingredients from a safe distance.
"Now you're just overdoing it!" Aeolus scolded him. "Because of you, the kid won't eat either, and he needs to grow—unlike you!"
Yet Sirocco, in his kitten form, had already smudged his little snout and was lapping away with his pink tongue, savouring every single drop of that old-fashioned porridge.
"We don't want kibble, we like this hazelnut cream!"
"We? Who is 'we', kiddo?" Remi asked in a warm, motherly voice.
"What do you mean, 'we'? Me and Siro!"
At the little one’s reply, the *flesch* erupted into roars of laughter. The loud, hearty kind that leaves you clutching your sides with belly ache.
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