Abbernathy and the Cat Kingdom

(8) -The Mayweather Terrors-

Inside the house, Abby took three deep breaths and braced for what was to come. She stomped across the floor of the dining hall, her stomach doing flips. The gold-flecked stone beneath her feet reflected the morning's light that poured through the glass wall on her right, and made her feel as though she were traipsing across the sun.

If only it had been the sun. She could have been burnt to a crisp before she reached the long, glass table at the room's center and all those souring faces.

Her father and Alfren Hudginns sat at the far end, veiled in shadow and chattering away, while the children, Crum and the three Mayweathers, sat nearest to Abby, all miserable and grim.

Abby sighed as her steps slowed.

You should run. There's still time. Make for the veranda, join Sebbi and Lucy outside for some autumn air or visit Simon in the grove. Just-

"Princess!" her father shouted from the far end of the table.

He waved a glass of golden liquid high above his head-Alfren following suit-paying no mind to how it sloshed over the glass's sides. Abby heard Poppy Mayweather, all prim and proper and snotty, snort derisively.

"Come join us!" Abby's dad threw back his drink-Alfren following suit-
-and patted the seat next to himself, which-to Abby's dismay-was across from Crum. She tried to muster up a smile, the corner of her lips turning upward in tiny, rigid movements reminiscent of the hands of a rusted clock.

Abby slid the chair out from under the table, metallic legs scraping across the marble tile, the noise making everyone in the vicinity wince. Poppy ran a critical eye up and down Abby before scoffing and returning to her bird-sized breakfast. She took a piece of melon to her full pale lips, nibbling the tip with the delicacy of a hummingbird. A napkin graced the lap of her pink silk dress, every fold smoothed out, every lock of her red curls held in place around her heart-shaped face.

Polly sat next to her twin sister, sucking on a sour melon, her lips puckered. She was less refined than her siblings, her napkin crumpled beside her plate, her hair a wild tangle of loose, red curls. She slouched in her seat, a dirtied hand fumbling with the wrinkled blue fabric of her dress. She was, by far, the most tolerable of the Mayweather three.

Herich Jo sat next to a frowning Crum, crooning over the elder boy. Like Poppy, he had poor judgment and poorer taste in boys. He'd thrown table manners out the window and leaned in toward Crum, elbows on the table, his brown eyes about as bright as damp earth. Crum was muttering something, probably talking about his newest pair of real leather gloves, while Henrich listened on, glued to every word.

He only broke this posture to shovel chestnuts into his mouth, which exaggerated his already rodent-like features and made them look downright squirrelly.

Abby couldn't help herself. "Storing them for winter?" she asked.

Abby's dad's eyes went wide as he choked on a sip of his drink. He cleared his throat, fussed with his tie knot and gave her a condemning glare. "Play nice," he whispered into her ear, before getting up-Alfren following suit-and excusing himself to the veranda for an after-breakfast cigar.

Henrich Jo, cheeks plumped to their fullest, looked at her in wide-eyed horror. His face like a blotchy map of red and purple anger spots. Crum had snickered at her question, though he swallowed his next bout of laughter down with a forkful of mapled ham.

Poppy Mayweather looked aghast. Polly choked on a piece of melon, her lips turning slightly upward as she continued to stare upon her own bird-sized meal of fruit and boiled eggs with disgust.