The Girl Who Came to Bedlaam

II. God Save the Cat!

Margeline Finnicktoff is another important character to my story surrounding the girl who came to Bedlaam. Born to a family highly esteemed for their winery skills, Marge possessed a snobbish distaste for anyone or anything she deemed beneath her. Naturally, one expected this from a high nosed wine brewer's daughter as the Finnicktoffs were recognised for their fiery tempers and disregard for tact of the smallest kind. It's said she obtained this distaste from her father who drank his entire family to poverty and due to shady financial dealings, lost the family business as well. Marge was therefore sent to Bedlaam where Mrs. Ivanhallow with a heart full of compassion, welcomed her warmly. Marge's only relative who held close to his remaining fortune was an old uncle who sent her expensive parcels once a year. But her five years at Bedlaam did not do much to improve her expressive temper I'm afraid.

Marge sprinted for the black feline who had gotten onto the table, but he sprang out of her reach in a flash. The trio sailed about the room upsetting tables, benches and dishes. Everyone scattered to the walls for a safer view of the unfolding mischief. The freckled-faced girl screamed at the top of her lungs while the elder one cursed and swore each time the creature evaded her.

"I'll kill it! I swear I'll kill it!"

"Don't touch him!"

I was pressed against the wall with everyone else who had no intentions of intervening.

"Marge, it's just a cat for pity's sake!" I said as she passed me in pursuit of the flying furball.

"She'll kill it this time for sure. Hell's in her eyes."

"Wasn't it always there, though?"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Is that a knife in her hand?!"

"Yep, a sure sign she'll kill him this time."

"Where's Ms. Petruny?!"

"Oh, I can't look!"

Harriet reached out to grab the girl.

"Marge, stop or you'll hurt someone."

Marge tore out of her grasp, determined to catch her prey.

"Come here you filthy rogue!"

Amid all the chaos, our stranger hadn't moved from her spot on the floor. She observed everything with a calm disposition that eventually turned to a frown. Suddenly, she flexed her forefinger and as if by command, the cat, who'd been oblivious of her the whole time, sprang deftly into her arms.

A silence fell upon the room as she stroked his coarse fur with steady hands.

Marge, with flames flaring from her nostrils, went straight up to her with clenched fists.

"I'll only say it once, tramp. Hand over the cat."

The silence was so thick, it was as if time froze and not even a whistling kettle could have broken it. The girl only hummed soothingly as her long fingers caressed the cat with a tenderness that seemed unnatural to her disheveled appearance. Like Marge, she gave me the impression of someone that disliked or cared little for all things, particularly naughty felines. But there was something else about her too, something I couldn't put my finger on.

"Did you hear me, minx?"

The girl slowly got to her feet still cuddling the cat. For a moment, her queer, sun-beamed eyes locked onto Marge's. The tension in the room was as thick as the silence and everyone stared from one to the other in hushed anticipation.