CHAPTER 8: The Abduction of the Wizard Liver and the Furry Little Angels
A special chemistry had formed between Anemo and Fleur from the very beginning. They complemented each other and, despite the age gap, they took turns being the adult or the child, as if these roles were interchangeable.
Now they were both in the kitchen, talking about the new book that seemed to be writing itself, and they were cooking. Fleur had been given the mission of creating a special kefir sauce for the beef liver and onions that had just been searing in the cast-iron skillet. Now, it sat there soaking in its juices, sprinkled only with a pinch of pink salt and some pepper.
“Watch closely, Fleur! The sauce you’re preparing is pure magic. We can add a very small clove of garlic—a tiny, tiny one—just so it doesn't overwhelm these golden onions.”
Anemo’s stomach and the little girl’s creaked discreetly but in unison just as Anemo’s cell phone, lying right on the kitchen table, began to sing with Banderas’s voice again:
“Soy un hombre muy honrado, que me gusta lo mejor...”
“It’s Stone! Give me two minutes to send him off, and we’ll sit down to eat!”
Snatching the phone, determined not to be drawn into a long conversation, Anemo immediately began his scatterbrained pacing through the house, leaving the kitchen and walking miles back and forth across the living room.
“Yes, I promise you’ll be satisfied! How could I not? Are you crazy?”
Through the eyes of the little girl, who watched as if drawn by an invisible thread, Anemo’s face could be seen lighting up more and more. It was clear that the “grounding man” wasn't quite so fearsome and that the name which sounded like a crossbow—Arbalest—was actually harmless.
Meanwhile, outside, although dusk had fallen, the furry residents were seated at the garden table under the umbrella, undisturbed by the light rain. Mistral was purring or meditating, trying to shake off the psychological fatigue accumulated during the day, while Aeolus, with his English-style calm, was trying to teach Sirocco how time works.
“‘Yesterday’ is the day that passed, ‘today’ is now—the present—and ‘tomorrow’ hasn't happened yet; it’s the day to come.”
“But didn't you say the week has seven days? I just learned them, and now you tell me there’s also yesterday, today, and tomorrow!”
Using his paws again to count, Sirocco seemed to have a revelation:
“The week has ten days!”
“You are something else... my stomach knots up just listening to you!” the black cat grumbled, this time standing up on the table. “I’m getting truly hungry, and it hasn't even been two hours since the last bowl of kibble!”
“I’m hungry too!” Aeolus admitted.
“Me too!” the ginger one chimed in immediately.
With his characteristic elegance, Mistral made a masterful leap onto the kitchen windowsill but returned immediately, disappointed, with his tail between his legs.
“A magical alchemy is happening in there, don't you smell it?”
“Very super-duper-magical!” Sirocco replied in a whispered voice.
“But the window has latches, and I can't check exactly what’s going on!” added the black furry one, in whose eyes lights that were not exactly angelic began to glow.
“Do you think I can help? Do you want me to meow for...”
“Shhh! Don't you dare let out a single ‘meow’!”
Small but swift, Aeolus had also reached the “portal” from which the scents of alchemy were wafting.
“Psst, kiddo! Only you are right for this mission. I’m too small—I couldn't bring back the samples for research—and Mistral is too... imposing; he won’t fit.”
If he had been an ordinary cat, Mistral would have swallowed their tiny companion in one gulp, but let’s be serious—someone with blue blood like his wouldn't lower himself to eating a mouse, not even after such an insult. “Hmm, me, fat? I’ll remember this!”
“It’s now or never, kiddo! Anemo has important business elsewhere, and that nosy tufted-one has gone with him. Go on, courage! I think you have time for two shipments. This mission fits you like a glove!”
“You won’t believe it, Fleur! I might not be as famous as Remi Storm yet, but... hold on tight!”
“Come on, tell me, Mr. Anemo! I’m so nervous for you that I can't even eat!”
“Our story has charmed Archibald Peter Stone! The man is a true professional!”
As he told the story, making wide gestures in the air with his cell phone clutched in his fist, Anemo walked into the kitchen, but after only two steps, he stopped abruptly, his mouth agape.
“Don't keep me in suspense, Mr. Anemo!” Fleur began, but she too stopped with her mouth wide open.
“Our dinner!” they both groaned in a chorus ofhunger after a long minute of silence. “We’re left with just the sauce!”
On the still-warm stove, the cast-iron skillet was perfectly cleaned, and a few inches away on the wooden counter, a paw print shone, painted with the juices of grass-fed... Irish beef liver.
Outside, under the umbrella, the rain beat rhythmically. Aeolus continued to explain temporal concepts to Sirocco:
“So, kiddo, ‘yesterday’ is history. ‘Today’ is the moment we act...”
Sirocco stared into space with an unusually Zen expression and a suspiciously full belly. Mistral, the snobbish Parisian, was tactfully licking a paw, watching the rain with sovereign disdain, as if he had never even heard of “liver.” The door burst open, framing Anemo, who looked more like a storm god than a scatterbrained writer. In his hand, he held the small bowl of kefir and garlic sauce, which he placed on the table next to the two cats in two strides:
“But please, your lordships! This sauce was the true magic. I’m leaving! I’m inviting myself over to Mother’s for dinner...”
From across the fence, from number 47, a woman’s voice began to call:
“Fleur! Don't you think you’ve imposed on the poor man long enough? Your father is asking for you!”
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