In the still of the night when the world was painted silver we crept into Her room through a window left open. One, two, three, we crept, four, five on soft paws with soft purrs. Outside flowers had become ghost stars in the dark black bushes, leaves were silver edged and the sky belonged to the flying mice and the stars. Inside we all became ammonite cats while I, Pixie, whispered stories, of dragons and castles and knights and horses, of wizards and witches and wolves and pirates, into Her ear.
In the day time She had spoken to Her publisher, soon to become my publisher as they work on the contract for my book. Soon it will arrive and I will sign it with my paw.
Meanwhile She dreams.