Oscar looked at Lydia. Her eyes were wide and beautiful, and her fur shone as though Flumpt had tried cooking her.

He put a paw on her shoulder. He wouldn’t lie to her, he just wouldn’t tell the truth. If this world was full of animals who had no secrets, then his own would be safe.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just—I don’t know—”

“Homesick?”

He smiled. “Homesick, yes. That’s it. I suppose I just need to know that we’ll get back again. One day. Without dying first.”

Hopeful again, she moved closer. “Of course we will, Oscar. You’ll see the Loud Puff again—”

“Purr.”

“—and Binkle-thingy.”

“Binklemitre.”

“Him too. And you’ll see your cataclysm again also—”

“I’m sorry, my what?”

“Cataclysm?”

He frowned. “What the fluff are you on about?”

“Where you work. The Velvet Paw place.”

“The Catacombs?”

“That’s the one.”

“How could it possibly be called cataclysm?”

“I did think it odd.”

“It’s not odd, it’s ridiculous.”

She shrugged. “Well, I thought it might be called that for secretive purposes. You know, as a ruse.”

“A ruse.” It was not a question.

“Yes. A sort of tactical disguise.”

With a scoff, he continued into the palace. “Please tell me that you haven’t been put in charge of anything important.”

They left the rose glow of evening and balcony for the palace’s hallways of green and gold leaf. He’d become used to the building’s opulence and size, and the ridiculousness of it being a free hotel for everyone and anyone. The bewilderment that he’d felt when waking up in the place after trying to ladle a beast to death had been replaced with a conviction that the only things that mattered were poetry recitals and the establishment of a short-lived theatrical troupe.

Lydia was talking again, but he didn’t pay attention. He wasn’t interested in anything that had already been discussed with the Echelon, refusing to be tainted by her and Mironaelk’s determination. While they may manage to equip this world’s armies with violence, as a poet, he would not. Moreover, neither animal could blame him for refusing involvement. After all, he’d renounced his position as Velvet Paw in the last book, so educating the Echelon on the importance of breath control while reciting imagist verse, rather than how to smash animals’ snouts in, shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone.

Mironaelk and Lydia would not be pleased, certainly. They may be experts in strategy and violence, respectively, but he was the expert in poetry, and each needed to draw on their strengths. Neither could ask him to be what he was not, nor would he pretend to be. After all, there was no place in this world for pretence. He was a poet and no longer a Velvet Paw, and what he had to offer to the Echelon, provided it involved pleasantries, would be well received and make his refusal even easier to defend.

Numbers were on his side, and he wondered whether he would have made a good politician.

“I wonder whether I would have made a good politician.”

Lydia stopped talking to consider this. “I think you’d be good at anything you put your mind to.”

“Even though it’s become insane?”

“Particularly because it’s become insane.”

“I wouldn’t like to be involved in a curiosa that’s political.”

“Oh? Well, I’m surprised to learn that they’re not political,” she said. “I mean, they’re internationally jet-setting, from what I’ve gathered, which implies borders and governments and airports, and presumably filling in lots of forms.”

He felt a pang for Vaasi-Vee, who’d spoken to about similar things once upon a time in Plempt. “I find politics to be little more than noise,” he said, refusing to wonder where she might be now. “It’s just complicated ways of getting along. And while it’s pivotal to everything, it does nothing to influence how the world turns.”

Having taken the lead, she glanced at him. “Why are you saying this now?”

He shrugged. “Because of what we’re heading back into: a big, horrid political convention.”

“I think this is rather more than politics, Oscar. It’s life and death—for an entire world.”

“Sounds pretty fluffing political to me.” It was muttered.

Despite continued efforts at ignoring her, Lydia explained that training grounds had already been agreed upon, and that there were some preliminary discussions about whether trestle tables could be adapted as artillery—before admitting that Flumpt had been forced to give several lectures outlining what artillery actually was, which he eventually managed by destroying several hundred trestle tables with a batch of Class-Three Pavlovas. When she asked Oscar whether he’d prefer giving lectures on Snout Assault or Introduction To Revenge, he didn’t hear the question until it was repeated.

“Oh,” he said, before pretending to care. “Revenge, probably, as I’ve had more to do with that during earlier books. I rather suspect that Snout Assault is your area of expertise.”

A thrill became apparent, and she continued on with details he did manage to ignore. His enthusiasm grew also, but only at the prospect of conducting auditions.

By the time they reached large doors, he was convinced he could feign helping out by using unconventional methods that, conveniently, only Velvet Paws could fathom.

She continued talking while straightening his collar and giving his pantaloons a symmetrical fluff. He opened a door slightly and peered into the same auditorium that had housed the ridiculous farce of goat allergies from the last book, where chicken impressions had culminated in invitations to dinner and communal hugs. How Lydia imagined the animals of this world could begin to understand, let alone implement violence seemed even more ridiculous than said farce.

She peered also, with wide, enthusiastic eyes.

“It has to be done, Oscar,” she said. “You must help. You know that.”

He nodded. Certainly, it did. And he would help, just not in the way she’d appreciate.

Despite Mironaelk’s lecturing prowess, he doubted any audience member would understand what she’d been on about, let alone be able to put it into practice. Violence and revenge were entirely unknown concepts in this world, and educating its leaders how to fight the most dangerous poets who ever lived was even more ludicrous than suggesting that marauding beasts setting fire to cities were prototype balloons piloted by animals who ought to know better.

He wondered about discussing the merits of gardening magazine subscriptions.

“I don’t like public peaking, you know,” he said.

She nodded while continuing to fluff remaining bits of him. “What about when you recite poetry?”

“I don’t recite it.”

She stopped fluffing. “Oh? I thought that was what poets did. The D’dôdô-Sette certainly does.”

“Yes, but he’s a bard, not a poet, according to his ego. And anyway, you’ll recall that I’m not a proper poet, and certainly not a bard. We went over this in book four.”

“I remember,” she said, finding a bit she’d missed. “And I reminded you that that the entire book was about poetry.”

“That’s exactly my point: I haven’t done any poetry. And if I haven’t done any, then I’m hardly going to recite it, am I?”

“Is that the correct expression? Done poetry? I thought it would be a little more eloquent. It sounds rather a-grammatical.”

“It sounds what?” He twisted away from an annoying bit of fluffing.

“A-grammatical.”

“That’s not even a word, Lydia.”

“It must be if I’ve just used it.” She shrugged while sizing up her efforts. “And if not, then I just invented one.” Satisfied, she pushed open the door, before winking at him. “Perhaps I’m a poet.”

Oscar peered at an audience he’d been relieved to escape during Mironaelk’s earlier lecture. The Echelon consisted of animals from across the world; kings, leaders, palatial officials, generals, hoteliers, industrial fete advocates and emergency flag menders; essentially any animal who had influence and sway, and all of whom had witnessed the wanton destruction of their world by marauding beasts, disappearing suns and inconveniently erupting volcanoes.

Mironaelk and Lydia, along with an initially reluctant Flumpt, were determined to educate them in violence, vengeance and warfare in a concerted effort to convert their armies of trestle table setters and festive flower arrangers into armour-plated killing machines.

The notion was ridiculous: a week would not suffice, no matter how many of Flumpt’s exploding pavlovas were thrown around the place.

Violence and revenge were complex, dense emotions arising from bitter dissent and festering rumination. Not only did both need time to ferment and congeal, but required nourishing by everything missing in this peculiar world.

Success was not only impossible, but would make his pending contribution utterly sensible in comparison.

Although Lydia had to be aware of such futility, it was overwhelmed by her need to try, regardless.

“That’s better,” she said, smoothing the last of his fur. “I was beginning to worry about you.”

“About me?” He scoffed and peered down at Mironaelk, who returned to sit as the Boeviss stood to address the audience. “I’m not the one you should be concerned about.” He looked at the Returned Poet, who’s gaze was both elsewhere and lost. “I feel for the Returned Poet. He knew the poet embedded in that beast.”

“So did you.”

“I didn’t know her. You should be worried about him.”

“I am,” she said, “but grief requires its own time.” She looked with him. “We must wait until he is ready. Admittedly, he appears even more reluctant to be down there than you do.”

“He’s also sitting between Mironaelk and Flumpt, which isn’t going to help anyone.”

She sighed. “I still can’t get over the sight of that poor creature knitted into those scales. I can’t imagine how much that would have hurt. I mean, it would really hurt.”

Despite his dismay at having seen the same, it only highlighted the futility in trying to counter the Ar’dath-Irr. The world was going to end, that much was certain, and after five books of saving it he was no longer interested in involvement. Instead, he would do something he’d not dared consider back home: organise poetry recitals. Rather than go out with a bang, he’d go out with a standing ovation. He glanced back along the hallway, remembering the impromptu one he and Lydia had received after their fight during the last book: even if his poetry was rubbish, it would be considered genius here, and the one thing he wanted to experience before he died was what it was like to be one.

It wasn’t possible in his world, but was certainly possible here.

If everything exploded the day afterwards, he would die happy, not least because there’d be no negative reviews in The Daily Spoon. If he got things organised soon enough, he might be able to enjoy some positive ones before everything went bang.

As horrid as it was to discover a skewered poet, the poor cat would have certainly understood his need.

He looked at Lydia. “How is he?”

“Who?”

“The Returned Poet.”

“Quiet,” she said. “Like you.”

“I doubt it’s for the same reason.”

She nodded. “I know. Seeing a colleague skewered like tht must be awful” She glanced down at the stage to check. “I’m relieved, actually. After being so subdued, it’s good to see a return to form.”

“A return?”

“Yes. He’s itching to take the class on Improvised Pumpkin Grenade Weaponry, actually.”

Oscar humphed again. “It sounds like you’ve already organised a timetable.”

“You know we have. You were there, remember? When Mironaelk insisted we’d need to teach on weekends, which meant cancelling three neighbouring fetes and a serious curry party.”

“They won’t like that.”

“No, but there’s no choice. If we don’t get things moving there won’t be a world left to have fetes in. That’s the point that she’s been making all day. If you hadn’t wandered off you would have heard her.”

He shrugged, uninterested. He hadn’t even paid attention during the initial planning meeting, despite Mironaelk’s insistence he be in charge of taking minutes. Rather than listen, he’d doodled a theatre program that merged poetry recitals with more of what had elicited a standing ovation in the hallway. When, at the meeting’s conclusion, Mironaelk had asked for the minutes, he’d realised the paper was covered in stage direction, rather than strategic warfare. To irritate her further, he’d pointedly scrunched up the paper, put it in his mouth and chewed until she stopped glaring and left in exasperation.