Later that evening, the house is quiet again. Charlotte prowls the hallway, tail flicking with suspicion, ears rotating independently like radar dishes.
Charlotte: Absolutely not. This is plot silence, I do not trust it. The baby is never this quiet. Silence, when it comes from her, is never peace. It is preparation.
She starts moving, brisk and irritated, already bracing herself. She checks the kitchen. Empty. Checks the laundry room. No rituals, no chanting, Lilith nowhere to be seen, maybe in a different astral plane. Checks the bedroom. Just Ziggy asleep upside down, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.
Charlotte: Useless but on brand. Where is the baby?
She sniffs the air.
Charlotte: Is that… bergamot? Something is wrong and it smells faintly of tea.
She moves slowly toward the living room, dread building with every step. She turns the corner into the room and stops dead.
Karen is lounging on the couch with the good blanket over her legs, a tea mug and biscuits on the side table and an open bottle of painkillers, casually within reach, because she knows herself.
The television glows softly. Jane Austen adaptations in full regency glory.
Charlotte:…Why are you resting.
Karen (content, utterly unashamed): Oh hi, sweetie.
Charlotte takes a step closer, dread pooling in her stomach.
Charlotte:…Is that…No. No no no. Why are you watching feelings.
Karen: It’s a Jane Austen marathon.
Charlotte recoils.
Charlotte: WHY.
And then she sees her.
Nestled under Karen’s arm, Tartiflette rises slowly into view, wrapped in a shawl she absolutely stole and wearing a bonnet perched on her head at a dangerous, historically accurate angle. Paws clasped, posture impeccable. She is rocking slightly side to side. Tarti is watching the screen, rapt. She shifts, huffs, mutters commentary under her breath in a horrendous fake British accent, clearly improvised and deeply offensive to any subject of His Majesty.
Charlotte’s brain attempts to reboot. Fails.
Tarti: (bad British accent, very serious): SHHHHHH!!! THEY GONNA FEEL!!! He’s bein’ a fool.
Charlotte: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, THOU FLUTTER-BRAINED MOON-CALF?.
Tarti (throwing one paw dramatically): THE MUSIC SAD. THE LADY MAD. THE MAN JUST STAND THERE. SAY WORDS!!! SAY THE WORDS, SIR!!! LOOK AT HIM. JUST STANDIN’ THERE. SAY THE THING, MISTER DARCY. SAY IT.
Charlotte backs away like she’s seen a ghost.
Charlotte:…WHAT IS THAT ACCENT…WHY IS SHE DRESSED LIKE A TURNIP FROM 1786?
Tarti: Charlotte. One does not shout indoors. It is terribly vulgar. I merely find it exhausting when people lack decorum. She adjusts the shawl.
Charlotte’s soul ejects from her body and hits the ceiling.
Charlotte: This is worse than Titanic, at least there were boats. YOU DID THIS, KAREN. YOU PUT THE MOVIE ON. YOU GAVE HER THE SHAWL. DID YOU GIVE HER THE BONNET TOO?! ENABLER!!!!
Karen (thinking): …Yes? (cheerful, guilty) she asked what I was watching.
Karen smiles fondly and adjusts the blanket.
Karen: She’s very emotionally engaged.
Charlotte: LUNAAAAAAAA. SHOW YOURSELF!!!!! I AM FORMALLY LODGING A COMPLAINT.
Karen hesitates.
Karen: Oh.
Charlotte stops.
Charlotte: …Oh what.
Karen slowly lifts the blanket. And there, tucked under Karen’s arm, Luna. Curled up. Relaxed. Not holding a clipboard, just vibes.
Charlotte gasps and slowly turns her head like an owl possessed by rage.
Luna doesn’t look away from the screen: A complaint with whom. About what.
Charlotte’s eye twitches.
Charlotte: WITH YOU. ABOUT YOU BETRAYING THE ORGANIZATION. AGAINST THE HUMAN.
Luna: She has opposable thumbs. It’s risky. And temporarily, I’m on break.
Charlotte: YOU DON’T TAKE BREAKS. And, WHY are you under the human’s arm like a Victorian invalid.
Luna: I’m unavailable. I’m in Act Two.
Charlotte: YOU DO NOT HAVE ACTS.
Luna: I do tonight.
Karen (sipping tea): She likes the dialogue, very civilized. Lots of emotional minutes.
Charlotte: I LEAVE YOU ALONE FOR ONE EVENING AND YOU TURN THE BABY AND LUNA INTO A REGENCY SPINSTER.
Tarti (gently offended): I am not a crab, I don’t have pincers. And you are ruining the movie, Overcoat.
On screen, a gentleman stares meaningfully across a room. Tarti sighs.
Tarti: If only he had written sooner. This could have been avoided.
Charlotte looks at the three of them: the human, the baby in Regency cosplay, and the snuggled traitor.
Charlotte: ENOUGH.
She marches to the TV, jabs a paw at the screen.
Charlotte: This is over. This house is lost. I demand something NORMAL. I demand something with ACTION. I demand something christmasy!
She straightens.
Charlotte: CHRISTMAS. I want my favorite Christmas movie.
Karen sighs: Charlotte…
Charlotte (final, thunderous): I SAID WHAT I SAID. DIE HARD.
Tarti gasps: Is it… romantic?
Charlotte: IT IS ABOUT SURVIVAL AND LACK OF SHOES AND A MAN WHO MAKES SENSE. It has VALUES.
Luna (considering): These are clear objectives.
Karen grabs the remote.
Karen: Fine. One condition.
Charlotte: Name it.
Karen: No reenactments.
All eyes slide to Tarti.
Tarti (hands folded, innocent): I would never.
The screen switches. Explosions. Yippee-ki-yay energy fills the room.
Charlotte settles in, triumphant.
Charlotte: Finally. Culture.
