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Sophie's been sewing every free minute she's had over the past several days.

. . . unfortunately, that hasn't added up to a great number of free minutes. Which is why she's now in Milliways, on a couch in front of the fireplace, maneuvering a needle through several layers of white fabric in order to create a layered skirt. The rest of the skirt is draped over her own, rather plainer blue dress and spread out across some of the rest of the couch.

She'll move it if anyone asks - but for now, she needs the space.

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The eyebrows go up again.

"You consider yourself very nice now, then?"

"I did not say that," he says, straightening up suddenly. He sounds very stiff. "I was speaking relatively."

"- all right," Sophie says, looking rather less forbidding, and grins.

"I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page."

(People who assert how nice they are straight off the bat are usually, Sophie thinks, overstating the case.)

"Well," says the cat, sounding uncertain. "What page are you on?"

Whatever she says, he'll be eight pages ahead of her.

"The page I'm on seems to be saying that you're a rather charming, but awfully slithery sort of person - or magical creature; whichever you like," Sophie says.

"Of course our acquaintance has been fairly brief, so I might be misreading."

"I do not slither," the cat says, primly.

"You must be reading a faulty translation. It got the charming part, at the very least."

"Part of being slithery," Sophie says, with equal dignity, "is refusing to admit that you're anything of the kind. I hold to my translation."

"No," the cat says, bumping Sophie's hand to see if she'll give in and scritch. "Were I to be slithery, I would sidestep the accusation rather than flatly deny it. Part of being slithery would have to be bending the truth rather than telling flat-out lies. Or so I've heard."

"I think it's something of a combination, usually - that, and convincing yourself that you aren't lying even if you are," Sophie says, rather thoughtfully, "although of course I don't really know from experience."

. . . the cat seems to want to be scratched.

However, Sophie can't quite reconcile herself to the concept of scratching a near-stranger with whom she's conversing, cat or not. "Would you like me to fetch a backscratcher?" she asks, instead, politely.

The not'cat looks not in the least bit put off. "You have two handily attached to the ends of your arms," he says, helpfully.

"You're also not really a cat," Sophie feels obliged to point out, "and, my apologies, but I really don't think we're well enough acquainted for me to start scratching your head just yet."

It was different with the dog-man.

. . . he was quiet.

"Just because I am not really a cat doesn't mean you shouldn't scritch me. It is polite, you see."

"Maybe in your world. Where I come from it would be considered very rude to scratch someone on the head upon first acquaintance."

"People do it to cats all the time," he half-yowls, "And humans rarely ever look beyond appearances, anyway."

"Yes, but now I know," Sophie says, quite reasonably, "we've already gone beyond appearances, haven't we? So that argument's a bit outdated."

"Most of my friends still scritch me though they know I am not a cat, because it is polite and a good thing. It makes me happy, and makes them happy, as well. Just like scritching a real cat. You have nothing to lose."

Except this argument.

But the argument is all-important . . .

Cheerfully: "And perhaps when we are friends - as I'm sure we will be - I will."

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