From the top of the hand-carved, seventeenth-century oaken armoire, four cats watched. They were all black, except for one that had two white paws. They called that one Goodie Two Shoes. One twitched its whiskers. There they go again, it said in cat language, which sounded like gargled Welsh. If I hadn’t been neutered, said one of the others, I could do what they’re doing. The other two cats laughed delightedly while the white dog glared at them.
“They’re watching us,” Sky said later, when he finally noticed the pointy ears and whiskers peeking over the curved tops of the armoire.
“Ghosts? Soldiers? The king again?”
“What? What king?”
“Well, Duke, really, Prince William, Duke of Gloucester, if it’s a kid you’re seeing. He was only eleven years old when he died and that was, let’s see,
