“What’ll you do after you’ve gobbled this year’s whole apple crop?”

She eyed me speculatively, sorting potential meanings. Ratpeople have no natural sense of humor. Singe does have one, but it’s learned and can take a bizarre turn.

She knows that when I ask a question with no obvious connection to daily reality, I’m usually teasing. She even manages the occasional comeback.

This wasn’t one of those times. “Is there a new case?” She hissed, dealing with her sibilants. Those old-time sorcerers hadn’t done much to make it easy for rats to talk.

“Nothing I’m going to get paid for.” I told her about Chodo Contague and my old days.

Singe got hold of her tail, wrapped it around her, and hunkered into a squat. We have only one chair that suits the way she’s built. That’s in the Dead Man’s room. Her usual dress is drab, durable work clothing tailored to her odd dimensions.

Though they walk on their hind legs like people, ratfolk have short legs and long bodies. Not to mention funny arms. And tails that drag.

“So you blame yourself for what happened to that man.”

Clever rodent.

“Even though it was unavoidable.”

Time to change the subject. “Got any idea what Dean is up to?”

Singe still isn’t used to how human thought zigs and zags. Her genius is relative. She’s a phenom for a rat. As a human she’d be on the slow side of average-though that fades as she gets a better handle on how things work.

“I did not notice anything unusual. Except the bucket of kittens under the stove.” Her nose wrinkled. Her whiskers wiggled. No cat smaller than a saber-tooth was likely to trouble her, but she had the instincts of her ancestors.

“I knew it. Kittens, eh? He hasn’t tried that for awhile.”