Thomas’s Saturday morning odd encounter(Seraphina)
Date: 2026-01-24 11:49
(Thomas’s Saturday morning odd encounter(Seraphina):Seraphina)
[Sat Jan 24 2026]
In the front hallway of an old brownstone
The entry hall of this brownstone exudes a quiet, dust-scented gravity. A Persian runner, worn but rich with color, stretches across creaking hardwood floors, leading past walls lined with dark wood paneling and shadowed alcoves. Heavy framed prints of alchemical diagrams and faded botanical studies hang in careful alignment, and a tall coat stand bears an old wool cloak and wide-brimmed hat, untouched for seasons. A glass-fronted cabinet near the stairs displays curious items: a tarnished astrolabe, a mummified hand resting on velvet, and a leather-bound folio sealed with wax. The air is still and dry, tinged with the scent of old paper, beeswax, and something faintly metallic, like iron or forgotten blood.
A parlor opens up to the east, while stairs lead up to a second story. Beneath the stairs, a closed door suggests basement access. The hallway stretches deeper into the house beyond.
It is about 45F(7C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At King and Blackstone/span
reports, dryly, back to Thomas with an eyeroll quoting some ancient song, “Yes, yes, I get misty just holding your hand.” She stores her phone into a deep pocket of the jumpsuit she’s wearing, reaching then for her winter coat. As she’s flicking her hair out from the collar of the coat, she says, “We might want to hold off on Redstone until it clears. There’s been a ton of nappings lately.” As she pulls a glove on, there is a scratching at the door.
“I think that’s wise,” Thomas agrees with Seraphina, zipping his coat up. “We could creep in from the south, but that means going through Fairefield,” he says. “Which is not in turn the safest of all things.” He smiles at her. “So where are we –” he looks over at the door, hearing the scratching.
The scratching continues at the door, sounding as it is coming low to the ground, rather than some person seeking to scritch instead of knock for attention. “I was thinking we could go the the Library and down the well. I want to be sure that our portal to Anupharis is still available there. With the way everything shifts and changes there, better safe than sorry.” She pauses. Lingering back, “Are you going to get that?”
“Mmm,” Thomas says, eyeing the door. He steps away from Seraphina, his hand making some complicated shape — readiness, surely. “I’m getting it, woman,” he says to her, going to open the door.
raises a brow up at Thomas. “It’s about time, boy,” she sasses back at him for his own snappishness. The complicated shape is probably unnecessary. It isnt as he does this every time there is someone — even if this may be more of a something –. And yes, when the door opens, it is merely a cat. It sits on the door mat with its tail slowly twitching and its ears slowly wriggling with its whiskers, too. It looks up at Thomas and says, “Mrooooow?”
For Seraphina’s part, Seraphina responds with an “Awwwww!” And when she does, the sleek little tabby begins to prance its way past the threshold.
“Boy?” Thomas asks Seraphina, arching his brows. “Why –” Then the tabby is is prancing in, and he looks down at the cat. His hand relaxes, as he asks, “What do we have here?” Crouching down, he goes to close the door so that the bitter cold outside won’t sweep inside the brownstone.
As Thomas goes to close the door, there is some initial resistance, as a gust of harsh artic air blows in, stirring up leaves in its wake and carrying them into the home. As well as other debris. Likely nothing the foyer hasn’t been cluttered with in the past. The manner seems natural. Mostly. But Thomas can probably sense the magic, prickling at his nose. Unless its only allergies. “Well, you called me ‘woman’ so it seemed rather fitting to call you that.” She sticks to her guns. Like cat hair to a pair of jeans. Thomas’s jeans. The tabby wends its form between Thomas’s legs,
The tabby wends its form between Thomas’ legs, purring like a motor, incessant and dare be it … poignant?”
Bending down, Thomas tries to scoop the cat up on his arms. “And what’s it to you,” he banters back. “…woman?”
Seraphina looks a bit confused at Thomas’s reply back to her. “I — don’t get it.” She asks, “What do you mean, what’s it to me? What’s what to me? That you call me woman?” She snorts softly. He’s a big boy, he surely knows. If its something else, well, she’s oblivious. “Anyhow, does this little cutie have a collar?” The windows whistle where shoddy craftsmanship has allowed air to seep through poorly caulked frames. “And second question, if not, can we keep it?” The cat avoids being picked up by Thomas, instead, it evades his fingers, and tries to figure eight about the raven-haired woman’s legs, instead.
“Gah!” Thomas says as the cat escapes my arms. He moves after it, trying to get between Seraphina’s legs. “I can’t tell if the damn thing has a collar,” he says. “And I already have one persnickety woman as a pet,” he tells her. “I don’t need two!” he says. Giving up, he starts to rise, right in front of her. “Why here, though?” he wonders. “Why this house?”
“Pet!” someone, shocked by Thomas’s definition of what she is to him. “I am not your -pet-.” She puts her hands on her hips as she says this to him, and he is probably lucky that she made use of her fists on her hips rather than his face. “Is that really what you think of me?” She goes to pick the cat up, and it with ease in which she does. She looks far more frustrated at the man than angry, seeking to find the scruff of the cat’s neck for a collar. She finds one and begins to search for a tag. “You know, pets have a tendency of wandering away from bad owners…” A threat, a promise? Sassiness? Who can say.
“Pet!” Seraphina exclaims, shocked by Thomas’s definition of what she is to him. “I am not your -pet-.” She puts her hands on her hips as she says this to him, and he is probably lucky that she made use of her fists on her hips rather than his face. “Is that really what you think of me?” She goes to pick the cat up, and it with ease in which she does. She looks far more frustrated at the man than angry, seeking to find the scruff of the cat’s neck for a collar. She finds one and begins to search for a tag. “You know, pets have a tendency of wandering away from bad owners…” A threat, a promise? Sassiness? Who can say.
“No,” Thomas teases Seraphina as he stands in front of her, the cat in her hands, not his. He reaches out, trying to see if the animal has a collar. “No collar,” he says — about the cat, perhaps. Or Seraphina. “You’d be far more obedient if you were a pet. I’m stuck with you as a companion, I suppose,” he says to her.
narrows her eyes at Thomas. “I have always been -obediant-. Stop being an asshole to me.” But then, the cat does have a collar, so he clearly was making reference to Seraphina in the regard of collaring. Meanwhile, the mists begin to rise, though the map recently looked at by both indicated it was Redstone, and it rarely will reach Ivory Quarter. The windows rattle, still whistling with the wind that brews to hurricane outside. The raven haired angel finds the little golden tag and rattles off a number to Thomas, “Give them a ring?” She is, afterall, busy, making a pussy purr, by stroking it.
“I will,” Thomas tells Seraphina. He leans in to steal a kiss — from Seraphina’s lips, not the pussy — before he reaches for the rotary phone, dialing in clean things. He balances the receiver under his ear, watching the woman and the cat in her hands.
“Mrow,” says the cat, and on the other end of the line, a man answers, “Yes?” Seraphina continues to stroke the cat behind its ears, and seems to be making plans for keeping said animal as she talks to the creature and paces the foyer floor. The window rattle is likely not thing new, but the intensity of it certainly is. “Thomas…” she says, just as some larger piece of debris is lifted off the ground and hits the pane of glass, cracking it. She cradles the cat to protect it in case the glass does eventually break.
“Good afternoon,” Thomas tells the man on the line. “This is Thomas Hale calling, from the Endless Library. Have you lost a cat?” he wonders, looking over at Seraphina. “It had your number on the collar,” he explains to the phone. His eyes flicker over to the rattle of the windows, narrowing — frowning. “The storm is getting bad, and we found it on our doorstep.”
The man on the other end of the line says, “Oh yes. She has a tendancy to get out… This time she’s really properly ruined it.” What, he doesn’t give out what exactly the tabby has ruined. “You would think, you treat them well, you give them fancy things, you put a collar on them so that people know they are yours and … well. Surely you understand, Professor Hale.”
“If only,” Thomas tells the man on the phone. He looks up at Seraphina. “This is this fellow’s pet,” he says to Seraphina, his eyes on her. “You can’t keep her.” There is a pause, and then he looks back at the phone. “Well, then. We have her safe here, I suppose. Is it safe for you to come collect her, in the storm?” he wonders across the line, even as he looks with more concern at the rattling windows.
Meanwhile, Seraphina peeks out the window, the storm having brewed into a hail storm, falling snowflakes combining into large balls of ice. The mist is pea soup so it isn’t even as if one can tell the size of the hail until one or two smack against the glass. The angel steps away from the window and heads toward the parlor, where there is a fireplace and warmth. The mist, however, is starting to creep betweeen the spidery cracks on the foyer window, and beneath the door, which is also rattling and threatening to open by the sheer force of the wind steps away from where Thomas stands.
“I am a little busy,” the man on the other end of the line remarks. He is then quiet before he can be heard chanting something. Thomas can probably hear and understand ‘ventis’ and ‘pluvia’.
“So am I,” Thomas replies back. “I can hear the magic you work, sir,” he says across the line, watching Seraphina’s movements as she goes into the living room. He, of course, is tied to the phone by its cord. “But perhaps I could be convinced to go out into the storm to return your little lost lamb.” A beat. “Though she is a pretty pussy. My assistant would like a little pussy around the house, perhaps.”
The man on the other line replies, “I am trying to temper the storm, Professor. She ran out in the middle of my ritual, leaving me with only my sacrifice. You know full well, as your reputation proceeds you, and your … assistant, the power of three.” In the parlor, Seraphina can be heard saying, only hearing the one side of the conversation, “I would, really, ever since losing Queenie.” To the cat she asks, “Do you want to stay?” The cat only ‘mrows’ from her arms. The man tells Thomas, “I don’t know that it will work over your the phone, which by the by, your connection is quite awful…, but we could try, with you as my third? I can not manage it.” The hedge warlock begrudgingly admits.
The door blows wide open to let the gale of torrential winds and hail enter Hale’s home.
“I can do my part,” Thomas tells the voice on the phone. He covers the receiver for a moment. “The door!” he roars to Seraphina. “Close the door!” he says. “This cat is the cause of this awful weather!” he cries, before he turns back. He begins to chant, full of his own power, even as the line on the receiver just crackles. Reaching out with his will, the old librarian asks the the terrible, tragic chorus in he basement to join in, to add their whispers to the magic. “I have some friends,” he tells the phone. “They will help.”
When the door slams open and fills the room with hurricane force, Seraphina is comfortable in the parlor so doesn’t notice until she is called to, loudly, over the roar of the wind. She, along with the cat, are back in the foyer, and as she, with her strength and determination, begins to shut the door, far easier than most would ever be able. “That is nonsense. How can a cat be the bearer of this?” She can sense that it is magic, of course, it pricks at her own skin, especially as the spirits begin to join in with Thomas. Some are far more interested in her than helping, afterall.
“She – Queenie – is the familiar of some other magician,” Thomas calls out to Seraphina. “Come now!” he says, trying to chant, focusing now on the receiver. The reedy voice of the other magician is distant, imperfect.
“Queenie is the corgi I lost,” Seraphina tells Thomas, latching the door in place and leaning up against it, still petting the cat that might not actually be a cat, at least full-time.
Well, something is working, even if it is long, long distance, and with such resistance. The mist begins to fade as Thomas assists the other man on the other side of the line.
Still chanting, Thomas begins to intone more. He reaches out with a hand for Seraphina, even as the whispers of ghosts swirl around both of them. She can feel them, trying to pressure into her mind, even as the magician’s desires flare, craving Seraphina’s support and energy as he works this magic. “I can feel it working,” he mutters through gritted teeth into the phone receiver. We are almost there,” he says.
Seraphina was holding the door closed with her strength and subtle weight, but as the weather begins to dispel some, and the door no longer rattles, desires fill her and she steps away, still holding the cat like it were a baby, and taking Thomas’s hand with her free one. “You didn’t say… what could a cat possibly have to do with the fact that a witch can’t control their spells?”
“She is his familiar!” Thomas cries out, squeezing Seraphina’s hand, and then — as the winds die down — his voice normalizes. “Magic is always more powerful in threes,” he says to her, even as his chant reaches a cresendo. “Without his assistant, his familiar…” He points a finger at the cat. “He was reduced, and his magic was not enough.” Of course, no little bit of pride at Thomas’s own being strong enough.
But is it his alone? The hedge warlock is also chanting on the other side of the phone, afterall. God only knows what more he has to do to the second that was part of his trio. Seraphina squeezes Thomas’s hand, asking the cat, “Have you been a bad kitty?” The answer, perhaps a boastful, “MROW!” To which the angel nods, and says, “Good!” Afterall. Women, in all shapes and sizes deserve to be treated with respect, and must stick together.” But then she focuses, much as an angel like herself is able to, what with the cat’s desires, Thomas’s desires, and the ghost’s desires bombarding her at every angle.
As at last the storm subsides, Thomas tells the phone, “My assistant rather wants to keep your cat.” He takes a breath, a little bit of sweat on his brow from the magical exertion, despite the cold. “I’d come collect her, unless you want to have to fight for her,” he says with amusement. “You can call upon us at 78 Maple Street.” With that, he hangs up, turning to Seraphina. Ghosts still seem to flit through her mind. “Come,” he tells her. “Let’s go to the parlor and await this thing’s lost owner.”
“Can’t we just tell him that she ran away again?” Seraphina asks, the cat content in her arms and purring. Cat brain, clearly, at the moment. She closes her eyes as she is still hit with desires from lingering spirits. Only opening them when Thomas practically drags her into the parlor. It isn’t long before the man from the other side of the phone is knocking on the door, seeking to retrieve the cat.
Rising, Thomas goes to open the door. “Welcome,” he tells the man. “We have something of yours.” A glance into the parlor, where Seraphina still stas curled up with the cat. “Come now, Miss Hawke,” he calls out to her. “It’s time to return our little lost lamb.”
There is a sigh from Seraphina as she is basically forced from her chair, and over to the foyer again. “Fine,” she says to Thomas, a look given the man at the door, to which she then smiles, and then flirts, “Hi…” She offers up a hand, not cradling the cat, “Seraphina.” With some level of back and forth the cat is finally delivered into the man’s hands. “Treat her well, hm?”
“Perhaps a better collar,” Thomas suggests to the man as Seraphina hands over the cat. “They can so difficult to corral.”
The man nods, and then steps away with his familiar in hand, toward his car. He is soon traveling through the hailstone covered streets in front of Thomas’s and Seraphina’s house.