The orange tom, with its one milky eye, coughed out a single damp feather. It had to leap sideways to dodge a half-hearted kick from the Great Magician Quilin, which elicited a hiss from the cat and a disproving tut from old Due, who was sitting on his canvas sling chair and sucking on a eucalyptus mint. He always smelled like freshly cleaned library books, or a mucus-y head cold.