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That night, she took a pirogue into the bayou, the air thick with fireflies and the distant wail of a saxophone no one else could hear. She sang the lullaby her grandmother had taught her— “Sleep, little sorrow, the moon is a liar” —and scattered shrimp shells into the black water. For an hour, nothing. Then the ripples stopped. The crickets fell silent. And from the cypress roots, a pair of green-gold eyes opened.

All Cat stepped onto a log. It was magnificent and terrible: fur like wet charcoal, paws the size of saucers, and a tail that moved like a conductor’s baton. It yawned, revealing teeth that looked like broken piano keys. Searching for- lily labeau rion king in-All Cat...

But on the floor, curled asleep, was a small black kitten with one green eye and one gold. It purred in a minor key. That night, she took a pirogue into the

All Cat tilted its head. “A trade. One song you’ll never sing again. One memory you’ll never recover. One tear from a lover you haven’t met yet. That is the price.” Then the ripples stopped