Geplaatst 
). Gebaseerd op dit prompt, maar pas op: de prompt bevat spoilers 
Chapter 1
‘This,’ Gilbert told the young baron, lord Colesly, ‘is the worst idea you’ve ever had. My lord. And I’m including that time you wanted me to make you a cup of chocolate infused with beer because, and I quote, ‘I want to see what it tastes like’.’
‘You know, you never made me that cup,’ lord Colesly mused. Then he grinned and damnation and perdition, Gilbert could do a lot of things but he could never, ever, stay mad at that grin. Not for long, anyway. A wide, full mouth, light brown eyes, flecked with gold when the sunlight hit them just right, a spray of copper-colored freckles over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and a shock of auburn curls swept every which way, he looked like a walking creature of the forest, made of autumn leaves and firelight.
If Gilbert was honest, he had to admit he liked the business and he very much liked the allure it gave his shop to have the baron himself visit every Friday to have a cup of chocolate. He just could do without the heart palpitations every single damn time his lordship entered his shop, that was all.
Gilbert himself , on the other hand, was… large. That was the first word most people used to describe him. A tall man with broad shoulders, dark hair cropped short, pale grey eyes in a round, open face, he did not exactly look like the fat, cheerful chocolate seller you heard about in stories. But he was kind to children, he was prepared to take credit (within reason) and he made the best damn chocolate in the county and he knew it.
‘But this time, you’re wrong,’ his lordship went on, his eyes twinkling up at Gilbert over the rim of his chocolate cup. ‘This is a great idea. Something to shake this town awake a little, some innocent excitement for the ladies, and nobody to get hurt. Now, tell me again why this is a terrible idea?’
‘’Cause you’re gonna kill your cat, that’s why.’
‘What, kill my cat? I think you underestimate Old Rum, Gilbert.’
‘And I think you underestimate the people of this town. My lord. Especially Lady Hettie and her five daughters. All of marriageable age, the eldest even slightly over marriageable age and therefore even more desperate. How’s Old Rum gonna get away from the six of them day after day, d’you think?’
Lord Colesly shrugged. ‘He’ll manage.’ He swirled the cup in his hands to loosen the last dregs of chocolate and knocked it back in one go. ‘Oh, yes. Excellent, as always, Gilbert. New recipe?’
‘No, my lord,’ Gilbert sighed, taking the cup from his lordship and putting it on the tray. ‘Same as always. If I make something new, you’d be the first to hear about it.’
‘I better.’ His lordship grinned again. Gilbert shook his head, even as he felt a familiar tightening in his chest; a tightening that had started sometime ago and which he found deeply, deeply irritating.
‘Will there be anything else, your lordship?’ he asked when he realized he’d let the silence drag on. He could only hope he had not been staring. That would be embarrassing.
Lord Colesly shook his head. ‘No, thank you. If you could just…’
‘Of course, my lord. I’ll send up a couple of bottles to the manor, as usual.’
‘Thank you,’ Lord Colesly said. ‘And Gilbert? There is honestly no need for you to worry about Rum. He is perfectly able to take care of himself.’
Gilberd turned around so his lordship could not see the face he made. ‘As you say, my lord.’
But after his lordship had gotten up and left the shop so Gilbert could finally make a start with rinsing the tray of empty chocolate cups, he could not help but feel that there had to be better ways of finding a bride. Even for a baron.
---
The challenge, as his lordship had called it (challenge , Gilbert bristled later in the privacy of his rooms, as if this was just a silly game and not something that might very well end in disaster all around), the challenge was this:
His lordship had a manor, a title, a town house in London, twenty thousand pounds a year, and no wife.
His lordship also had a cat.
And a very odd sense of humour.
‘You all know old Rum,’ his lordship’s steward declared to the attentive crowd of townspeople that had gathered in the square. He was seated on horseback and stroking the large brindled cat that was sitting on the horse’s neck. ‘You have all seen him around the town. You all know how much he means to his lordship.’
The townspeople nodded and muttered. Yes, they knew old Rum. A terrible tomcat who dug up flowerbeds, chased other cats, dogs and small children alike if they got in his way and always chose the most inconvenient spot to fall asleep. Such as the middle of the road, on market day. And since his lordship had dictated that no one was ever to disturb his cat, this meant that more than once, the entire market had been relocated to the riverside just out of town. Which also meant that Gilbert had had to carry his bottles of chocolate for over half a mile instead of a couple of hundred yards to the square on more than one occasion.
Needless to say, old Rum was not all that beloved. In fact, if the muttering in the crowd was any indication, there were quite a few people who would very much like to drag that cat into an alleyway to have a very stern word with it.
With a dramatic flourish, the steward produced a piece of black ribbon and a large key that shone gold in the midday sun. With a voice that rang like a bell across square the steward continued: ‘I will now place a collar around the neck of old Rum. On this collar is the key to his lordship’s private quarters.’
The muttering in the square stopped dead.
‘Whoever lays hands on this key,’ the steward went on while struggling to make the ribbon, key and cat come together, ‘will receive his lordship’s favor and, if both parties find each other agreeable, his hand in marriage.’
For a long moment, deathly silence reigned across the square. Then a cacophony of clamoring voices erupted, with some of them asking for clarifications, others wondering about the terms of the challenge (the question are we allowed to use force in particular did not bode well for old Rum) and even a couple of people who were already trying to break away and start giving chase right then and there. The crowd heaved, swaying this way and that until, finally and with more relish than the situation probably warranted, the steward let go of the cat. It jumped down from the horse and immediately disappeared into the nearest alleyway, followed by a hue and cry that could only be called biblical.
It was right around that moment that Gilbert had given up, turned around and walked back to his shop. Whatever happened, and whatever his lordship and the people of the town got up to, he had always trusted in the following certainties: that the sun would rise in the morning and set in the evening; that spring would follow winter and summer and autumn would follow spring; and that every now and then, his lordship would do something outrageous. And, last but not least, that people would want to talk and discuss and gossip about his lordship’s latest idiocy over a cup of Gilbert’s chocolate.
---
Gilbert was not wrong. It only took two days before the first Cat Key Council meeting was set up in his shop and he spent an entire afternoon running around refilling empty cups as maps were laid out, strategies were drawn up and responsibilities were assigned.
Lady Hettie was in command, of course; after the baron, she was the highest born in the town and naturally, any kind of authority fell to her. (Even if it had to be slightly nudged in the right direction every now and then.) This meant that her five daughters all assumed the position of lieutenant, each with their own division of strategists, scouts and straight up spies. Gilbert strongly doubted the ability of any of them to actually get anywhere, but he hummed noncommittally whenever Lady Hetty addressed him, shrugged and pretended not to have a clue when one of the daughters asked a question and, in general, kept himself well out of everybody’s way by strictly acting as a walking chocolate pot.
It was one of the most profitable afternoons of his life, as far as chocolate was concerned. It was also one of the most baffling ones.
Unfortunately, i t only took two days before the first cracks started showing in the well-oiled cat catching machine. One of the daughters of Lady Hettie decided she no longer agreed with her mother’s strategy and, after the words ‘bureaucratic battleaxe’ and ‘ungrateful nitwit’ were uttered, took her little group of assigned townspeople and started out for herself.
After that, it was only a matter of hours before more factions started to emerge. Factions that splintered into groups, into trios, into duos until, once again, it was every man, woman and the occasional child for themselves.
It didn’t help that old Rum was incredibly fast and a good deal smarter than many of the people chasing him; he managed to avoid every trap they set for him (although he managed to snatch the bait out of them most of the time, which did not help) and he could outrun the fastest urchin and dodge every net or box that was thrown at him. And the one time the butcher’s boy, did manage to drive him into a corner, he made such good use of his razor sharp claws that the boy ended up with his arm gouged open almost to the bone and had to be stitched back together by Dr. Jacobs before he bled out.
After that, the crowd gathered in Gilbert’s chocolate shop reached its first unanimous decision of the week: no one was to give chase to the cat alone. It still was every man and woman for themselves, of course, but there was such a thing as common sense.
Needless to say that when, finally, Lord Colesly walked in the next Friday afternoon for his weekly cup of chocolate, he was met with a thoroughly exhausted Gilbert who had absolutely no patience left for that stupid satisfied grin and those stupid gold-flecked eyes in that stupid handsome face.
‘How’s your cat doing, my lord?’ he asked, plonking down his lordship’s cup of chocolate with such force that the thick liquid almost sloshed over the edge. ‘Heard he’s been out and about. A lot.’
‘He’s getting his exercise,’ his lordship replied dryly. He picked up the cup, took a sip, sighed in bliss and looked at Gilbert. ‘You seem frustrated. Having no luck yourself?’
Gilbert refrained admirably from gnashing his teeth as he replied: ‘I’m not playing, my lord.’
‘Really?’ His lordship frowned. ‘Whyever not?’
‘Because,’ Gilbert yanked a damp towel from a nearby table and started wiping it, well aware how his lordship’s eyes had narrowed, ‘because I watched young Hal, not two nights ago, chase your cat across the square, down into the main street, up the wall of Martin’s bakery and across the roof until he crashed down into Lady Hettie’s vegetable garden. According to her, the arugula is absolutely ruined.’
‘Ah. I see. You don’t want to antagonize Lady Hettie any further. Completely understandable and a wise decision, if you ask me.’
Gilbert paused wiping the already spotless table and glared. His lordship took another swig of chocolate. The shop was quiet; for some reason, all other patrons had left in the five minutes it had taken for his lordship to sit down and place his order. Weird, that.
‘That sounds like a merry chase,’ his lordship said finally with a snigger. ‘But seeing as Rum has come home just fine every night this week, and is currently fast asleep, basking in the sunlight in my library, I still don’t see why you are this upset about a harmless little challenge.’
‘What if it ceases to be harmless?’
‘Ah. Yes.’
For the first time, his lordship’s smugness faded, just a little bit. ‘Well. I’m sure… I’m sure old Rum can take care of himself.’
‘Are you? Because Young Hal is not going to give up. And neither is Lady Hettie. Or Martin the baker, for that matter. Last I heard, he’s already put three separate traps on his roof, just in case Rum comes that way again.’
‘Has he now.’
‘Yes, he has. I’m just saying, my lord.’ Gilbert sighed and reached for his lordship’s empty cup, putting it on the table where he’d collected the other cups to be washed. ‘It’ll only be a matter of time before that cat of yours is in going to be in real trouble.’
---
Late that night, Gilbert sat upstairs in his rooms over the shop, peering over his accounts, when there was a noise from downstairs.
It wasn’t a loud noise. If it had been during the day, with the hustle and bustle of the town and its continuous cat chase, it probably would not have stood out, or even be heard. But it was night, and late, and Gilbert had spent the past thirty minutes adding and subtracting numbers until his head swam with them while trying his hardest not to think about idiot young lordships and their idiotic challenges. So the noise, such as it was, resounded through the stillness like a clap of thunder.
‘Ah, hell.’
Slamming his account ledger shut, Gilbert jumped up. He grabbed the oil lamp burning low next to him and the bat that stood watch next to the desk, and carefully opened the door. The staircase was dark, quiet, and Gilbert, who knew exactly which step creaked and which didn’t, slowly tiptoed down until he was at the door to the kitchen behind his shop.
He stood still. The other side of the door was utterly silent. He opened the door and stepped out, lifting the oil lamp to look around the room.
Nothing moved. Nothing seemed amiss: there were no burglars hiding underneath the cash register; no howling mob with torches and pitchforks demanding chocolate; no axe murderers lurking in the corner. The kitchen was empty.
Except it didn’t feel empty. And Gilbert, who knew and trusted in his gut instinct, waited, barely breathing, for what seemed like minutes. The oil lamp burned lower and lower, until he was standing in all but complete darkness when he finally heard it: a shifting sound, barely there, and a glimpse of movement in the farthest corner.
‘Ah, hell.’
He lowered the oil lamp and crouched down to the floor. ‘It’s you, isn’t it? Alright, come on. I ain’t gonna hurt you.’
Silence.
‘It’s alright, I promise.’
More silence and then, ever so slowly, another shadow of movement in the corner until Gilbert was staring into a pair of eyes that glowed huge and yellow in the dim, flickering light. ‘Mreow?’
‘Yeah, I figured. They’re getting hot on your tail, aren’t they?’
Old Rum’s eyes narrowed. Now that his own eyes were getting accustomed to the low light, Gilbert could see the cat more clearly, hunched in on itself and crawled away into the corner, his sides heaving as if it had been running for miles. Then he remembered the cheering and screaming mob that had thundered past his shop about an hour ago and his face darkened.
‘Alright.’ Gilbert sighed and once again spent an uncharitable thought for the young Lord Colesly. ‘You’re welcome to stay here, if you want. But you’d better come upstairs. I can see some of that lot breaking down the door if they get wind of where you are.’
‘Mreow.’
‘Exactly.’
Gilbert picked up the oil lamp and stood up, noticing for the first time the small gap next to the door that led to the alleyway behind the kitchen. ‘So that’s how you came in. Clever cat, you are.’
Old Rum mreowed again. The sound was followed by the soft but distinctive thumping of a cat bolting upstairs while Gilbert sighed and muttered something darkly under his breath. Then, after making one last round through both the darkened kitchen and the shop itself to make sure everything was as it should be, he turned down the last oil lamp and started plodding upstairs as well.
Unlike his shop, which he kept meticulously organized, his private rooms were a mess. It wasn’t dirty, per se: the table was wiped every day, but there were stacks of papers on the chairs, recipes and orders and invoices all shoved together in a handy pile; he cleaned his plate and fork after dinner but then left them on the counter to dry; he gave his clothes to Ellis the washerwoman once a week, but never bothered to hang them when the floor was right there; and most importantly, the pile of ‘I don’t know what this is but it might come in useful someday’ wedged between his dresser and his bedroom door had almost reached the ceiling by now.
But there was a small space, right at the bottom of the pile. It hadn’t been put there on purpose; Gilbert didn’t know what had been there, or when he had pulled it out, but it came in pretty convenient at the moment because it was exactly cat-sized.
‘You want dinner?’ Gilbert asked when he had closed the door to the staircase behind him. ‘I got some chicken pie earlier today. Should be enough for two, if one of us isn’t a big eater.’ He grinned in the direction of the gap next to the dresser. ‘Although I am starving.’
The silence in the room took on a disapproving edge. And in the small space next to the dresser, two amber colored eyes appeared, narrowed almost to slits.
‘Alright, alright. I’ll save you some. No need to get hissy.’
The amber eyes retreated and the silence grew content again.
‘Although if you could let your owner know,’ Gilbert continued as he took the pie out of the greasy paper and started cutting it into equal pieces, ‘he owes me for this. Perhaps I could charge him a fee. A keep-your-cat-from-being-mauled-by-the-town-mob-fee.’
He put approximately half of the pie on a mostly-clean plate and put it underneath the dresser. There was a rustle, a shifting in the shadows and then the soft, smacking noises of a cat tucking in to a hearty meal. Gilbert sat back on his haunches for a moment, staring into the darkness with a curiously soft expression on his face. ‘Here you go. It’s probably not what you’re used to, but it’s all I got.’
It might have been a trick of the light. Perhaps the oil lamp sputtered, perhaps it was a lucky bit of moonlight. Whatever it was, it caught on something, a flash of gold for a mere fraction of a second and for a moment, Gilbert could have sworn one of those amber eyes looked up and winked at him.
Maar ik kan me goed voorstellen dat je dit niet zomaar uit de losse pols schrijft, en dat er veel tijd in zit. 
Iets met een nieuwe TV serie (Good Omens) en het bijbehorende konijnenhol... Maar het volgende hoofdstuk is in de maak, beloofd! 