Warrior Cats: Sprout || Book One

Chapter One

One and a Half Moons Later

Lily sank her claws into the fence; the wood had been softened with the past rainfall. Damp curls of ivory paint clogged her toes and she shook her paws daintily, shaking her silvery fur.  Arching her back in a languid stretch, she skittered down the lichen-encrusted barrier, her coat fluffed up against the morning chill; gooseflesh had erupted along her spine. Hunger pains clawed at her belly and she flicked her tail with kittenish anticipation.

Slipping through the cat door, Lily paused to admire the dust motes spiraling around her. Lifting a paw, she dabbed excitedly at the darting particles, mewing with delight when they evaded her strikes with a buoyant ease. 

The tinny rattling of food pellets into a cat dish snapped the kit out of her revelry. Her ears erect, the kit darted towards the kitchen, her claws skittering over the polished floorboards. She hurtled into the neighboring room, glancing ecstatically around. One of her housefolk was coaxing a glossy bag to produce salmon-flavored pellets. 

Wriggling her haunches, the silver tabby skipped over to her designated bowl and plunged her head into the kibble. "You look like a dog," came a contemptuous snort. 

Lily halted and stepped back, her ears flattened bashfully. "I thought I looked quite dignified," she replied, mustering up as much scorn possible." Her incessantly flicking tail betrayed her agitated embarrassment.

Missy tipped her head loftily, her white-socked feet kneading the plush carpeting. Grey eyes flashing, she meowed, "Well, you can't see yourself, now, can you?" Missy drew herself up to her full height, tracing her tongue along her lips. "Make room," she urged.

Disgruntled and abashed, Lily shuffled to the left to compensate for Missy. The plump ginger tabby ducked her head and plunged her muzzle into the pellets, her flabby stomach swaying between her staggered legs. Lily began to eat too, quashing her former enthusiasm and replacing it with a dull righteousness that Missy would have to be proud of.

I wish Buddy was here. He'd understand. He'd tell me a story to pass the time and make me feel better. Stupid Missy. Can I ever have any breathing space?

Her meal left a salmon-y aftertaste in her mouth and she curled her lip at the powerful flavor. Her spirits had been dampened by Missy's harsh admonishing and she felt no need to associate herself with the she-cat much longer. Whirling around, she trotted back outside, into the front garden.

The neatly cropped grass tickled her pads; the shrubs fringing the pristine yard dribbled beads of water onto her head. Flicking her ears irritably, Lily pounced on a large scarlet flower-head that was emitting a pungent, heady stench. Her tiny claws shredded the gossamer petals and she landed on her hind legs. Swaying with the new-leaf breeze, she toppled over, landing with her tail-tip draped over her nose-bridge and her legs splayed out ungainly beneath her. 

She leaped to her paws, flushing a rich crimson beneath her coat, which was plastered with kitten-fluff. "Stupid Missy," she snarled. Turning, she glared at the peony and bit the stalk reprovingly. Bitter juices gushed into her mouth and bathed her tongue; she recoiled and stomped on the grass. "And you, flower, are so stupid too!"

Flopping on her flank, she pressed her muzzle into her paws; a sign of exasperation and weariness. Curls of flesh had accumulated on her forehead, signaling her agitation. My real mother would be nice to me. 

Lily's parents were somewhat of a mystery in her adoptive family. They were a touchy subject, especially for Missy, and the topic was usually changed when she brought them up. She yearned to learn about her deceased parents, and an ache formed in her chest whenever she thought of them. Buddy was better with this. He did not give her straightforward answers to her endless inquiries, but he would make up stories about her kin.