There were three things Lia had learned in her first week as a cat.
She was small.
She was fast.
And no one suspected the furniture.
Armed with this holy trinity of feline advantage, Lia began what she called Operation: Emotional Justice.
Virelle, for all her sharp intellect and natural grace, had been conditioned to flinch when people raised their voices. The head maid, a vinegar-faced creature named Maudette, often did just that—sneering at Virelle's clothes, her silence, her existence. And the junior butlers? They made loud jokes when she passed, knowing she wouldn't respond.
But now… now they had a problem.
A ghost.
It started with small things.
Maudette's slippers vanished one morning. Later, they were found nailed to the outer garden gate. Upside down. With parsley stuffed in the toes.
No one had a reasonable explanation.
Then came the ink incident.
Junior butler Darren liked to spill ink onto Virelle's seat at breakfast, hoping she'd sit in it and look "humiliated." But when he pulled the prank a second time, the inkwell mysteriously flipped—onto his face.
He screamed. The maids screamed. The housekeeper came in, saw his black-streaked cheeks, and nearly had a stroke.
"A ghost," whispered one servant later that day. "It's haunting the west wing. I swear I saw something crawl under the table and vanish."
"You sure it wasn't a rat?"
"No, it had… white fur. Like mist."
"A ghostly mist!"
Maudette snorted. "Ghosts don't exist. It's rats with delusions of grandeur."
Still, she slept with garlic tied to her wrist that night.
Lia, perched unseen above the chandelier beam, watched them with the smug satisfaction of a vengeful sitcom character.
You think this is a haunting? Honey, this is karma with fur.
When Virelle had asked why her porridge had been warm for three days in a row, Lia had puffed up in pride. She'd scratched the cook's calf so precisely that the woman now made breakfast extra carefully in fear of "the kitchen ghost."
And every time someone muttered "the girl's cursed" when Virelle passed, something fell. A broom. A curtain rod. A potted plant.
No injuries. Just a lot of bruised pride.
The servants didn't dare whisper about Virelle openly anymore. They still talked, but it was all cautious, nervous.
"The wind moved that vase, I swear."
"I saw a face in the mirror last night—tiny and angry."
"My pillow was on the floor this morning. That means something."
Virelle, of course, noticed the sudden change in tone. She even confronted a maid once after receiving hot soup instead of cold leftovers.
"Why are you treating me differently?"
The maid paled. "N-no reason, my lady."
"Is it because of… me?" Virelle touched her temple, assuming they were avoiding her out of new gossip.
The maid blinked. Then whispered, "It's the ghost, my lady."
Virelle froze. "The… what?"
The maid leaned in dramatically. "They say a spirit haunts your wing. It only shows itself to those who do wrong. My cousin Maudette says it smells faintly of lavender and rage."
Virelle blinked slowly. "You… smell the ghost?"
"Oh yes. And it knocked the salt off the shelf yesterday after I called your cloak 'out of fashion.' I apologize deeply, my lady. Please don't send the ghost after me."
Virelle stared at her for a long moment, then dismissed her with a wave.
As soon as the door closed, she turned to the wardrobe, hands on hips.
"Lia."
The wardrobe door creaked.
Lia peeked out.
"I know it's you," Virelle said. "Don't lie."
The kitten crawled out slowly, tail flicking with faux innocence.
"I admire the creativity," Virelle continued, picking her up, "but you're going to cause a full spiritual crisis in the household."
Lia meowed—clearly proud of herself.
Virelle tried not to laugh. She failed.
"All right," she said, snuggling the kitten close. "Ghost it is."
Later that night, two maids refused to step foot into the west wing after claiming they heard a "meow from the shadows" and saw a portrait's eyes blink.
Maudette, finally cracking, left an apology note outside Virelle's room.
"Forgive me, Lady Virelle. For anything I have said or thought. Please tell your ghost I have started donating to the local temple."
Virelle folded the letter and tucked it away in a drawer with a faint smile.
She turned to Lia, now curled atop her pillow like a queen.
"You might be a menace," she said, petting the kitten's silver fur, "but you're my menace."
Lia purred, smug and sleepy.
Let them fear the ghost.
Let them whisper about spirits and curses.
As long as they stay away from you… my job is done.
But deep inside, something stirred in her chest. A faint glow. A pulse.
Maybe soon, she wouldn't have to hide behind chandeliers and laundry baskets.
Maybe soon, she could stand beside Virelle for real.