But the most puzzling twist of all was that, while the Greenlaws were so prickly and unpleasant to Lucinda, on the rare evenings that they settled in for a round of Irish storytelling, filling Lucinda's parlor nearly to bursting, something strange happened: their attitudes were totally different. Suddenly the frail parlor seemed no longer in danger of collapse under their fierce emoting. On storytelling nights a kind of magic sprang alive among the Greenlaws. They seemed gender, easier with one another, nurturing, and warm.

And Lucinda was easier, too. The old woman seemed drawn to the family, clasping her hands at their tales, weeping or laughing with them. They seemed a family, then, this obstreperous clan, and Lucinda no longer an outsider against whom they were solidly ranked.

Wilma said it was the old family stories and family history, which Shamas had told so well, that had first drawn Lucinda to him, that Shamas's commitment to the old ways was perhaps the only real thing about him, that surely this had been the strongest tie between the mismatched couple. Every marriage, Wilma said, must have a fabric of shared philosophy to tie it together. Wilma truly believed that. For Shamas and Lucinda, that richness had come from the old myths that had been handed down for generations through the Greenlaw family.

And oh, those tales drew Dulcie. On warm evenings when the parlor windows were open and she could hear the stories, she would slip across the yard and up a half-rotten rose trellis to cling beside the screen, listening.

She could have pushed right on inside beneath the loose screen. Who would wonder at a little cat coming in? But she didn't fancy wandering among those big-booted men and bad-mannered kids with too many hands to snatch at her. The Greenlaws might charm her with their stories, but she didn't trust a one of them.

But how lovely were their Irish tales, filling her with a longing for worlds vanished, worlds peopled with shapeshifters and her own kind of cat. To hear those stories whispered, hear their wild parts belted out, to hear their wonders dramatized as only an Irishman could tell a tale, those were purr-filled hours. Afterward, she would trot away to join Joe, hunting high on the hills, filled with a deep and complete satisfaction.

These were her stories that the Greenlaws told, she had read and reread them, alone at nighttime in the library, when she had the books to herself; this was her history, hers and Joe's. The Greenlaws didn't know that, and they never noticed a little cat crouched at the window.

Strangely, even the taleteller's language was different on those evenings, the loud Irishmen abandoning the clan's rough speech for the old, soft phrases and ancient words. And there was one old, wrinkled man among them who had such a beguiling way with a story.

"Semper Will," old Pedric would begin, "he were a packman, and there wadn't no carts their way, 't tracks was all mixey-mirey and yew did need a good pack-donk to get a load safe droo they moors."

Pedric, unlike his strapping relatives, was thin and bony and wizened; Pedric looked, himself, like an overgrown elven man or perhaps a skinny wizard.

"Will's track was all amuck, then, with gurt reeds a-growing up and deep holes for tha donk to fall in, yes all a-brim with muck…"

Oh, Dulcie knew that tale of the high banks full of burrows that the donkey would pass, and the strange little cats that would appear there, peering out of their small caves.

"All sandy-colored tha little cats was, and wi' green, green eyes." She knew how those burrows led down and down through dark caverns to other lands, to subterranean mountains and meadows lit by a clear green sky. And Pedric told how the cats were not always in cat form but how, down in that emerald world, a cat might change to a beautiful woman dressed in a silken gown. Oh yes, Dulcie knew those stories, and, just as she knew that at least one part of them was true, the Irishmen believed fully in their wealth of tales. They believed just as surely as they believed that the earth was round and the moon and stars shone in the heavens. The Celtic tales were a part of the Greenlaws' lives, to be loved as musicis loved but to be put aside in their everyday dealings, as a song might be put aside.

Lucinda finished her tea and cookies and rose to carry her tray to the kitchen, seeming hardly aware of the loud barking through the open windows, though Clyde's house seemed to explode with human shouting and canine bawling.

Looking through the leaves, watching Clyde's empty yard, Dulcie heard Joe yowl with rage. Half-alarmed, half-amused, she slipped out from the maple tree and hurried along the fence.

"Take them to…" Joe shouted. "Take them to the pound… That's why I brought them."

"Don't be stupid!… kill them…" Clyde yelled.

And Joe came bolting out the dog door, his ears flat, his yellow eyes slitted with rage. As he crouched to leap the gate, he turned and saw her.

He said nothing. He stood glowering, his ears back, the white strip down his gray face narrowed by anger. Dulcie, ignoring him, flicked her ears, leaped down into the yard, and trotted past him to see for herself. She hurried up Clyde's back steps, her ears ringing with Clyde's shouting and the wild baying.

Nearly deafened, Dulcie poked her head through the dog door.

The room was filled with giant dog legs, huge paws scrabbling, two giant tails whipping against the cabinets. Clyde was racing around the kitchen trying to put collars on two huge dogs, and such shouting and swearing over a little thing like a collar made her yowl with laughter, then yowl louder to get his attention.

He turned to stare at her.

"If you don't shut up, Clyde, and make those dogs shut up, every neighbor on the street is going to be down here!" And of course the moment she spoke, the two dogs leaped at her. She hauled back a paw to slash them.

They backed off, whimpering.

She paused, and did a double take. She had scared them silly; they cowered against Clyde's legs, rolling their eyes at her.

Why, they were puppies. Just two big, frightened pups-two whining pups the size of small ponies and as thin and pitiful as skinned sparrows.

She slipped in through the dog door and sat down on the linoleum.

They seemed to decide she wouldn't hurt them.

They crept to her. Two wet black noses pushed at her, two wet tongues drenched her with dog spit; they were all over her, licking and whining. Oh, what pitiful, lovable big babies. Gently, Dulcie lifted a soft paw and patted their sweet puppy faces.

JOE FOLLOWED Dulcie through the dog door, watching half with disgust, half with amusement, as she preened and wove around the pups' legs. She was purring like a coffee grinder. Any other cat, confronted by the two monster dogs-even puppies-would have headed for the tallest tree.

Not Dulcie, of course. She wasn't afraid of dogs. But he hadn't counted on that silly maternal grin, either.

He'd expected her to be disgusted with the rowdy young animals, as most adult cats, or dogs, would be. How ridiculous to see a lovely lady cat, self-contained and sometimes even dignified, certainly of superior intelligence, succumb to this ingratiating canine display. He watched with disgust as the pups licked her face and ears. Not until she was sopping wet did she move away from them, shake her whiskers, and leap to the kitchen table; and still her green eyes blazed with pleasure.

"Puppies, Joe! Clyde, where did you get the huge puppies?" Her peach-tinted paw lifted in a soft maternal gesture. "They're darling! Such cute, pretty pups!"

"They're not darling," Joe snapped. "They're monsters. Flea-bitten bags of bones. Clyde's taking them to the pound."