The leopard rose first.
The rabbit checked which way the breeze was blowing.
The rabbit was looking for an exit before it had finished acquiring ears.
One pale eye glanced toward the courtyard gate. A long ear stretched after it, followed by a second ear that appeared to have received different instructions.
Above the other kettle, the leopard watched.
Mr. Reed put down his spoon.
“I was hoping the second one would simply boil water.”
Two Kettles
He had brought the spare kettle down from its shelf that morning. There were cups to fill, and yesterday’s kettle had spent rather a long time being a leopard.
Now both cream-coloured kettles stood on little clay stoves, with a space between them wide enough for the tea tin. Charcoal clicked beneath their rounded bases. The air smelled faintly of ash and the tea leaves Mr. Reed had measured into waiting cups.
The leopard had risen first.
Then the spare kettle gave a thin whistle, and a small nose gathered above its spout. Whiskers followed. The ears took longer, mostly because they would not keep still.
“A rabbit,” Mr. Reed said.
The leopard turned its head.
“You needn’t look so interested.”
The Wrong Direction
The courtyard gate swung inward with a wooden creak. A gust travelled through the opening and lifted the rabbit sideways.
The leopard lengthened after it.
Mr. Reed stepped toward the gate. Before he reached it, the breeze dropped. The rabbit folded back above its own kettle; the leopard’s long neck gathered into a cheek again.
For a moment, both faces held still.
Then the gate moved once more.
The rabbit streamed toward the branch overhead. Spots stretched behind it in a pale ribbon.
“This is becoming a very unsuitable breakfast,” Mr. Reed said.
He caught the gate and fastened its loose hook. The draught softened. Above the counter, the rabbit’s nose returned, followed by two ears of nearly equal length.
Mr. Reed stayed beside the gate a moment, watching.
“Better?”
Neither kettle answered. One bubbled. The other made a small ticking sound beneath its lid.
Across the Counter
Without the gusts, the two streams rose slowly. The leopard tilted toward the space between the stoves. The rabbit drew back, then leaned forward a little.
Mr. Reed reached for the folded cloth beside the cups. He could pour the water now and have an entirely ordinary counter again.
The rabbit leaned farther.
He left the cloth where it was.
Its small nose touched the leopard’s whiskers. For one breath, the two faces blurred at the edges.
The leopard opened its mouth.
Mr. Reed’s fingers closed around the cloth.
It yawned.
A long, loose curl escaped over its chin. The rabbit’s ear dipped through it and emerged with a little kink at the tip.
The leopard closed its eyes. The rabbit settled beside it, nose twitching toward the sleeping face.
Mr. Reed loosened his grip.
“Well. I shouldn’t have planned your morning for you.”
A Small Audience
“Are they friends?”
Nell stood at the courtyard entrance with a shopping bag against her knees. She had stopped halfway through lifting the latch.
“They’ve only just met,” Mr. Reed said.
She came as far as the customer side of the counter. The two kettles breathed quietly beneath their unlikely guests.
“Can the rabbit fall?”
“So far, it keeps finding itself again.”
Nell watched the bent ear slowly straighten.
“Could there be cats?”
Mr. Reed glanced at the spare kettle, which had certainly not mentioned rabbits when he took it off the shelf.
“I haven’t asked.”
He brought out two saucers for the waiting cups. One clicked softly against the stone.
The rabbit’s ears lifted. The leopard opened one eye.
“No,” Mr. Reed told them. “Those are for customers with hands.”
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