It was almost embarrassing how easy it had been. One moment, the Star of Mirovia—a diamond with an insurance policy longer than most dynasties—glittered in its armored case. The next, it sparkled between Cat-man-do’s fingers, light as a sigh and twice as dangerous.
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He could have done it naked, he thought with a smile: bare skin to marble, guards snoring in their booths, the city’s virtue abandoned without protest.
“Honestly,” he murmured to the gem, “they ought to post a warning: Caution—here be legends, and the criminally bored.”
Footsteps ghosted in the corridor; the gallery held its breath. From the shadows emerged Mr. Chalmers, the curator, tie cinched like a noose, eyes skittering as if scandal itself were hunting him.
“The prince arrives in an hour,” he croaked. “Where is the jewel?”
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Cat-man-do draped himself across the empty plinth, a scandal painted in oils. “Do stop wringing your hands—you’ll fray the museum before the gossip does.”
“Give it back,” Chalmers hissed.
“You do come straight to the point,” Cat purred. “Most men begin with my cheekbones. Or—other notable features.”
“This isn’t a game,” Chalmers said. “My staff will be here any minute. My career—”
“Boredom is the only true crime,” Cat sighed, rolling onto his stomach, chin on gloved knuckles, the suit a constellation of raised paw-prints under the lights. “Fortunately, I’m a recidivist.”
“What do you want?” Chalmers asked, voice thin.
“To be remembered. The show must go on, even if the main attraction is”—an eyebrow—“indisposed.”
“If you’ve damaged the Star—”
“I would never harm a treasure,” Cat said warmly. “Except perhaps a reputation. Yours looks under-exhibited.”
Chalmers flushed. “You can’t have hidden something that large—unless you’ve… swallowed it?”
Cat smiled. “I’m full of surprises. Perhaps you’d like to check. Thoroughly.”
“This is a museum, not a—”
“Brothel? Cabaret? Confessional? I’m delighted you noticed our versatility.” Cat traced the velvet rope with a finger, circling him. “Tell me about yourself, darling. I have a weakness for the quietly desperate.”
Against his better judgment, Chalmers said, “I was always the shortest. My only prize was for penmanship. My mother said I had the hands of a pickpocket and the personality of a ledger. I came here for peace. For dust.”
“Dust is for historians,” Cat said. “I prefer fireworks.”
Chalmers tried a laugh; it escaped as a cough. “I’ve spent my life preserving other people’s masterpieces. I’ve never been the story.”
“No one forgets the man who risks everything for beauty,” Cat said, and something almost gentle flickered through him. From the corridor came the click of approaching heels, a radio squawk, voices blunted by marble. The clock was tick-tocking louder now.
“Come,” Cat said. “Show me your sanctum.”
In the cramped office, amid catalogues and battered ledgers, Chalmers tried to retake the high ground. “You’re playing with my life. The prince expects the Star.”
“And I expect a chaise longue,” Cat said, perching on the desk. “One of us must be disappointed.”
“You don’t understand. The board, the donors—”
“Oh, I do. Your tie clip alphabetizes you. But I’m not after money.” Cat hopped down and brushed past him, his scent like a well-bred sin. “I’m after sincerity. Or, failing that, an interesting evening.”
They returned to the gallery. Chalmers gestured, defeated but still professional, to a long linen-draped table beneath a movable inspection lamp. “This is where I examine the very finest art. The light can be angled to reveal every flaw. For priceless items, I use texturized white gloves. For grip. For reverence.”
“So much ceremony for lifeless things,” Cat said, gliding under the lamp. He reached for the zipper at his throat. “What of the living?”
“Stop,” Chalmers whispered, though he didn’t move.
Cat smiled at the word, which clearly meant keep going. The suit unspooled with a languid murmur, paw-prints catching gold as the fabric fell. He lifted his chin to the light as if to be dated and attributed. “You curate masterpieces, Mr. Chalmers. Curate me.”
Chalmers slid on the immaculate gloves as a man might enter a sacrament. Somewhere in the museum a door thudded; the radio crackled; the hour was shrinking.
“Begin your examination,” Cat said, settling onto the velvet. “With living works, the best results come from breath and touch. Test the surface. Dust the hidden corners. See how the piece responds.”
“This is absurd,” Chalmers said, already stepping closer, already lost. His gloved fingers met warm skin. The air between them tightened. Cat arched with the ease of a dancer, muscles sketching quicksilver under light.
“Gently,” Cat murmured. “Or not. Art is meant to be appreciated, not owned.”
“I am trying,” Chalmers said through his teeth. “If you’ve done anything to the Star—”
“My dear curator, the exhibit is in perfect condition,” Cat whispered. “Hidden where only the boldest catalogue would dare to list.”
Chalmers’ breath faltered. Cat, now utterly bare beneath the lamp, turned away from him and bent forward onto the velvet-draped table. His back arched like a fresco come alive, shadows mapping each muscle, the play of light leaving nothing hidden.
With a wicked patience, Cat guided him as a conservator might guide an apprentice: “Here. Yes. Where dust likes to settle. A little breath to wake the surface—there.”
Chalmers found himself at the thief’s back, gloves hovering in a position no catalogue would ever note, his face too near the forbidden point of mystery. He leaned in despite himself, exhaling where no inventory ever lingered, his breath skimming over unseen edges. Cat shivered—a ripple contained, theatrical, like a magician’s flourish just this side of obvious.
From the corridor: voices again, closer—“…fifteen minutes till arrival”—then fading.
“Focus,” Cat said softly. “You’re nearly there.”
Chalmers steadied. A tremor passed through Cat-man-do’s frame, and then, with a ripple of impossible poise, the Star of Mirovia slid into his gloved palm. Warm, flawless—extracted from the most private vault a man could ever carry. A beat of silence. Chalmers stared down at the diamond. He did not look anywhere else. He would not. His training returned as if snatched back by a stern tutor: facets, clarity, provenance. Still, his hands shook.
“Congratulations,” Cat murmured. “Recovered and authenticated. Do you suppose you’ll catalogue beauty quite the same way again?”
From the hall came the brisk staccato of heels, a laugh cut short, the hush of a key testing a door. Time gathered itself.
Cat rose with feline economy, already stepping into the suit. “One learns to dress quickly when the alternative is posthumous scandal.”
“You—you could have stolen anything,” Chalmers said, finding his voice only now.
“And I did,” Cat said, smoothing a single paw print flat on his thigh. “A moment. Tell your prince the exhibition was dazzling. The jewel was almost upstaged.”
“You’re insufferable,” Chalmers said, but it sounded curiously like gratitude.
“History is written by the fabulous, not the fearful,” Cat replied. “Do consider upgrading your security; I should hate to perish of boredom.” A rattle touched the far door. Cat tilted his head toward the high window, morning paling there like spilled milk.
He blew a kiss—insolent as an epigram—and was gone, a dark arc through the frame, a rumor with a pulse.
Chalmers was left with the diamond and the aftertaste of laughter. He stared at the Star glittering in his hand and, because he was a fool in the way all curators are fools, lifted it to his nose: a ghost of bergamot, lavender, and something feral that refused to be accessioned.
Footsteps swept past the gallery entrance; the lamp still glowed, angling its golden scrutiny at nothing. Chalmers laughed once, quietly, the sound of a man who had finally seen art misbehave.
For the first time in his life, he understood: the true masterpiece was not the diamond, but the moment.
