Bast could not help but giggle when her mother began playing along. It wasn’t that Isis didn’t have a wonderful sense of humor, or lacked an appreciation for mischief. Bast could not have loved her as much as she did if she didn’t feel her adopted parent could understand her, or hadn’t played with her as she was growing up. But most often, too many other demands on Isis’ time meant that she simply couldn’t join in every time Bast was in one of her moods.
Queens had responsibilities. Something that Bast had learned early and never forgotten. Never had she or her brothers been deprived of her attention, even when she had been tired, stressed or worried. She worked hard, and was still the best mother in the world. No one was better than Isis. No one. Troublesome as Bast was growing up, she did her best not to add to her mother’s workload. She just didn’t succeed very often.
So when her mother played back, really played rather than paying it lip service, it was a treat. One that Bast relished. Teasing the tiger was fun, no doubt, even though she was certain to get quite the lecture when Fatima caught up with her. (Because she would. She always did.) But this was so much better.
She flopped down in an opposite chair with little care for the piece of furniture itself. One leg was draped over an arm as she wiggled into a more comfortable position on the cushion. “I’m keeping them on their toes, Mama. Just think, if they do the same thing, every day, day after day, all the time, they won’t have any idea how to handle it when a real problem comes along. It’s like running drills, only more fun. Fatima should thank me. I should get a cake.”
She made a pouty face at her mother. “Or a glass of wine, maybe?” Then she brightened considerably. “Ooo! Or some champagne to celebrate. ‘Cause I know something you don’t know, but it’s gooooooood. You’ll like it. We should definitely have champagne.”