Charles IX · Chat

Dusk always came early on Blackshell Street. Mo Duoduo crouched in Grandpa's study, the tip of his nose almost touching the yellowed diary. A dried leaf was pressed between the pages, and at the lightest touch it crumbled to powder. He could hear his own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—like someone beating an invisible drum. “Duoduo, your birthday present.” Grandpa's voice came from behind him. He turned and saw a small black-and-white bundle poke its head out from Grandpa's arms: a round little body, eyes squeezed into slits beneath two exaggerated dark circles, and a bright red bow tie around its neck, as if stolen from an old-fashioned gentleman's wardrobe. “Bull terrier?” Mo Duoduo wrinkled his nose. “This is way too ugly.” “Charles IX.” Grandpa set the dog on the floor. “He has pure noble blood, you know.” “Noble?” Mo Duoduo muttered. “More like a noble with dark circles.” Charles ignored him. He trotted around the room on his short little legs and finally stopped in front of the spread-out map of Blackshell Street. He raised his head, tapped the spot circled in red pen with his nose, then looked back at Mo Duoduo. That look sent a chill down Mo Duoduo's spine. “Grandpa... He can't understand what we're saying, can he?” Grandpa just smiled, like a cat that had stolen a fish.