“But I’m not a warrior,” Bridget said. The cat looked at her for a moment and then leaned his head forward to rub his little whiskery muzzle against her face. “There are many kinds of war, Littlemouse.” “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked. “That you are young,” the cat said. “And less wise than one who is old. I am wiser than you, and I say you should go. It is obvious. You should trust a wiser head than your own.” “You aren’t any older than I am,” she countered. “I am cat,” Rowl said smugly, “which means I have made better use of my time.”
