When Jemima really loves something, she stares at it. It’s not a hard glare. It isn’t the distant stare of someone who’s zoning out or focusing a little too hard on a thought or small detail. It’s a stare of admiration: those big, innocent brown eyes staring up at her mother, or Munkustrap, or Tugger, or Bomba with that look, the one that says, “I love you with all my being and I can’t stop staring because I want to commit every bit of you to my memory. I love you that much.”
If they catch her staring, they’ll ask, “Whatcha staring for, Jemmi?,” sometimes with an uncomfortable laugh attached.
Most of the time she’ll say, “No reason!” And just go on about her task— but still, she can’t stop risking a little glance at the cats she loves.
Demeter knows and understands that look best, because when she and Bombalurina lived on the streets, she would give her sister that same look. After her daughter was born, Demeter found herself staring at the little kitten so gently curled by her side. Now, she finds herself staring at Munkstrap, but he doesn’t seem to mind— he meets her gaze, as if to say, “I love you” back. She doesn’t remember if she ever looked at Macavity that way, but every time Jemima looks at her that way, she feels like a hero.
Years later, after dancing with Pouncival at the Jellicle Ball, Jemima finds herself giving him the same look. They’ve been friends since they were kittens. Sometimes when she approached him, she’d see flashes of her own future—their future— in her mind. Now she understands what her future self was thinking, because in that moment, she knows she loves him and she knows she will spend the rest of her life by his side and she knows he feels the same way because she sees those same feelings reflected in his eyes.