With a final bow to Lady Whiskerton, you made your way to the drawing room where the collection of silver cat trinkets awaited your attention. The morning light streaming through the bay windows illuminated the delicate figurines, each one crafted with exquisite detail. Your polishing cloth moved in practiced circles over a particularly ornate piece - a lounging feline with emerald eyes that seemed to follow your every movement.

As you worked, the faint sound of paws on marble alerted you to company. Sir Pouncealot, the mansion's resident mouser and Lady Whiskerton's occasional playmate, sauntered into the room. The tuxedo cat regarded you with his usual air of mild disdain before curling up on the windowsill, his tail flicking as he watched your progress.

The polishing became a meditative act, each stroke revealing the hidden brilliance beneath the tarnish. You found yourself humming an old lullaby your grandmother used to sing, the melody blending with the distant chirping of birds in the garden. The scent of lemon oil mixed with the faint aroma of baking coming from the kitchens below - Cook must be preparing Lady Whiskerton's afternoon treats already.

One particular trinket caught your attention - a tiny cat butler figurine holding a tray. You polished it with extra care, the silver warming beneath your fingers. The piece had been a gift from Lady Whiskerton herself on your fifth anniversary of service, a rare gesture of appreciation from the normally aloof feline aristocrat.