Socket found herself a nest on the chocolate section of the deck, where the darker color would hide any unfortunate incidents involving her substantial shedding. She had discovered that the ice cream, while solid enough to support her weight, was pleasantly cool against her belly fur, and that the catnip treats, when licked, produced a gentle buzz of contentment that made her whiskers curl.
Pixie, meanwhile, had claimed the helm, a wheel of spun sugar that turned with satisfying resistance, guiding the ship through the thicker and thinner currents of the cream sea. She had also discovered the ship's cat, though "cat" was perhaps too simple a word for what prowled the rigging above them.
It was made of shadow and cream, this creature, its form shifting between solid and liquid, its eyes two pools of warm milk that held intelligence ancient and feline. It called itself the First Mate, and it had appointed itself their guide through these waters.
"The Milky Ocean," the First Mate explained, its voice like purring made articulate, "is older than your world and vaster than your dreams. It touches every sleeping mind, every contented belly, every warm lap where a cat has ever dozed. Some say it is the accumulated cream of all the milk ever spilled in all the kitchens of all the worlds. Others say it is the distilled essence of comfort itself, given form."
"And the catnip?" Socket asked, licking one treat with languid pleasure.
"The dreams of wild places. The memory of grass and sun and hunting. It balances the cream, you see. Too much comfort without wildness, and a cat becomes..." The First Mate paused delicately.
"Me?" Socket suggested, not offended in the slightest.
"Complacent," the First Mate finished. "The Neapolitan requires both. The cream to sustain, the catnip to inspire. The chocolate for strength, the vanilla for peace, the strawberry for... passion."
Pixie's ears pricked at that. "Passion?"
"For the quest," the First Mate said, and its milky eyes seemed to focus on something distant. "Every voyage on the Milky Ocean has a purpose. A treasure sought. A destination dreamed. You did not come here by accident, Calico and Tabby. The Ocean called you because you have need of something only these waters can provide."
Socket and Pixie exchanged glances. In seven years of life, Socket had never admitted to needing anything beyond her next meal and her next nap. In six years of scheming, Pixie had never admitted that her restlessness came from a place of wanting rather than discontent.
"What is it?" Pixie asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "What do we need?"
"That," said the First Mate, "is for you to discover. But I can tell you where to begin. There is an island, three days' sail from here, where the Cheese Mountains rise to meet the Cream Falls. There, it is said, dwells the Old Tom who remembers everything. He may have answers for cats who know not their own questions."
"Three days," Socket repeated, calculating. "That's... that's seventy-two hours. That's at least six naps. Possibly seven."
"Then we sail," Pixie declared, her tail high, her patchwork fur rippling in the cream-scented breeze. "Set a course, First Mate. For the Cheese Mountains!"
The S.S. Neapolitan heeled to starboard, its sugar-glass hull cutting through the Milky Ocean with a sound like a spoon through fresh pudding. The catnip treats chimed their approval. And somewhere in the distance, a whale made of solid chocolate breached the surface, blowing a spout of whipped cream that caught the dream-light and scattered it into rainbows.