Free The Rat Prince by Bridget Hodder Page A

wish,” I replied serenely.
    Oh, how she despised it when I was serene. “You … you…” she sputtered.
    â€œYes?” I smiled at her.
    She stared at me for a moment, then her gaze faltered and she looked down at the floor with a sullen pout. “Nothing.”
    When the milk had been poured and sweet-smelling oils added, she settled into the bath. I did my best to scrub away the pink blemishes on her back with a sponge.
    â€œOw!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?” She pinched the soft underflesh of my arm.
    â€œI’m handling you as gently as a newborn puppy, Eustacia.”
    â€œAre you comparing me to a dog?” She slapped away my wet fingers, grabbed the sponge, and threw it at me. “Get out!”
    For once, I was glad to do her bidding. But my next duty required me to enter Wilhemina’s chambers, which had once belonged to my mother. It was almost unbearable to pass through the gaily flower-painted doors, only to see my stepmother seated at my mother’s vanity table, awaiting me with her cold gaze.
    Without a sound, she handed me her silver-backed hairbrush. I took it, careful not to touch her during the transfer, and proceeded to brush her hair one hundred strokes. To keep myself from remembering how my mother and I used to arrange each other’s hair in such a different spirit, one of lightness and love, I once again revisited in my thoughts the scene that had taken place in my attic room the night before.
    I recalled the brilliant eyes of Blackie. The knightly bow he’d executed with such bizarre grace.
    â€œDreaming of the ball, girl? Keep your mind on your work,” Wilhemina said. “Woe betide you if my tresses are not perfect when you finish.”
    I forced my attention to the task.

 
    P RINCE C HAR
    Twisting and turning, the little gray rat led our venturesome band through a labyrinth of ancient, dusty tunnels in the walls of Castle Wendyn.
    We passed many scattered trinkets and interesting bits of loot. Beef Two (at least I think it was Beef Two, though it might have been Beef Three or even Beef One) picked up a silver bracelet that hung from a splinter and was about to slip it over his head.
    â€œDrop it,” Swiss ordered. “Didn’t you listen to Princess Mozzarella? We are not to take anything from the Southern Rat Realm.”
    Shamefaced, the Beef brother hung it back upon the splinter. His siblings yelled at him about the family honor as we continued on.
    The Southern Realmers we passed seemed an undisciplined lot. They nibbled food as they moved along, and gave us no civil greetings. One of them even winked rudely at Truffle, who responded by looming over him with such a powerful frown that the fellow slunk away in embarrassment.
    â€œI wouldn’t stand for this in my own realm, not for one moment,” I said to Swiss in a disgusted aside.
    When at last we arrived at a crawl space in the ceiling just above the ballroom, I peered through a crack to assess the situation. Then I whispered to my valiant companions, “My warriors, there is a man with a huge crown upon his head sitting upon a throne directly below us.”
    â€œKing Tumtry!” our guide exclaimed. “May I have a look?”
    I gave him room and he observed for a moment. “Yes, it is indeed the king. However, Your Highness, I regret that I see no sign of Prince Geoffrey. He has long golden hair and usually wears a small crown.”
    â€œThen we will have to watch and wait for him,” I declared. “Now listen, everyone, there’s an enormous chandelier beneath us—in fact, it is right below where Corncob is standing.” I pointed with my tail. “Thank heavens the candles are not yet lit for the ball. If Swiss and I could only get down there and hide among the crystals, we could hear and see everything.”
    â€œGood plan, Your Highness!” one of the Beef brothers cried, then ducked as his