Free The Rat Prince by Bridget Hodder Page B

siblings pushed him and told him to be quiet and speak only when spoken to.
    I ignored them and moved over to Corncob, who bowed and shuffled aside as I approached. “Aha,” I said, nosing about the hole where the chandelier’s hook was attached to the boards. “There is a small point of entry here. Swiss and I will make our way through it while you remain behind to keep our escape route clear.”
    â€œWe shall fight off all comers!” Truffle cried. “No one will interfere with Prince Char’s great mission!”
    â€œHooray!” shouted the others. The gray guide rat joined in with enthusiasm.
    â€œSsshhh.” Swiss rounded on them and frowned. “You’ll betray our position to the humans.”
    They quieted on the instant.
    It’s not easy to descend the metal hoops and volutes of a chandelier, but Swiss and I did so. We stepped and sidled and clung and crept until we were within earshot of the humans. It was a good thing there was so much bustle in the ballroom, or someone would almost certainly have noticed us.
    King Tumtry, from his big silver throne, held audience after audience with tradespeople, musicians, floral designers, the majordomo, the chatelaine, and many others. He was flanked by two richly garbed noblemen, one at his right hand and one on his left. They participated in the discussions. But I saw neither hide nor hair of the prince.
    â€œThose nobles by the king’s side must be the royal councillors,” Swiss observed, “just as I am yours.”
    We kept watch while the shiny floors—made of pink marble, set with slivers of black onyx to form a geometrical pattern—rang with the click-clack of many heels. Irksome discussions of the number of guests and the appropriateness of the music and the potential for rainy weather went round and round in our heads. My interest was briefly caught when the chief cook bowed to the king and gave an account of the various dainties that would be served at the feast (including pear tarts stuffed with gorgonzola and pecans), but when he left, I felt disappointment and rising impatience. The hands of the big clock in the gallery ticked by the hours, until it was three o’clock.
    â€œDon’t you think we should seek Cinderella’s prince somewhere else?” Swiss hissed at me.
    â€œNo, we stay,” I decided. “This is the center of the action. He must turn up here sooner or later.”
    As more minutes passed, I felt the chandelier begin to tip. Alarmed, I looked over to see that my royal councillor had fallen asleep and was leaning precariously sideways.
    â€œSwiss!” I snapped.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œPay attention!”
    Yet another hour dragged by. When the room was finally empty of everyone except King Tumtry and his two councillors (and by this time, I was actually beginning to question my own orders), our persistence at last yielded a result. I caught a few words, spoken by the king in an undertone. “Geoffrey … not sure … I think…”
    Aha!
    I inched closer, concerned that if I did not use infinite care, all the blasted pretty, moving, twinkling bits and bobs of the chandelier would call attention to me.
    The life of a rat is fraught with such moments.
    â€œYour Majesty,” said one of the councillors, a big man with a large brown beard and a pointy-tipped mustache, “please do not fall victim to your fears. This ball is the very best idea we have yet hit upon. We must allow it to take place.”
    â€œLord Hamp, it is not fear, but my conscience that troubles me,” the king replied.
    The other courtier, tall and thin with lank gray hair and a worried expression, looked suddenly even more worried. “Your Majesty, I would like to agree with Lord Hamp, but are you sure your son can maintain his, er, peace for the length of the night—dancing, mingling with guests until dawn, making polite conversation?”
    The king