The Secret of the Ginger Mice

by Song of the Winns

  “Horace, Horace,” said Sophia patiently. “You really must learn to relax—go with the flow. Alex and Alice seem set on going to Shambles, so we’ll go to Shambles with them. If there’s no sign of their brother there . . . pffft.” She flicked a finger as if dispatching an annoying insect. “We’ll get rid of them. Permanently.”

  12

  The Waterfall

  Alistair woke from a dream in which two columns of red-coated mice were advancing on him as he lay in a blue-striped tent with his arms pinned to the ground by giant boulders. With an enormous sigh of relief he recognized the green fronds of the willow tree.

  He turned his head to see Tibby Rose lying on her back a few meters away, fast asleep.

  It was when he lifted his arm to lever himself up that Alistair realized why he had been dreaming about having enormous weights on his arms; they were so stiff he could barely move them.

  He lay still, contemplating a life without the use of his arms, until he heard a snuffling snore and then: “I’d get up,” Tibby Rose said, “but I can’t actually lift my arms.”

  “I know,” said Alistair ruefully. “That’ll teach us to behave like Olympic paddlers.”

  “Please tell me we don’t have to go on the raft again today.”

  “I wish I could,” said Alistair, “but . . .”

  “Couldn’t we walk?”

  “Too slow.”

  Tibby sighed. “At least tell me we don’t have to eat blackberries for breakfast. Given the way we look I’d feel like a cannibal.”

  “Ah, I’ve got some good news on that front.” With a groan Alistair put a hand to the ground and pushed himself upright, then reached for the cloth bag Mags had handed him the night before. “We’ve got bread, cheese, strawberries and—what’s this? Mmm . . . two pieces of apple pie.”

  “That sounds lovely . . . But could you feed me, please? I don’t think I’ll be able to lift my hand to my mouth.”

  Alistair extended a hand and, moaning, Tibby let him pull her up. “You’ll feel better once you’re moving,” he promised. “Our muscles just need warming up. Now what do you want for breakfast?”

  “Apple pie,” said Tibby Rose promptly. When Alistair raised his eyebrows she shrugged. “I can’t say that Great-Aunt Harriet would approve, but so what? Great-Aunt Harriet isn’t here. She’s stuck at home covered in purple spots.” Tibby chewed the piece of apple pie Alistair had handed her. “I wonder how she’ll explain her miracle cure after so many years.”

  As his friend ate, Alistair recalled the words of Timmy the Winns the night before: Do you know why you’re traveling . . . Have you thought of those you leave behind? Alistair had immediately thought of his own family, but what about Tibby’s? With a sudden pang he remembered kindly Grandpa Nelson and fierce Great-Aunt Harriet, so determined to protect Tibby Rose that they wouldn’t let her leave the house, and were seemingly prepared to give up their own freedom. And now she was gone. How must they be feeling?

  “Tibby,” he said, “Timmy the Winns asked me the strangest questions last night. He asked me if I knew why I was traveling, and if I had thought about those I left behind. At first I thought of Shetlock and my family—that I was traveling to them because I had left them behind. But . . . I think he might have been asking more than that. I mean, if I think about why I’m so anxious to get home, it’s really to do with my parents. When they went away and never came back. . . .” He paused, trying to think of the words that would describe the pain he had felt, but no words seemed adequate. “It was awful,” he said finally. “I decided that I never wanted to cause pain like that to people I love. I suppose it’s made me a bit too cautious.”

  Tibby shook her head. “With me it’s the opposite,” she said. “I know that Grandpa Nelson and Great-Aunt Harriet were trying to protect me, but you can’t hold people back because you’re scared of them getting hurt, or you’re scared of getting hurt yourself. Taking risks is part of life, and so is getting hurt. People have to live their own lives.” She was silent for a moment, and Alistair wondered if, despite her brave words, she was thinking of the two old mice she’d left behind. Then she said briskly, “We might as well get moving.” She stood and brushed the crumbs from her fur.

  When they left the shelter of the willow tree, Alistair saw that the weather had changed. The sky was low with brooding clouds the same bruised, muddy color as their fur.

  “Alistair,” Tibby said, as they launched the raft and maneuvered into the current, “why didn’t you tell Timmy the Winns our real names? Didn’t you trust him? I thought he and Griff and Mags and the rest were all really nice.”

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him,” Alistair said, settling into a slow, regular stroke as Tibby kept them on course with the steering pole. “I did trust him, I think . . . I just had a sense that he didn’t want to know our secrets. Or that maybe he already knew them. I mean, he knew straight away that our names were fake.”

  “Telling him my name was Jim probably didn’t help,” said Tibby Rose.

  “I was put on the spot,” Alistair protested. “I couldn’t think of anything else. But anyway, he just laughed, and he didn’t ask for our real names. And then I wondered . . . Tibby, did you notice his arms? They were his real fur, not dyed like the rest of him, and it was hard to tell because there was such a swirl of colors, but I think I saw some ginger.”

  “Ginger?” Tibby’s eyes were wide. “But he can’t be like us. I mean, remember how friendly the guard was?”

  “Yeah, but he is dyed, isn’t he? Like us . . .” Alistair started thinking again about Timmy the Winns’s ironic smile; how he looked at Alistair as if the two of them shared a secret. Tibby, too, seemed lost in her own thoughts, and so they drifted down the river without speaking.

  When his stomach told him it was lunchtime, Alistair tore some bread from the loaf and handed it to Tibby, who murmured her thanks, and early in the afternoon they pulled into a small pebbly beach to rest their arms and stretch their legs, before setting off again. As they pushed off from the beach, they felt the first spatters of rain, and within a few minutes it was pouring, rain streaming down their whiskers and soaking their fur. Alistair scanned the river’s banks for shelter, dashing raindrops from his eyes, but there was no shelter to be had. They had no choice but to continue on in the hope of finding a place to stop further downriver.

  Shivering as a slight wind chilled his damp fur, Alistair tried to think of something other than his discomfort. His mind worried at the big, unsolved mystery which had led to him rafting down this river: How did he get to Templeton in the first place? He was pretty sure by now that he wasn’t trapped in an exceptionally long-running and vivid dream. He supposed it was possible that he was mad and his whole adventure in Souris was one grand delusion (that would certainly explain the fact that he had seen yellow and green and orange and scarlet and blue mice), but he didn’t feel mad. (Then again, if you were mad you probably didn’t know it.) What about magic? Alistair wasn’t inclined to believe in magic, but at the moment he was feeling hard pressed to come up with another explanation. Still, if he had been transported to Souris by an act of magic, what was its purpose? He didn’t think it likely that magicians or wizards or witches just wandered around practicing random acts of magic, and his sudden appearance in Souris was nothing if not random.

  Alistair sighed and shook the water from his face. Maybe he’d never know. . . .

  “We must be getting near the lake,” Tibby remarked. The banks were so high they could see nothing of the countryside they were passing through, but the current was growing noticeably swifter. She gestured with her pole to a rocky outcrop on the left bank. “Perhaps we should stop over by those rocks. Maybe if we climb the bank, we’ll be able to see how far away the lake is.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Alistair, and he rowed hard to the right with his paddle to steer them toward the left bank.

  “Hey, Tib,” he said after a few minutes in which he didn’t seem to be maki
ng any impact on the direction of the raft, “can you give us a push with the pole? I’m having a bit of trouble getting us to the side.”

  “I am pushing,” Tibby said. “As hard as I can. The current’s too strong. Anyway, we’ll be close to the side soon enough—look at how the river’s narrowing up ahead.”

  The river was getting ever faster, the raft rocking on the current. Alistair felt a sudden thrill of fear between his shoulder blades as he heard what sounded like a distant roar.

  “Tibby,” he called, as the roar became louder, “what’s that sound?”

  He didn’t hear her reply. “What?” he shouted. “I can’t hear you!”

  “Waterfall!” came his friend’s urgent reply. “We’re headed for a waterfall!”

  They were bucking and bouncing now as the water churned around them. Tibby was thrown off-balance and fell to her knees where she remained, still clutching the now useless pole. As water washed over the raft, Alistair, paddling frantically to no avail, watched with regret as the cloth bag containing the remainder of Mags’s provisions was swept overboard. Then it occurred to him that they themselves might be swept overboard—and if not, that they were about to be plunged over what might be a very high drop. He was wondering if it would be better to jump overboard rather than hurtle to their deaths on their flimsy craft when, with a sense of dread, he remembered that Tibby couldn’t swim. He knew that he couldn’t abandon her after everything they’d been through, which meant they had only one option: they would go over the waterfall together.

  13

  Sourian Spies

  Alice grabbed her brother’s arm. “Get rid of them? Did she mean—?”

  “Shhh.” Alex flapped a hand to shush her. “I’m trying to listen.”

  Below them, Horace shivered. “They’re only children, Sophia.”

  “They’re Gerandan children, Horace, the children of spies, and they’ll grow up to be members of that frightful FIG. Don’t forget who you work for, dear. We’ll be in enough trouble as it is for allowing the ginger brat to slip through our fingers. I just wish I knew who had him. From what those two say the aunt and uncle haven’t a clue, which suggests that FIG has nothing to do with his disappearance.” She pointed her breadstick at her companion. “It’s a mystery, Horace, and I don’t like mysteries—unless I’ve caused them myself.”

  She rose from her chair, stretched her slender arms above her head, and gave a little yawn. “I suppose we’d better turn in. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us tomorrow. I’ll check that the little dears are safely tucked up in their beds before I go to my room. And you will keep a watch on the front door, won’t you, Horace? Just in case they should take it into their heads to slip off without us.”

  “Of course, Sophia,” said Horace dismally. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t need sleep.”

  “There’s a dear,” said Sophia, and with a wave of her dainty hand she disappeared inside.

  “Quick,” Alice hissed. “Close the shutters and then get under the covers and pretend you’re asleep.”

  She scampered back to her bed and climbed beneath the sheet, then waited with her heart pounding for Sophia to appear.

  Minutes later they heard Sophia’s light footsteps coming up the corridor. Then the door opened and a crack of light shone in, hitting Alice’s face. Although her pulse was racing, Alice did her best to keep her breaths deep and regular and her eyelids motionless. From his bed under the window Alex gave a snore. Then the door closed and they heard a fumbling at the lock before Sophia’s footsteps could be heard retreating down the hall to the staircase.

  “Alex,” Alice said in a small voice, “who has the key to the room?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alex’s voice in the dark. “I think Horace had it. He took it when he brought our rucksack up.”

  “I don’t think he has it anymore,” said Alice. Slipping out of bed she hurried over to the door and tried the handle. “We’re locked in!”

  “Whoa,” said Alex. “This is not good.”

  “We have to get out of here,” Alice said in a rush. “I’m scared.”

  “But even if we could get out, Horace is watching the front door,” Alex replied.

  “What about the window then?”

  Alex shook his head. “It’s too high,” he said. “Unless we had some kind of rope . . .” He looked around the room as if there might be a convenient coil of rope lying around. “I know.” He slipped off the bed and tugged at his sheet until it came free of the mattress.

  “Not long enough,” he said. “Give me your sheet, sis.”

  “Do you think the old tying-sheets-to-make-a-rope trick really works?” said Alice, as she watched her brother knotting the two sheets together.

  “Have you got a better idea?” Alex demanded.

  “No.”

  “Then keep quiet and let me do this.”

  Alice kept quiet until she remembered another problem: “Sophia has the room under ours.” She shook her head in despair. “She really has thought of everything. If we go out the window, we’ll have to climb down right past her window.”

  Alex paused and rubbed his chin. Finally he shrugged. “Well, I can’t think of another way out. We’ll just have to wait till she’s asleep and climb down as quietly as we can—and then run for it.”

  He resumed work, tying one end of the makeshift rope to the bedhead, tugging to make sure the knot would hold.

  “That should do it,” he said. “How long do you reckon we should wait?”

  Alice shook her head. “I don’t know . . . an hour?”

  They lay on their beds in silence, struggling to stay awake as they waited for the hour to pass. Sophia’s words replayed over and over in Alice’s mind. We’ll get rid of them . . . ginger brat . . . They’re Gerandan children, the children of spies . . . . She felt a cold chill run down her spine and sat up abruptly.

  “Let’s go.”

  Very quietly, Alex eased open the shutters and leaned over the window ledge. “Okay,” he said in a whisper, “her light’s off.” He slowly fed the tied sheets out the window, then turned to face his sister. “There might be a bit of a drop at the bottom if the rope doesn’t reach all the way down, but it shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll go first. When I give you the thumbs-up, throw me the rucksack, then you climb down.”

  He gave a last tug of the sheet where it was tied to the bedhead, then slipped off the window ledge.

  Alice watched anxiously as he descended. The white sheets seemed to glow against the wall, drawing attention to their escape attempt.

  She peered into the dark as Alex slipped silently past Sophia’s window, half expecting to hear a shout as they were discovered.

  At last he was standing on the terrace, and Alice could just make out his thumbs-up. She lifted the rucksack and dropped it into his outstretched arms. There was a faint oomph as he caught it. Then it was her turn to descend.

  She climbed onto the windowsill. It looked like a long way down. Her hand was trembling as she clutched the rope. She closed her other hand around the rope and, holding it tight, dropped off the ledge. She swung in the air for a moment, the flagstones of the terrace spinning dizzily, then her feet touched the wall of the hotel and she was able to steady herself. One hand after the other, knees gripping the rope, she inched down. She resisted the impulse to shut her eyes as she passed Sophia’s window, concentrating instead on her careful progress. It seemed like ages before she felt Alex grab her knees. She let go of the rope, and he lowered her to the ground.

  Alex slung the rucksack over one shoulder, and they crept around the side of the hotel to the road.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s get out of here.”

  They began to run, anxious to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the treacherous Sophia and Horace.

  Once they were out of sight of the hotel, and the rush of adrenaline from their narrow escape began to ease, they slowed their pace to a steady jog, glancing behind them frequently to make
sure they weren’t being followed.

  When she felt like her legs could no longer carry her, Alice gasped, “I need to stop for a minute, Alex.” Her lungs were burning as she stood by the side of the road, hands on her knees, panting for breath.

  Alex, who didn’t appear out of breath in the slightest, looked at her with concern. “Are you all right, sis?”

  Alice straightened. “Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. I feel like we’re further from finding Alistair than ever. If Sophia and Horace are Sourian agents and they don’t have him, then who does? And who do you suppose told them to follow us?”

  Alex dropped the rucksack to the ground and rolled his shoulders to ease the muscles. “I don’t know. Queen Eugenia?”

  “Queen Eugenia?” It didn’t seem possible to Alice that the Queen of Souris could possibly be interested in the doings of two young mice from Smiggins in Shetlock. But something wasn’t right. The two spies seemed to know too much about them. “Maybe we’re going the wrong way,” said Alice. “We should go back to Smiggins. What if Uncle Ebenezer and Aunt Beezer are in danger? What if Horace and Sophia didn’t know for sure that Uncle Ebenezer and Aunt Beezer had been in contact with FIG, and they were trying to trap us into admitting it? Oh no!” Alice put her hands to her cheeks. “I can’t believe we’ve been so stupid! If we had said ‘What’s FIG?’ they wouldn’t have known for sure that Beezer and Ebenezer had anything to do with it. But we as good as admitted that the whole family was part of it. What if, while we’re in Shambles, Horace and Sophia decide to go back to interrogate our aunt and uncle about the resistance?”

  Alex, who looked like he was having trouble following Alice’s disordered thoughts, argued, “But what about Alistair? What if he is in Shambles and Sophia and Horace go there and find him?”