The Rat Prince (3 page)

There were fourteen good bedchambers in my ancestral manse, but Wilhemina had moved Eustacia into my former suite and exiled me to this bare chamber. I hasten to add, the servants of Lancastyr Manor had most comfortable quarters in which to sleep. This was never meant to be a bedroom at all, but a boxroom; it was chokingly hot in summer and freezing in winter. If Mrs. Grigson had not given me several blankets and provided me with a small rug against Wilhemina's orders, I would have died of the cold in January of that first year.

I tightened my lips against another wave of hurt. Why on earth had those so-called friends of my family, Sir Tompkin and Lord Bluehart, not intervened before now—or even visited us? And why had they ignored my repeated requests to meet with them? Perhaps my letters had given them cause to think I was a spoiled creature, jealous of a new stepmother. If only I could be granted just a few moments alone with them, to raise the question that had burned in my breast for a year, ever since the afternoon my father and I had met Wilhemina at the dressmaker's, where we'd gone to buy my mourning gown: How had her first husband died?

In the dressmaker's back parlor on that ill-starred day, two ladies had been gossiping behind their hands about a customer in the next room, a brass-faced widow who had just moved to Glassevale from the provinces. I overheard them saying that the circumstances of her husband's death were suspicious.

Later the same week, Wilhemina had appeared uninvited with her daughters at my mother's funeral, sitting in the back pew and putting on pious airs to catch my father's interest. Shocked whispers had floated through the quiet air of the church, whispers about her dark past and her bold behavior.

Three months later, Papa—God help him!—had married her.

I had repeated the gossip to him, but he would have none of it—further indication that his mind and wits were starting to slip.

Stuck here in servitude, I could do nothing to discover the facts. Meanwhile, my stepmother had ordered the servants to place rat poison throughout Lancastyr Manor. If any of it were to “accidentally” end up in my father's food or drink …

No. I shuddered to think of it. That would never happen, not so long as I kept up my vigil in the kitchen.

*   *   *

I was still caught up in these useless musings when I heard the creak of my door opening.

“Jessamyn!” I cried.

This was the first time my nine-year-old stepsister had ever ventured into the attic. She stood there on the rough floorboards in her pretty lavender day gown, glancing about the room with a horrified expression on her round face.

I hastened to enfold her in a hug. Her childish smell of powder and soap gave me strength somehow.

“You shouldn't have come up here, my dear,” I said. “Your mother would be livid if she found out!”

She embraced me in return before declaring, “I was worried about you! I heard Mamma shouting in the library and I believed you must have fled to your chamber, so I crept up here ever so quietly. No one will miss me.” Her lively face troubled, she gestured at the bare walls and sagging cot. “I don't like this awful place.
You're
the one who should not be here, Rose.”

How could anyone as unloving and unlovely as my stepmother have brought forth someone as adorable as Jessamyn? Her father must have been a good man. Surely he'd deserved better than Wilhemina.

We sat down on my cot. It creaked, unsteady under our combined weight. With a hand so calloused by work I could hardly recognize it as my own, I smoothed back her brunette curls. Some of the fine hairs snagged on my rough skin. “Now then, Jessamyn, don't worry about me. It's not so terrible in the attic.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“How can you say that?” she asked, tears brimming in her brown eyes. “What could be good about a place like this?”

I considered for a moment before I could summon a believable reply. “When I lie here, I can glance out my window and see the open sky, the sun in the morning and the stars at night.” I gestured toward the tiny cracked windowpanes. “The view frees my heart to dream beautiful things.”

“What do you dream about?” She sniffled, cuddling her head against my shoulder.

“Let me see,” I said, smiling. Then the thought arose unbidden:
I dream of seeing your mother dragged from Lancastyr Manor in disgrace.
My smile faded. That would not do!

“Rose? Aren't you going to tell me what you dream about?”

I came up with a happy answer. “Every night, I have a vision of a handsome prince. He's clever, and dangerous to his foes, but not dangerous to me. He has black hair and dark eyes, and his crown shines like the stars in the sky. He comes to me and holds out his long, sensitive fingers and says—”

“Come away with me!” Jessamyn squealed.

I gave an involuntary spurt of laughter. “Yes! That's exactly what he says. How did you guess?”

“I have dreams like that, too,” she said, solemn. “Does he marry you, your prince?”

“Yes. He marries me and takes me to a big palace with lots of servants who are very kindly treated, and I never have to scrub floors, or wash sheets, or burn my fingers on hot pans ever again,” I said. “Though,” I added, mindful of reality, “we must solve our own difficulties in life, not wait for others to do it on our behalf.”

“If you meet Prince Geoffrey at the ball, perhaps you will marry him and move to a big palace,” Jessamyn said, beaming.

I felt a secret pang of longing and regret. Though once I had attended balls and parties, it had been ages since I'd mingled in society. “Oh, Sister, I am not going to the ball. You must know that already. Kitchen girls do not dance with princes.” The words caught involuntarily in my throat.

Jessamyn gave a small frown. “You are not a kitchen girl. The king invited you; I saw your name upon the card.”

I was sure Wilhemina had already dreamed up an excuse for my absence from the ball that would satisfy any questioners. Would it be a sick headache? Or perhaps a putrid sore throat? I could think of any number of excellent ailments. “Jessamyn, surely you've noticed that since your mother married my father, I have not left the grounds of Lancastyr Manor.”

“Mamma told me you're too sad to see anyone since your own mamma died. I heard her telling her friend Lady Harriet that your mother's death had turned your mind, as it did your father's. I wasn't sure what she meant by that. Yet I'm very sorry you miss Lady Jane so much.”

As she gave me a sympathetic kiss on the cheek, I tried not to grind my teeth. So that was Wilhemina's explanation for my disappearance from society! How neat were the knots with which she had tied me!

After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Jessamyn said with determined cheer, “The prince of my dreams doesn't marry me.”

“Oh?”

“He just takes me away from Mamma. He gives me a fluffy white lapdog and bread and honey, as much of it as I like.”

“When I become a princess, I'll arrange that for you,” I assured her, with another smile to cover a sudden wave of despair. Then, thank goodness, I was distracted by a scrabbling sound. “Oh, look there!” I pointed. “It's Blackie and his friend Frump-Bum.”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeek!” Jessamyn screamed and clung to me. “Rats, rats,
rats
!”

Had I truly become so removed from my old life that I'd forgotten how most people would react to the presence of rodents?

Yes.

“Don't be afraid, Jessamyn! They aren't ordinary rats!”

She gasped, and almost choked me in her embrace. “They certainly look like them.”

Poor Blackie and Frump-Bum stood stock-still on their hindquarters, as if assessing the danger from the mad creature on the cot. They were odd, these friendly rats. You'd think they'd have scurried away as fast as they could.

“No,” I said. “They're not rats, but pets. I play with them, and they with me. They are tame.”

“Truly? How can that be?” By her tone, I could tell Jessamyn was not convinced.

“My father used to say the rats of Lancastyr Manor have always been extraordinary beasts. In fact, when your mother makes me go without meals, they bring me leftovers from the table. Meat pasties, fruit, cakes, bread…”

Jessamyn's plump lips formed an
O
of astonishment, as Blackie and Frump-Bum continued to watch us.

“There's something else about my pets,” I said. “When your mother first sent me up here, I was very lonely. One night I was crying, and I heard a scuffling noise. I wondered what it could be.”

“Was it the rats?”

“It was Blackie. I was not afraid of him, even though my old nursemaid used to tell me stories about how rats would eat the faces of sleeping babies if you didn't guard their cradles.”

“Oh!” Jessamyn clearly hadn't heard this old wives' tale before. Her bottom lip started to tremble.

“It's not true, of course,” I hastily added. “Just an ignorant tale.” Though I was not quite sure.

“Tell me more of what your father said about the Lancastyr rats being special,” she said.

“He'd heard about the rats as a boy, from his grandfather. Something about them being intelligent or long-lived … different in some way. I have forgotten exactly. My mother laughed when my father spoke of it, and he became embarrassed and did not raise the subject again. However, lately I wonder if there was truth in what he said.”

Jessamyn gave an impatient bounce. The rats inched forward and stopped. “Why?”

“Well, that night when I was so unhappy, Blackie padded right up to my bed and did the strangest thing.” I stopped, remembering.

Jessamyn stared at me.

I hesitated, then decided to tell the whole truth. “Why, he … he had something in his mouth. Something that glinted in the moonlight. He made a little noise, like nothing I'd ever heard from a rat, and then he sat up, took the object out of his mouth, and handed it over.”

Yes, Blackie had “handed” it to me, though he did not exactly have hands.

“What was it?”

I reached under the bodice of my homespun dress, where I had hidden the thing in a pocket of my muslin shift. I pulled it out and cradled it in my palm so she could see, but not touch.

“A ring!” she exclaimed.

Yes. It was a large sapphire, set in heavy, soft, almost pink gold. Etched across the surface of the jewel was a coat of arms.

“It has a carving on it,” my stepsister breathed in awe.

“The seal of the Lancastyrs,” I said.

Together, on the same impulse, Jessamyn and I raised our eyes to look over at the rats.

They were nearer now.

Blackie's dark gaze on me was so intent, I would almost swear he understood what I'd said.

“But where could the rat have gotten such a thing?” Jessamyn demanded. “Wait. You're merely teasing me, aren't you? Oh, Rose, how could you?”

“I'm not teasing! Blackie gave me the ring. And every time I feel discouraged or tired or hungry, I touch it, and somehow it gives me the strength to carry on.”

“Don't let my mother see it,” Jessamyn said, in her wise little voice.

She was right, of course. I tucked it away again, out of sight.

 

P
RINCE
C
HAR

I wanted to nudge Rose's arm and tell her not to fear—if her stepmother were ever to steal the ring, I would get it back. Believe me when I say there is nowhere a rat cannot go, and there is certainly nowhere Lady Wilhemina could have hidden the ring where I wouldn't have found it. We rats had cherished the shiny golden thing for more than a century, ever since Prince Gravy, a most canny rat-ruler, nicked it from the bedside table of a slipshod Lancastyr ancestor, Vern the Vapid.

Swiss was looking at me with reproach in his eyes. “You have yet to explain why you gave our greatest treasure to a human.”

“Our people have been linked to her family for untold generations,” I replied. “I know I can't explain the history or significance of the ring to her, but I thought it might at least bring her comfort and courage.”

“Humph. We know the courage part didn't work,” Swiss said. “And now that she has the thing, she'll keep it.”

“Rose deserves it. She works hard, as hard as a rat. She could have been one of us.”

“But she's not. She's human, and so she will stay,” he pointed out, quite reasonably.

Without thinking, I rounded on him and nipped his hindquarters.

“Ow! What did you do that for?” He rubbed the sore place with his snout.

I wasn't sure myself, so I kept silent.

The younger girl, Jessamyn, cried out. “They're fighting!”

“Oh, no.” Rose smiled at her. “Do you see, Frump-Bum didn't bite him back? Blackie had good reason to do that, you may be sure. He's the leader.”

I said to Swiss in a jesting tone, “Take heed of what she says. And as your leader, I've been thinking about the upcoming ball—the one being given for the human prince, Geoffrey.”

“The humans have been blathering about it for weeks,” Swiss said, “but it's of no interest to us. Why, Castle Wendyn lies deep in the Southern Rat Realm of Princess Mozzarella. Even if we were to travel there, we would have to ask her permission for everything we took from the royal tables.”

I cocked my ears back in exasperation. “I'm not speaking of a raid on the party food. Think, Swiss! Prince Geoffrey is seeking a wife. And you just heard Lady Rose say she would like a prince for a husband. Let us use our considerable capabilities to make it happen.”

He gaped at me. “Your Highness, have you lost your wits? Your duty is to rats, not humans.”

“I'm in full possession of my faculties. If Lady Rose were to marry the future ruler of Angland, she would remove Wilhemina from Lancastyr Manor forever. We would see an end to the poisonings.”
And Lady Rose's eyes would shine once more with happiness.