THE HOUSE WAS QUIET, A SPECIAL sort of quiet that only happens in the middle of midsummer nights. I’m fine with quiet. In fact, the center of the quiet is me, the quietest thing around. Not thing. I shouldn’t have said thing. I’m no thing. I’m … how to put it more accurately? Accuracy is important. I’d never want to mislead anyone. I know you’d be upset to think of me as a thing. And I care about your feelings! Even if they’re rather predictable and boring, if you’ll allow me to be honest. Without honesty, what have we got in this life? Therefore, in the interest of honesty, when you think of Queenie, don’t think of a thing. Think of … of … of a goddess! Yes, a goddess. I knew it would come to me. Thanks for your patience.

My hearing is very sharp, and in the quiet of the night it’s at its sharpest. For example, from my place on the grandfather clock, I could hear that the inn was not quite fast asleep. From upstairs came a single soft footstep, a man’s footstep. Did we have a man guest at the moment? I don’t pay attention to details like that. I know Mom’s happier when we have guests, and Mom’s happiness is important to me—within limits, of course—but I prefer no guests. If you’re headed this way, look into other inns. I’m sure there must be some.

Meanwhile, other faint sounds rose from the basement. We have a large and complicated basement, some of it new, some very old. These faint sounds came from the old part, faint scurrying sounds, sneaky but very busy, sounds that could only be made by a mouse. All at once, even though I’d had a very full day, mostly curled up right here, I was no longer the slightest bit sleepy. I’ve been on many hunting trips in my life, day or night, good weather or bad, and never regretted a single one.

I glided down to the floor and became one with the night, just one of my many tricks. Arthur, as you may know already, has one trick and one trick only—playing dead. Playing dead or becoming one with the night: You be the judge.

There are several routes to the basement, one or two known only to me. I was headed for the kitchen, where the door to the back stairs never quite closes properly, when I heard a car coming up the road in front of our place. Not unusual, even late at night, especially in summer. I heard the soft crunch of gravel, meaning the car had turned into our circular driveway. It crunched to a stop, the engine purring, as humans sometimes say about engines, a very annoying way to describe the sound made by a bunch of metal parts banging around. Also annoying was the fact that we had a car sitting outside our place for no apparent reason. This was the moment for the dog of a household to step up and bark an angry bark or two, sending that car on its way, but this household did not have that kind of dog. We had the kind of dog who was fast asleep, most likely in the family quarters, sprawled across Bro’s bed, or Harmony’s, or Mom’s, shifting now and then to get more comfortable, but otherwise a log, more or less.

I turned and went back to the front hall. Through the tall, narrow window by the front door, I saw a car parked at the top of the circle, headlights off, but I see well at night, much better than you, and could make out a woman behind the wheel. She had short blond hair of the very pale kind, like the white of the moon, and wore lots of lipstick, which made her lips look coal black in the greenish light from her dashboard. She also wore glasses of the kind called cat’s eye, a bit of a puzzle to me. Did humans who wore them think they were somehow catlike? Good luck with that.

I was considering making a mental list of all the things I do better than you, when I heard soft footsteps coming down the main stairs. I, already a shadow, moved in among the bigger shadows by the umbrella stand.

Down the stairs came a man, a shadowy sort of man. I couldn’t make out his face, but his movements were … were actually somewhat catlike! That was a big surprise, especially since I’d just been thinking about this very thing. I’m not surprised very often, so whatever was going on couldn’t be good.

The man crossed the hall, headed toward the door and therefore my way. A moonbeam angled through the narrow window and lit his face. Then came another surprise. This was an old man, with shaggy white eyebrows and wild white hair. An old man who moved like a much younger man, and not only that, but a catlike younger man? Was this the kind of guest we needed?

He went right by me—a stony look on his face, made stonier by the moonlight—opened the door, and went outside, leaving the door slightly ajar. Through that opening, I watched him walking toward the car. Was he leaving? That was my hope.

The driver’s side window rolled down. The woman with the black lips and cat’s-eye glasses spoke in a low, angry voice. “How could this have happened?”

“Sorry, babe,” he said. “Not my fault.”

The woman in the cat’s-eye glasses glanced at the inn. “Keep your voice down.” She stuck a small package out the window, about the size of one of the boxes fast-food burgers come in. The sight of those fast-food burger boxes brings out the worst in someone I’m sure I don’t have to name.

The white-haired man took the package. The woman drove off. The man turned and started back toward the inn. I stepped toward the door, rested one of my front paws against it, and leaned in. The door swung shut, closing with a satisfying click. He was not the kind of guest we needed.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes, my little mousy pal, having some nice mousy playtime down in the basement. What a treat he had in store—a playmate appearing out of the blue, taking the trouble to keep him company! Who doesn’t like a bit of company? I don’t actually, but never mind that. Mice lead boring lives. How kind of me to liven things up for them!

I turned toward the kitchen, but hadn’t taken a step before a commotion started up on the other side of the door. At first, a quiet commotion: some twisting of the knob, and then a “Huh?” A forceful kind of huh, not the sound you’d expect from an old guy, and neither would you expect those catlike movements. Humans can be very puzzling when you stop to think about it. But why waste your time? I took another step toward the kitchen, but the human on the other side of the door didn’t seem to be going away.

“What the—?!” he said. And “Can you believe this?”

What was so hard to understand? It was time for this guy to get in his car and drive off, preferably to somewhere far away. Wasn’t China far away? I remembered hearing that. Drive off to China! Go on! Scat!

But this bothersome—what to call him? A former guest? That sounded right. This bothersome former guest showed no sign of driving off to China. Instead he did some rattling of the doorknob, followed by “Hey! Open up!” and then a knock-knock KNOCK-KNOCK, followed by what might have been a kick.

“Ouch!” he said.

Yes, a kick for sure. Finally he thought to press the little button beside the door. That made the chimes chime, a sound I’m not fond of. I drew back behind the umbrella stand.

Footsteps sounded on the back stairs that led up to the family quarters. Bare feet, light-stepping, and sure-footed, Mom. She came into the hall, turned on a light, went to the door. The chimes chimed again.

Mom called through the door. “Who is it?”

“Me!” said the man.

One of Mom’s eyes narrowed slightly. That would not be a good look on most people, but it didn’t take anything away from Mom’s beauty, only showed how supersmart she was, as well as beautiful. Was there a smarter human out there? Well, the twins’ pal Maxie Millipat was supposed to be very smart. The last time I’d seen him—at the village green on kite day—he’d gotten tangled up in his own kite, a kite shaped like a huge rat, by the way, and gotten lifted right off the ground. So my money’s still on Mom in the smart department. I actually have no money, but also don’t need it. My eyes are like glittering gold coins, as people often remarked.

Meanwhile Mom was saying, “Do I know you? I don’t recognize your voice.”

Then came a surprise. When the man answered, his voice had changed, turning feeble and scratchy—although my ears could still hear the real voice underneath, if you get what I mean. And if you don’t, well, too bad.

“Norman Ware, of course,” he said. “From the … the Daffy Duck Room or whatever you call it.”

Mom opened the door. “Why, Mr. Ware, didn’t you say you were in for the night? Otherwise I’d have given you the key.”

“Why all these stupid rules?” said Mr. Ware, pushing past Mom and entering the hall.

Mom closed the door and gazed at Mr. Ware, who was now on his way up the stairs. “It’s the Daffodil Room,” she said, her voice like ice. Could I somehow meow in an icy way? I looked forward to giving it a try.

Mr. Ware did not answer, just went up the stairs and out of sight. Mom’s gaze followed him until he was gone. Then she headed into the small parlor, which led to the back stairs and the family quarters. I went the other way, through the kitchen and down the basement stairs.

Hunting mice—well, not hunting, let’s just call it playing with my little buddies—is one of those hobbies that never gets old. For one thing, there are always new mice to meet. You may be thinking, what happens to the old ones? Perhaps I’ll have a chance to get to that a little later.

The basement at the Blackberry Hill Inn is very big and has two parts. There’s the newer part with the furnace room, storeroom, sports equipment room, laundry room, broken-furniture room, and wine cellar with no wine in it, and there’s the old cellar, with a dirt floor, lots of cobwebs, and rusted farm equipment from long ago. Way back in one corner stands the huge old boiler, which had heated the whole house at one time, Mom said, but now just walled off a little space where mice would feel safe. They never learn, which is the most important fact to know about mice.

I made my way around to the back of the old boiler. Everything was shadowy. Did the mice think I was just another shadow? That would be a typical micey thought, the kind of thought they would cling to until it was too late. And now came a micey smell, not so different from the smell of peanuts, but dustier and with a hint of squirrel. I moved toward the smell, so silently I couldn’t even hear myself. Hunting-type things were happening, but slowly, which was often the case at first. I heard the scritch-scritch of mouse paws up to something, followed by a faint lippy sort of sound that meant my soon-to-be mouse buddy had found something to nibble on. I glided closer, and then through the small coal chute window high in the wall, where coal had been delivered in the old days, came a silvery moonbeam.

I saw my mouse, a surprisingly fat specimen, sitting up and munching on some sort of crumbs. At the same moment, my mouse saw me. A surprisingly fat mouse, but also surprisingly quick. In no time at all, he’d scrambled straight up the wall, leaped onto the coal chute, and was darting toward the small window where … where there was still a hole in one of the windowpanes! Hadn’t Elrod fixed that hole yet? What was a handyman for? How would I go about getting him fired?

But that thought was for the future. Right now my little playmate was shooting through the hole in the windowpane and out into the night. I sprang onto the coal chute, squeezed through the hole, and followed.

And there he was, tiny legs churning as fast as they could, although he was actually advancing quite slowly—not yet even halfway across the side lawn, which led to the woods and the possibility of many hidey-holes and a lot of tedious work for me. You can be quick without being fast—an interesting fact about mice. I’m both, as I’m sure you already know.

I ran after my fattish friend, not my fastest, since the outcome was not in doubt, more of a lope. I’m not much of a TV watcher, but once I’d caught a show about tigers. Their lope is something like mine—on a bigger scale, no doubt, if not quite as graceful, which I mention merely to keep you in the picture.

Loping along on a moonlit night, one bound or two from the prey—well, let’s not put it that way—how about a teammate in a game he didn’t yet know we were playing: Life was good. I took one last lope, then bounded, launching myself into the night air.

Normally not much happens in these midair moments, except a lovely feeling of good cheer coming over me. But this time things were different. First, my little teammate turned his little head and saw me. That was unusual, since my movements are silent, especially in midair. Around then was when I heard a strange sound from above. It reminded me of the fwap-fwap the ceiling fan in the Big Room made before Elrod fixed it. Well, not fixed, since the ceiling fan ended up in pieces in the storage shed. But at least we no longer had to deal with the annoying fwap-fwap.

I only mention the ceiling fan to give you an idea of the sound coming from above. My mousy pal’s gaze rose up in that direction and I saw terror in his eyes. Very satisfying, of course, but then came a big surprise, quite close to a real shock. It turned out that the mouse wasn’t afraid of me! Well, I’m sure he was, but that fear was being dwarfed by another one. An instant later a huge white owl swooped down—right before my eyes—and snatched up the mouse in its enormous claws, fwap-fwapping back up into the night sky.

I’m a hunter of birds, but small ones. Cardinals, finches, robins, that sort of thing. Certainly not owls. I’d seen owls, always in daytime. Once Harmony had pointed to one, sleeping on a high branch and looking peaceful. “Watch out for owls, Queenie,” she’d said. I don’t pay much attention to what humans say, but I make an exception for Harmony.

The next thing I knew, I was scrambling up the vine-covered trellis on the near side of the inn, leaping from there onto a second-floor balcony, almost … almost like … like I’d had a fright. And even … even panicked, the slightest bit.

But no! Impossible! Queenie does not have frights, and would never panic. Or scramble! Good grief, what an awful idea! Me? Scrambling? I got a grip. Then I hissed, a hiss that said, “I am Queenie, large and in charge.” Except for the large part. The point was I’d regained my composure, if in fact I’d ever lost it, and who would believe that? Not me, my friends.

The balcony led to a sliding door, partly open on a summer night. Beyond the slider was one of the guest rooms, the walls yellow. Yellow walls meant the Daffodil Room. I peered in.

Mr. Ware sat at the makeup table. He opened the package the woman in the car had given him and took out a small green ball.

“Green?” he said. “What’s the matter with her?”

He gazed at the green ball with distaste, and then stuck it on the end of his nose. Humans could surprise you, almost never in a good way. Now we had a series of unpleasant surprises. First, Mr. Ware pulled off his wild white hair—a wig, I believe, is the name—and then tugged off one of his shaggy white eyebrows. He was raising his hand toward the other eyebrow when he caught sight of me. For a moment he looked alarmed, but then his expression changed.

“Well well,” he said, with no trace now of the old man voice. “You’re still quite the beauty, aren’t you?”

True, but somehow, coming from him, it didn’t please me.

“Maybe more so than ever,” Mr. Ware added, which didn’t quite make sense to me. “Come on in. Why don’t we get to know each other a bit. Maybe I could scare up a treat of some sort.”

I gazed at him: a dark-haired guy with a thin brown eyebrow and a shaggy white one, also wearing a green ball on his nose. Had he been a guest here before? I thought so, but that didn’t mean I wanted to get to know him. I slipped between the balcony railings, pitter-pattered down the trellis, came down on the lawn.

Then, from high above: Hoot! Hoot! Hoot!

A big, empty flowerpot lay on its side in the strip of garden by the house. I stepped into it and curled up.