ERNST SIGHED AND SANK deeper into the bathing bowl, the tips of his claws poking up from the lavender-scented bubbles. He’d been inspired by the piebald Snitter’s powdered scent and left the docks for better climes. At the Golden Note, a luxury hotel in the walls of the massive Imperial and Royal Court Theatre, he could bathe in warm water and hear the symphony wafting up through the pipes and cracks in his hidden room. Perhaps the music of Mozart or Beethoven would be played tonight. Ernst wriggled his toes and sighed. For the next three hours, this was the life.

The knot in his shoulder from the skirmish with the alley cat had finally eased in the hot water and he was just beginning to doze off, when there came an awful pounding at the door.

“Open up! Open up!” a male voice demanded.

“Probably my escort,” Ernst decided, settling back into the tub, preferring the continued pounding over leaving the warmth of the water. Once he answered that door, this little retreat would be over and his duties would begin. Who knew when he’d get another bath like this one?

Just one minute more . . .

He settled a washcloth over his eyes and began humming along with the orchestra tuning below.

A key turned in the lock and the door to Ernst’s bedroom burst open.

The rat sighed and pulled himself out of the tub. Wrapping a plush robe around his thin frame, he dried his feet on the mat with a little dancing step.

“I told you he wouldn’t be here,” he heard a mouse say disdainfully. “You can’t trust a rat.” The speaker was a young piebald with a mottled face and black paws. He was venting his anger on the small gray mouse that served as night manager of the hotel. The manager held his back straight, but his whiskers quivered nervously. “They’re all thieves and cheats,” the piebald continued.

“Really?” Ernst asked dryly.

The gray mouse balked and lost his composure, cowering like a meadow mouse in the face of an owl. To his credit, he recovered quickly, preening his short whiskers, and lifted his chin as if he had never doubted the integrity of his guest. “Forgive the intrusion, Herr Listz,” he began, only to be interrupted by the piebald, who refused to quail.

“Yes, they are,” he said. “Only a rat would waste a month’s wages on one night of . . .” He took in the opulent suite. “‘When the seed runs out, so does the rat,’ as they say. The name is Blackspaw. My commander sent me to guide you.” The way he said “guide” sounded an awful lot like “guard” to Ernst. “We leave at dawn. I’ll be outside.”

“Keeping me honest, eh?” Ernst chuckled. He leaned against the doorway nonchalantly. Let the mouse think he was a wastrel. He could use it to his advantage. “I should think a soldier such as yourself would trust the judgment of his commander implicitly.” Ernst sucked his teeth and studied his newly trimmed claws. “We had such a nice rapport, Snitter and I, and he was so kind to offer Her Majesty’s tutor a guide to Boldavia. I suppose he’ll be very disappointed when I make my report. What will the Queen think, I wonder.”

At last, the piebald was shaken. He bristled and shrank as the air left his puffed-out chest. “Ah . . . ah . . . apologies, Herr Listz. Clearly you are a gentlerat of . . . uncommon breeding. I was . . . merely concerned for our . . . ah . . .” The piebald realized he was flailing and, with a concerted effort, stopped.

“I shall be in the hallway. We leave at dawn.” He clicked his heels and retreated.

The manager wrung his paws together apologetically. “Herr Listz, is there anything I can bring you?”

“More hot water, please,” the rat said. He sauntered over to his sack of seed and pulled another portion out to tip the night manager. “And a blanket for my guide out there. Or cover him with something pretty so he doesn’t frighten the guests.”

The manager smiled and removed himself with a bow.

A few minutes later, three white mice appeared with freshly boiled kettles. They silently reheated Ernst’s bath and left. He sank back into the tub with a sigh.

Despite the variety of Rodentia, when it came down to it, there really were only two types of rodents in this world: squirrels and rats. Squirrels were chipper little fools who believed they’d live forever, so they spent all their time gathering nuts, storing them away for that bright future. Anyone with that blithering outlook was a squirrel. Including that impudent little piebald—so certain of tomorrow that he’d rather wait than live today. But rats appreciated the brevity of life. Death was around every corner for rodents without a bushy tail—rat and mouse, vole, mole, and shrew. But only rats lived for the moment (as did, perhaps, a criminal vole or two). The rest were squirrels by nature, if not form. Even mice were mostly squirrels at heart. Timid and hopeful, diligently thinking of winter even in the spring. But why save for tomorrow what you could spend today? Especially if each day could be your last.

Ernst Listz was a rat. Which was why he had willingly spent more than half his bag of seed on wine, a bath, a second dinner, and a very soft bed. If it meant sneaking on board a barge headed down the river the next day rather than purchasing proper accommodations (carved out in the bulkhead of one of the more luxurious boats), so be it. He would gladly sleep beneath a coil of rope in exchange for this one night of being clean, safe, and well fed.

Ernst wriggled his toes in the steaming water, the last of his aches and pains easing away. He dismissed all thought of the morning to come, and the state of the kingdom at the end of his dangerous journey. For now, it was a hot bath and a full belly. In short, it was heaven.