TO ARTHUR, it was like moving in a dream—in a nightmare.

The bodies of the wooden soldiers had been gathered and placed along the base of the townhouse. The makeshift bonfires burned brightly beneath a top layer of freshly gathered leaves. The foliage sparked as it burned, sending smoke swirling high above the square to block out the stars. The smoke smelled sweet—oak leaves and pine—like the incense his mother used to burn when he and his brothers were newborn and only half-made. It was making Arthur light-headed, clouding his vision.

But the fires had worked. The humans had come to the front door.

Arthur and his brothers mounted the steps, each one thirsty for the blood of the boy within.

They would face him in the parlor, Hannibal had said, brandishing his sword with his brothers behind him.

The King of Mice would kill this killer, and then, with the strength gained from that victory, he would resurrect his army of manikins and conquer all of Nuremberg. Tonight the bad dreams would end.

The door opened and the clockmaker came running out, a bucket of water in each hand. Two other men followed. The smoke was thick. They didn’t see the Mouse King on the stairs. Lunging forward, Arthur and his brothers darted into the pitch-black parlor, swallowed into the very depths of the beast.