When Alice and Alex reached the kitchen, Cook was banging pots and pans around on the stove with even more force than usual.
Alex seemed nonplussed by the scowl on Cook’s face, and Alice took advantage of his silence to ask, “Is something wrong, Cook?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” snapped Cook. She gave the onions sizzling in butter in a large frying pan a brisk stir then cracked an egg into a bowl and snatched up a whisk. “General Fancy-pants wants a six-course dinner for some visiting mucky-mucks. ‘And mind you make it a special dinner, Cook,’” she said, imitating the general’s high voice. “‘My guests have very discerning palates.’” Cook dropped the whisk, picked up a small knife, and with a flick of her wrist expertly minced a clove of garlic. “Meanwhile, it’s four o’clock already, the general will have a fit if his tea tray isn’t in his office when he returns, those potatoes won’t peel themselves”—she inclined her head toward a teetering mound of potatoes on the large kitchen table—“and them fish won’t bone themselves”—she waved her elbow in the direction of a bucket of fish on the draining board—“and my useless kitchen hand is in bed with the measles. That’s what’s wrong, girlie.”
“We’ll deliver the tea tray for you, then come back and peel the potatoes,” Alex offered. His bad mood seemed to have vanished.
“You will?” Cook looked as surprised as Alice felt. “Well . . . all right then.” She swept the garlic into the pan with the onions and gestured to a large silver tray on which was placed a plate with an assortment of cookies and cupcakes, three porcelain teacups on small saucers, three silver spoons, a silver sugar bowl, and a small jug of milk. “You can take that one, boyo, and girlie, you take the teapot. And mind you hurry back.”
Alex carefully picked up the tea tray and Alice the silver teapot etched with a flower motif, and they headed for the stairs.
“What did you do that for?” Alice demanded as the kitchen door swung shut behind them. “I don’t want to go anywhere near General Ashwover’s office.”
“Yes, you do,” Alex contradicted her. “Think about it, sis: from what Cook said, the general isn’t in his office at the moment—which gives us a great opportunity to snoop around. Maybe we’ll find out something important that we can report back to FIG. All we’ve learned so far is how to shovel manure.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Alice conceded. “But let’s be quick about it. We don’t want to end up in the dungeon.” She felt a chill as she thought of that lonely young mouse Alex had described.
They kept their mouths shut and their heads down as they reached the main hall. Sentries armed with spears were posted at every door and on each side of the giant staircase.
“What are you doing here?” asked one of the red-coated guards suspiciously. “I thought you worked outside with Fiercely.” He looked pointedly at Alex’s muddy feet.
“Cook said we were to deliver the general’s tea tray to his office,” Alex told him. “Kitchen hand is sick.”
The guard sniffed at the tea tray appreciatively. “Wish she’d send a tea tray to me.” At a hiss from the sentry on the other side of the stairs he straightened and said brusquely, “Second floor.”
Up the wide crimson-carpeted staircase they scampered to the second floor. There they encountered two more sentries, each guarding a long corridor.
“Tea tray for General Ashwover,” Alex said.
The guard to their right indicated over his shoulder with the point of his spear. “Last door on the left,” he said.
The corridor was lined with portraits of mice in heroic poses: one stood on the prow of a ship in a stormy sea; another had his foot on the head of a slain dragon. But as they got closer to the end of the corridor, the portraits were all of Queen Eugenia: standing, sitting, singing, speechifying and, in one, stamping her royal foot.
“Guess who’s the president of the Queen Eugenia fan club,” said Alex.
He tapped lightly on the last door to the left and, when there was no response, led the way into the general’s office.
The room was dominated by a large mahogany desk, which faced the door. Light flooded in from the two windows behind the desk, framed with brocade curtains. A door was discreetly set into the wall to the left of the desk, while to the right was the largest portrait of the Queen they had seen yet, in which, standing beside her in a blue jacket bristling with medals and lavishly trimmed in gold braid, was General Ashwover himself.
“Shut the door behind you, sis,” Alex instructed.
“Okay, but we have to be quick,” Alice urged again. “The guards know we’re in here.”
Alex had deposited his tray on the desk and was already rummaging through the drawers.
“This one’s just full of paperclips and rubber bands,” he said. He slid it shut and pulled open a lower drawer.
Alice carefully placed the teapot beside the tray and started flicking through the pile of papers on the general’s desk. “Ah, this is more like it,” she said. “Alex, look at this—it’s an order requesting a thousand more troops be sent from Souris to Gerander.” But before she could speculate on the significance of the order, she heard voices in the corridor.
“Alex, someone’s coming,” she whispered.
“Quick,” said Alex. “Under the desk.”
They had barely slipped out of sight when the door opened. Peeping out from their hiding place, Alice saw the furry gray legs of the general stride into the room.
“Oh good,” he said, “the tea tray is already here. And I see Cook has made my favorite cupcakes with passionfruit frosting.”
He moved toward the tray, revealing the legs of his two visitors. One pair of legs was silvery gray, the other coal black.
Alice started so violently she banged her head on the underside of the desk.
She heard a soft “Ouch” and knew that her brother must have banged his head too. Her heart racing, she turned to look at her brother. She could just make out his eyes gleaming in the shadows. “It couldn’t be,” he breathed, just as a voice said sweetly, “But, General, dear, will a thousand more troops be enough to subdue the Gerandan rebels once and for all?”
Alice and her brother knew that sweet voice all too well: it was Sophia, and those coal-black legs no doubt belonged to Horace.
This was confirmed when a familiar gloomy voice asked querulously, “Why don’t those rebels just go home and let us get on with it?”
“This is their home, Horace,” Sophia reminded him. “At least it was. But soon,” she added, with obvious satisfaction, “it will be our home—and dear Queen Eugenia’s. But surely we will need more than a thousand troops, General?”
Alice’s mouth dropped open. Her home? And Queen Eugenia’s home? What on earth did she mean?
“No, no, you misunderstand, Sophia,” the general was saying as he rounded the desk and dropped into his chair. “One thousand troops is merely an advance party. We will have at least five thousand to accompany Her Majesty when she journeys from Grouch to Cornoliana. By the time she declares Cornoliana the new capital, and herself the Queen of Greater Gerander, we will also have several thousand more troops amassed at the border of Gerander and Shetlock, and the entire Sourian navy ranged off the Shetlock coast. Then we will give President Shabbles of Shetlock a choice: Shetlock can reunite with the kingdom of Greater Gerander voluntarily—or we will take his country by force.” There was a scraping sound as the general pulled the tea tray across the desk to sit in front of him.
“It sounds like an excellent plan, dear General,” Sophia said approvingly.
“Thank you,” said the general modestly, his voice muffled by a cupcake. “Her Majesty was gracious enough to say that she, too, thought it a fine plan. I was thinking of suggesting that we rename the capital Eugeniana in her honor.”
“Lovely,” said Sophia absently. Her legs had moved closer to the desk on which the tea tray stood. “Those cupcakes do look delicious,” she said.
“Mmmph,” the general agreed, but he made no move to offer them around.
Sophia sighed and sank down into one of the chairs pulled up to the desk. Her feet were so close that Alice had to shuffle backward so that Sophia didn’t feel Alice’s breath on her toes.
“And how are matters progressing with Songbird? I hope our contribution has encouraged him to sing more sweetly.”
“Lephter!” the general called, and a shower of crumbs sprayed onto his lap and the floor around his feet.
“Sir?” Lester oiled into the room so fast he must have been outside eavesdropping, Alice thought. She was reminded suddenly of Tobias’s secretary, who also seemed to be perpetually lurking outside his superior’s office.
“Update us on Songbird’s latest communiqué, will you?”
“Certainly, sir,” Lester replied. “He became quite cooperative once he found out we had a hostage.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And well done to you for that idea, Sophia and Horace,” the general said, generous with his praise if not his cupcakes.
“Songbird has now given us a lot of valuable information, but I’m afraid he is being rather obstinate on the matter of Zanzibar. He is still refusing to reveal Zanzibar’s location. Though it seems he’s willing to betray almost anyone else. See here, he’s given us a full list.”
There was a rustle of paper then Sophia said, “Ah, this makes it all nice and clear.”
“Sophia, what is it?” asked Horace. “Tell me.”
“It’s a list, Horace, dear,” said the silvery mouse. “It is a complete list of the heirs to the House of Cornolius, and their last known whereabouts—though a few seem to be merely ‘in transit.’ And there’s no mention of Zanzibar’s hiding place, of course.”
“How long is the list?” queried Horace. “I thought there was just one other heir besides Queen Eugenia: Zanzibar.”
“Zanzibar is the primary threat, of course,” Sophia agreed. “But there are other heirs. Zanzibar has a brother, a sister—and don’t forget the next generation.”
“You mean they all have to be killed?” Horace asked. He sounded rather weary, Alice thought.
“That’s right,” Sophia said. “It would be best if Queen Eugenia’s was the only claim to the throne of Greater Gerander. Simpler.”
“Exactly,” said Lester. “And thanks to Songbird, we can just work our way through the list. Look, I believe you have some old scores to settle with these two.”
“Indeed we do,” Sophia replied. “And I see the ginger brat is high on the list.”
“Ginger brat?” echoed the general. “Which one’s that?”
“This one,” Sophia said, and Alice guessed she was pointing to someone on the list. “Queen Eugenia is particularly interested in him. If you see a ginger brat with a scarf, let me know.”
A ginger brat with a scarf ? That had to be Alistair! How many ginger mice in scarves could the Sourians possibly know?
“What’s this question mark below his name?” Sophia asked. “Is Songbird holding out on us?”
Lester bent over the list. “Ah, that—no, that relates to a rumor. Something Keaters thought he heard years ago. We’re still seeking confirmation. But the good news is, the brat with the scarf may be within reach. Songbird has given us some very helpful information—the brat is on his way to Atticus Island, apparently.”
Atticus Island? Did that mean Alistair was on a mission to rescue their parents? Alice felt hope flare within her, only to be abruptly dampened as she realized that he was unlikely to succeed if the Sourians knew all about his mission.
“Though Songbird has left out a few details which we’d rather like to know. Like, how can he be so sure that the brat would make it all the way to Atticus Island without us capturing him? The rebels must have devised some way of moving around the country while evading our patrols. But Keaters has been preparing a little trap. He’ll worm the brat’s secrets out of him. I’m expecting word any time.”
Someone called Keaters was going to trap Alistair?! Alice began to tremble. They had to do something. . . . Stop Keaters—stop Songbird. But how? She had no idea who they were. They had to get back to Stetson, to warn FIG. Oh, if only the Sourians would hurry up and leave the room so she could get out from under this desk!
“Keaters?” Sophia snorted. “Are you sure he’s the right mouse for the job? He always makes things so needlessly complicated. All those elaborate tricks and schemes, ‘worming’ secrets out of our enemies. What’s wrong with simply kidnapping the brat and forcing him to reveal his secrets?”
“We tried that, Sophia, remember?” Lester said. “You were supposed to kidnap him. Instead you ended up bogged down in a wild-goose chase.”
“We—” Sophia began, but Lester interrupted her.
“The trick is not to let the brat know he’s been captured. How does that old saying go? Ah yes: you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
“Now hold on just a minute,” said Sophia. She sounded offended. “I don’t need lessons from anyone in how to persuade our enemies to cooperate.”
Alice, who had herself been fooled by Sophia’s sweet manner, had to agree. But General Ashwover wasn’t interested in the rivalry between the spies.
“So Keaters is taking care of the brat, eh? Excellent, excellent,” the general was saying. “Though really, Her Majesty won’t be satisfied until she has Zanzibar.” He slumped back in his chair again.
Sophia’s silvery voice chimed in, “You know, General, I think it’s just a matter of applying a bit more pressure. Songbird has been trying to bargain with you. It’s time to show our friend in FIG exactly who’s in control here. We do have our hostage, after all.”
The general chuckled, a high, unpleasant sound. “Hee hee hee. You’re quite right. I think Songbird will find the whiskers are on the other cheek now. Lester, tell Songbird . . .” He idly picked up another cupcake and chewed thoughtfully. “Tell Songbird the information about the ginger brat with the scarf is good, but not good enough. Queen Eugenia wants Zanzibar too, or . . . how should I put it? Ah yes, I have it. Unless Zanzibar’s hiding place is revealed to us, Songbird’s own chick will be . . .” The general let out a series of high giggles. “Songbird’s own chick will be pushed out of the nest.”
“Very good, General,” Sophia said appreciatively as Lester bustled officiously from the room. “I’m sure that will achieve results.” She stood up and stretched. “Such a long and dangerous journey we’ve been on,” she remarked. “Wouldn’t you like a spot of tea and a cupcake, Horace dear? I would. Excuse me, General.” Alice heard the rattle of cups and saucers as Sophia pulled the tea tray across the desk away from the general. After a pause, the silvery voice rang out again. “General, does Cook usually write on the cupcakes?”
“Write on the cupcakes? Don’t be absurd.”
“But look,” Sophia persisted. “This cake has a G on it.”
“A what?” The general’s knees shifted as he leaned across the desk. “Well I suppose it does look a bit like a G,” he conceded gruffly. “Perhaps it stands for ‘General,’ since they’re my cupcakes. But look at this one.” The chair creaked as he leaned farther forward. “There’s no G on that. And what about this one? No G on that.”
“No, General,” Sophia agreed. “You’ve picked up an I, and . . .” She studied the general’s second cupcake. “An F.”
“G, I, F? Bah!” There was a soft thud as the general threw his cupcakes back onto the tray. “What’s got into Cook? What on earth would possess her to spell out GIF on my cupcakes?”
Sophia added her cupcake to the two the general had discarded. “Not GIF, General,” she said. “Look.”
The general said aloud, “F, I, G . . . Why that spells FIG!” He pushed back his chair. “Lester!” he roared.
Almost at once the oily black mouse appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, General?” he said smoothly.
“Get Cook in here at once!” General Ashwover ordered.
“Right away, General,” the secretary promised.
“Why must I be plagued by these petty acts of sabotage?” the general blustered. He slumped so low in his chair that Alistair and Alex had to squeeze to the outermost edges of the desk. Even so, their whiskers were almost tickling the general’s kneecaps.
“Did you see the flowerbeds?” he demanded. “I ordered them replanted in readiness for Her Majesty’s arrival, and when the flowers bloomed they spelled FIG. Can you imagine if Queen Eugenia had seen that?” The general’s high voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “Her Majesty would not be pleased.”
“No,” Sophia agreed. She sounded distracted. “She wouldn’t. General, these cupcakes are remarkably good. I’d like to meet this Cook of yours and ask her a few questions.”
“That’s why I’ve sent for her,” the general said irritably. “This business of sabotaging cupcakes is inexcusable. I—”
There was a rap on the door, and when the general barked, “Come in,” Lester entered, followed by a frightened-looking Cook clutching a wooden spoon.
“Here’s Cook, sir, as you requested,” purred Lester.
“Thank you, my man,” said the general. “Now, Cook, what is the meaning of these cupcakes?”
“I-I’m sorry, General, sir,” said Cook. “I don’t know what you—”
“You used fresh butter, didn’t you, Cook?” asked Sophia.
“I did, ma’am,” said Cook, turning to the silvery gray mouse in confusion. “And eggs freshly laid, and—”
“But what about the writing, Cook?” Ashwover bellowed. “Why did you write ‘FIG’ on my cupcakes?”
“FIG on your . . . ?” Cook raised a hand to her chest. “But, General, I did no such thing.”
The general moved forward in his chair. “Then how do you explain this?”
Cook bustled over and squinted at the cupcakes. The shock in her voice sounded genuine as she said, “I can’t explain it. But I can tell you this, General: I have a six-course dinner to prepare for your guests here. . . .”
Sophia gave a happy murmur.
“. . . and I have no time for such nonsense as writing on cupcakes.”
“Then who did?” the general wanted to know. “Could it have been your kitchen hand, perhaps?”
“Not likely,” said Cook definitely. “He’s got measles. I had to get those two young mice of Fiercely’s to give me a hand this afternoon. Though I don’t know where they’ve got to,” she added crossly. “They promised to come back and peel my potatoes, and they never did, and potatoes don’t peel themselves you know, General.”
“No,” said Ashwover. “I don’t suppose they do.”
“Two young mice of Fiercely’s?” Sophia butted in. “Who are they?”
“Fiercely Jones is the gardener, ma’am,” Cook explained. “And he’s took on a couple of new helpers of late—young orphans from Souris.”
“You don’t say,” murmured Sophia, stroking her long whiskers.
Alice froze.
“What do these helpers of Fiercely Jones look like, Cook?” Sophia asked.
“Well let me think,” said Cook, wrinkling her nose thoughtfully. “The girlie is a chocolatey brown with a white patch.” As Alice peeked out apprehensively from under the desk, Cook rubbed her hip in the approximate place of Alice’s white patch. “And the boyo is white with a brown patch.” Cook tapped her shoulder. “Here.”
“Thank you, Cook, you may go,” Sophia said. The door closed behind her, and there was a few minutes’ silence, during which Sophia made the appreciative noises of someone whose mouth was full of cupcake.
Finally the general heaved a sigh. “Well, Cook didn’t do much to shed light on the situation.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, General,” Sophia disagreed. “It sounds to me like our young friends are close at hand, doesn’t it, Horace? They carried the cupcakes here from the kitchen, but they didn’t return to the kitchen as promised. Where are they now, I wonder. . . .”
Suddenly Sophia pushed her chair back and dropped to the floor.
Alice screamed as Sophia’s face come into view, staring right at her.
“Aha!” cried Sophia. “These are no young orphans from Souris, General. They’re spies!”
As Sophia’s hand shot out to grab her, Alice wriggled backward, colliding with the knee of the general, who reared back in surprise. She was trapped!
She felt a hand seize her wrist. “No!” she cried, but then she heard Alex say urgently, “This way, sis!” He dragged her under the general’s chair and, to the sound of startled gasps from those assembled in the room, they shot out from under the desk and bolted for the door set into the wall.
“Alex,” Alice cried as they plunged into darkness. “Where are we?” She stumbled and almost lost her footing as the ground dropped away abruptly. They were on a set of stairs, she realized.
“Servants’ stairs,” said Alex, releasing her wrist. “Stay close.”
Alice put one hand on the rough stone wall to guide her as she scampered down the winding stairs behind her brother. Above, she could hear Sophia’s voice, sharper than usual.
“Where do the stairs lead, General?” Sophia demanded, her voice loud against the bare stone.
“I don’t know,” came back Ashwover’s voice. “They’re the old servants’ stairs.”
“Then they must lead to the servants’ areas. Someone alert the guards.” Sophia’s voice was growing fainter the further Alice descended, but she clearly heard the silvery voice say, “I’m going after them.”
“I’ll wait here!” the general called after Sophia, as the stairwell above Alice echoed with the pounding of footsteps.