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bring any of this about. But I was sure I’d come up with something.
    Lady Apricot flared her nostrils and gave an abrupt switch of her tail. I could see her turning the idea over and over in her mind.
    I also could see Swiss. He obviously understood by our postures and our scents that something momentous was being discussed, so he was creeping closer and closer.
    â€œOh, botheration, Swiss, you may join us,” I called.
    â€œI am your chief adviser, after all,” he reminded me, taking his customary place by my side. “What’s in the wind?”
    â€œIt’s about Rose. I’ve told my mother our plans for her,” I informed him.
    He stepped backward and shook out his fur into spikes as if it had gotten wet. “You told Lady Apricot our secret?”
    My mother ignored Swiss, to put him in his place. “My son, the idea is brilliant. How do you propose to fulfill these ambitions?”
    I hid my lack of certainty with bold speech. “We must find a way for Rose to go to the prince’s ball.”
    â€œBut Wilhemina won’t allow it,” Swiss objected. “She said so in the kitchen this morning, do you not recall?”
    â€œOf course, we must keep our ears to the walls and figure something out,” I told Swiss.
    Just then a chorus of squeaks and the pitter-patter of many tiny feet heralded the arrival of visitors: our local mice.
    â€œYour Highness! Your Highness!” they cried as they approached.
    My mother edged away from the flood of small creatures, curling her tail tight so none of them would tread upon it and sitting up tall on her haunches to emphasize the fact that she considered mice ill-mannered and pert. I myself am rather charmed by their small size and wee fluting voices, and must occasionally squelch an urge to scoop them up and hug them like nestlings.
    Pompey, the head mouse, showed his respect by running in a circle, then came to rest directly in front of me and saluted. He gave a special little wave to my mother, who put her nose in the air.
    â€œYes, Pompey?” I nodded, with due courtesy. “Have you anything to report in our common cause against Wilhemina?”
    Perhaps I ought to explain that mice require so little in the way of sustenance, they are content to eat the rats’ leftovers—and in return for the food, they are quite useful to us as spies and allies.
    He bowed his head and said, “Your Highness, my people and I were eavesdropping on your speech just now, and we took special note of your concern about the human prince.”
    His mention of eavesdropping caused no surprise for us, nor shame on his part, for all the animals who dwell in Lancastyr Manor keep a close watch upon each other—as is only proper and natural.
    Pompey then said, with a little hop, “After you finished, some of my folk hastened to inform me that Lady Wilhemina—”
    â€œDo not call her a lady,” my mother snorted. “She is no such thing.”
    I paid no heed to Mother’s rude interruption. “Continue, Pompey,” I encouraged him. “What did your mice say?”
    â€œWilhemina is in Eustacia’s bedchamber, and they are arguing about Prince Geoffrey right now,” he said. “They talk of him often, but this time they’re getting rather heated. Is that of interest to you?”
    â€œInterest! Interest!” the other mice shrilled, skipping about until Pompey shushed them.
    â€œI rather think it is,” I replied. “Thank you.” I untied my splendid royal cape and laid it aside with care, then turned to Swiss. “Shall we go?”
    â€œNot without me,” Lady Apricot insisted, and I saw no reason to protest.
    The mice scattered before us as we leapt into action.
    Across the floor, through the walls, and down the dormers we flew, arriving swiftly at Eustacia’s bedchamber. In one corner, concealed by the legs of a bureau, was a comfortable spying-space behind