For Your Paws Only (20 page)

“Snug, isn't it?” asked Glory, sliding her skateboard into its slot in the closet. She hung her backpack neatly on its peg above a plumply upholstered bench and led the way upstairs.

As they climbed the staircase that wound through the heart of the tree, Glory lifted her elegant little nose and sniffed the air. “Mmmm, mmmm,” she said. “A real Thanksgiving feast!” She sighed a deep, contented sigh.

“Do you really think they'll like me?” fretted Bunsen, as the sound of conversation and laughter drew closer.

Glory paused. She turned and looked down on him from the stair above, then leaned over impulsively and kissed the tip of his nose. “What's not to like?” she replied with a saucy wink.

Upstairs, they found the Goldenleaf family seated around a long, narrow table (a dominoes box foraged long ago from the nearby mansion's attic). At one end was Glory's distinguished field-mouse father, General Dumbarton Goldenleaf; at the other sat Glory's mother, Gingersnap Goldenleaf, a pleasantly round gray house mouse with a particularly attractive set of whiskers.
Julius Folger was seated to her right. Hotspur was nowhere to be seen. Rumor had it that his uncle had sent him packing—posted him to a desk job in Nome, Alaska, to cool his tail for a bit and reflect on the reckless decision that had nearly cost two spy mice—not to mention several humans—their lives.

Ringing the rest of the table were Glory's sixteen brothers and sisters. Perched in matchbox high chairs near their mother were Truffle and Taffy, the babies (or candy batch, as they were called, for in honor of her Bakery Guild roots Gingersnap Goldenleaf had given all her children names that reflected their house-mouse heritage). Farther down, where their father could keep an eye on them, were the school-age “cookies,” Snickerdoodle, Macaroon, Hermit, and Brownie. Seated around them were the “French pastries,” Croissant, Éclair, Petit Four, Napoleon, and Chantilly. The oldest batch of Goldenleaf offspring, they had moved out last year and were already launched on lives of their own. Soon, Glory knew, it would be her turn to leave the nest and make her way in the world, but for now she was perfectly happy living here at home.

A shout of laughter went up around the room as B-Nut finished describing the aerial pigeon bombing of Jordan and Tank in Times Square.

“You should have seen their faces when they saw themselves on the billboards!” he said with glee. “A real pair of great white sharks!”

Gingersnap Goldenleaf looked over toward the doorway. “Glory!” she cried in delight. “You're home!” She sprang up from the table and scampered over to hug her daughter. “Shove over,” she said to the “muffins” (in addition to B-Nut, Glory's batchmates were Chip, Bran, Pumpkin, and Blueberry). “Make room for our guests of honor.”

She turned to Bunsen. “You must be Glory's beau!” she said, enveloping the lab mouse in a warm hug, too. “I've heard so much about you, Mr. Burner.”

“You have?” Bunsen looked surprised.

“Certainly,” said Gingersnap, shooting her husband a significant look. “Haven't we, dear?”

“Uh, yes, of course. Absolutely. Quite right. Glory talks of little else.” General Goldenleaf stood up, extending his paw. “Good to see you again, Bunsen. I understand from B-Nut here that we owe our daughter's life to you once more.”

“Well, I—uh, that is—” Bunsen stammered.

“C'mon, Bunsen, admit it,” said B-Nut. “You're a hero!”

“I don't know about that,” replied the lab mouse. “Glory helped, too. And don't forget Bubble and Squeak.”

“Who are Bubble and Squeak?” piped Snickerdoodle.

Julius winked at him. “That's For Your Paws Only,” he whispered. “Top secret.” He lifted his cider cup in a toast. “Here's to the many brave mice in this room, and to all their colleagues!”

“Especially Bunsen,” said Glory, reaching over and clasping the lab mouse's pale paw in her own soft brown one. “He's true-blue. And far too modest.” She took a seat beside Julius.

“So glad to see you home safe and sound, my dear,” said the elder mouse. “And hearty congratulations for disposing so neatly of Dupont. Not to mention all the rest of the Global Rodent Roundtable.”

Glory frowned. She wasn't so sure that Roquefort Dupont wouldn't turn up again. He had more lives than a cat. Still, no point worrying about it now. Pushing all unpleasant rodent thoughts aside, she surveyed the room with satisfaction. It was painted a warm, glowing cranberry with glossy white trim, and portraits of Goldenleaf ancestors beamed down at them from the walls. A cheery blaze burned in the fireplace, its light joined by that of the twinkling birthday candle chandelier overhead. And the table! Glory's mother had outdone herself with the table. The crisp white tablecloth was spread with all of their finest things—bowls made from polished walnut shells, crystal punch cups foraged from an abandoned dollhouse a century ago, and her family's prized heirlooms, gleaming in the candlelight: tiny silver salt spoons plucked from the rubbish by an enterprising Goldenleaf after a careless servant at Dumbarton Oaks had thrown them out.

Bunsen, meanwhile, eyed the bounty. A generous tureen of butternut-squash soup held place of honor in
the center of the table. Surrounding it were platters piled high with golden kernels of corn, yeast rolls, toasted nuts, apple slices, and more. On the sideboard, a row of pumpkin pies awaited the dessert course.

“This looks wonderful,” he said happily.

“Please help yourself,” said Gingersnap Goldenleaf, and the feast began.

Glory gazed around the table fondly at her family and friends. She couldn't remember ever feeling more content. She had an adventurous job by day and a cozy home to return to at night. Best of all, at her side was a fine, brave, loyal mouse who loved her, and whom she loved in return.

I'm the luckiest mouse in the whole wide world,
thought Glory.

“Bunsen,” she whispered.

“Mmmm?” replied her colleague. His mouth was full of chestnut stuffing, and he had a blissful expression on his face. Behind them, where no one else could see, his tail was intertwined with hers.

Glory smiled. “Please pass the cranberry sauce.”

DAY ONE • DECEMBER 23 • 0001 HOURS

At exactly one minute
past midnight, a large black taxicab turned into the sweeping drive in front of London's Savoy Hotel.

A mouseling stepped out of the shadow of the curb as the vehicle approached. Its headlights caught the hopeful gleam in his bright little eyes. He watched as the cab pulled up smartly in front of the entrance. It swished through a puddle as it did so, drenching him with icy water.

The mouseling slumped back against the curb, the hopeful look instantly extinguished. He'd thought that perhaps his luck had finally changed. It hadn't. Not one bit. He swiped dejectedly at his sodden face with a grimy paw and sneezed. What a horrid night! The skies were spouting the kind of cold, sleeting rain that only London in late December could produce—and now this. His slight body shook violently, and the mouseling wrapped his tail tightly around himself in a vain attempt to keep warm.

Shivering, he watched as the cab driver hopped out and trotted round to open the door for his passengers. The mouseling's tummy rumbled. Not only had he had no luck tonight, he'd had nothing to eat either. He hadn't earned it yet. “Only mouselings who sing for their supper get their supper,” Master always said.

And the mouseling desperately wanted to please Master. Master was the giver of all that was good: food, warmth, praise. The mouseling owed Master his life. Before Master, he'd been nothing. An urchin. A throwaway. “Nobody wants worthless street trash like you,” Master reminded him often. Reminded all of them often. “Nobody but me.”

Still shivering, the mouseling peered over the curb as two pairs of feet emerged from the taxi: a lady's and a gentleman's. His tiny heart began to beat a little faster. Maybe his luck had changed after all. The gentleman's shoes were highly polished and expensive looking. The lady's stylish sandals crisscrossed her pale toes with narrow straps. Useless for walking, especially in this weather, but perfect for making an impressive entrance at one of London's poshest hotels. Which was just the sort of thing that toffs liked to do.

“You can always tell a toff by his shoes,” Master had instructed. “That and his bags. Toffs like to spend money on shoes and bags.”

The cab driver removed a trio of suitcases from the taxi's trunk and placed them on the sidewalk. The
mouseling watched intently. He lifted his grubby little nose into the air and sniffed. Leather! Expensive leather. Hope soared in him once again. This was what he'd been waiting for all evening. These were just the sort of bags that toffs liked to take to fancy hotels.

And toffs—upper-crust, well-heeled, wealthy humans—were what the mouseling was after tonight. What all Master's mouselings were after in every corner of the city tonight.

The small mouse's tummy rumbled again.
Right, then.
Time to get to work if he fancied any supper. He shouldered his soggy duffel bag (made from the toe of a sock) and with a practiced leap swung himself up over the curb. As the taxicab pulled away, he tumbled into the cuff of the gentleman's well-cut trousers, and a moment later the Savoy's doorman ushered the two human guests—and one unseen mouseling—inside the hotel.

DAY ONE • DECEMBER 23 • 0001 HOURS

The British airport official
looked up from the counter at the chubby boy standing in front of him. “Purpose of your visit?” he asked.

The boy, who was sweating profusely, prodded at the round, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. “Uh, I guess, uh—” he stammered, still a bit groggy from the long flight from Washington, D.C. Nervous, too. This was his last hurdle. Once he passed through immigration and customs he was home free.

“Purpose of your visit?” repeated the man. There was a note of irritation in his voice. Behind the boy, a long line of waiting travelers snaked through the airport's crowded screening area. “Business or pleasure?”

“Um,” said the boy. A bit of both was the correct answer, but how many ten-year-olds had business in London? He didn't want to arouse suspicion. He couldn't afford to do that. Not with what he had hidden in his shoe. “Um,” he said again.

“Are you hard of hearing, lad?” demanded the official, glaring at him. “What's your name, anyway?” He squinted down at the passport that lay open on the counter in front of him. His bushy eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath the bill of his uniform cap. “Ozymandias Levinson? Blimey, who names a kid Ozymandias?”

A blush eclipsed the boy's round moon of a face. “It's just Oz, actually,” he muttered. He glanced anxiously over to where his parents, whose passports had already been approved and stamped, were waiting.

Oz had never seen such a busy airport. Two days before Christmas, Heathrow was a virtual crush of humanity. The corridors and waiting areas were jammed with people of all shapes and sizes and colors from every corner of the world. Europe, Asia, Africa, India. Women in bright saris. Men in business suits and turbans. Students with backpacks; parents with babies in strollers. Old people, young people, all of them squeezing through the checkpoint like soda through the neck of a bottle, eager to pop out the other side and explore the great city of London that lay just beyond the airport's doors.

Oz took a deep breath. He needed to say something, and fast. He needed to say one word: “Pleasure.” Only problem was, it was a lie. Not completely, but still a lie. And Oz wasn't very good at lying. He got red in the face. He stammered. He broke out in a sweat. Just like he was
doing now.
Get a grip, Levinson,
he told himself sternly.
James Bond would lie.

James Bond was Oz's hero. The British superspy was always rock steady under pressure. Just like he, Oz Levinson, would be when he was a grown-up secret agent someday. He was sort of a secret agent already—an honorary one, anyway. Only he wasn't very good at it yet.

The airport official tapped the end of his pen against Oz's passport impatiently.

The name is Levinson. Oz Levinson,
Oz repeated silently, steeling himself with his favorite mantra. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and prepared to lie.

“Excuse me, but are you nearly finished?” said a female voice.

Oz's eyes flew open. He looked up in surprise. Way up. So did the airport official. Oz's mother was standing beside them. At nearly six feet tall, she towered over the seated man. He frowned.

“It's forbidden to return to this checkpoint,” he said severely.

Another official in uniform hustled over. He placed a newspaper on the counter and pointed to one of the headlines, then leaned down and whispered something into his colleague's ear. Oz caught the phrase “VIP.”