by Lisa Fiedler
“I guess,” said Hope, placing her paw in Hopper’s.
Hopper recalled the night he’d sat down with Firren and Zucker to discuss recasting the public’s impression of their babies by coming up with a better, more down-to-earth term than the “royal heirs.”
“You can call them the Patriot Pups,” he’d suggested. “That has a nice ring to it.”
“It’s not bad,” Zucker had allowed. “But how about the Children of Democracy?”
“That’s still a bit lofty,” Firren had observed with a grin. She’d thought for a moment, then clapped her hands. “We can continue to refer to them as royal heirs, as long as we’re very clear about the fact that what they are heir to is responsibility and purpose, and not riches and unqualified adoration.”
Zucker had smiled, his eyes twinkling. “I like it,” he’d pronounced. “They’ll be the heirs to our best intentions and our most worthy efforts.”
Hopper had thought that was the perfect way to look at it, but in truth he would have loved the little rats no matter what anyone called them.
Now Hope was tugging at the sleeve of his tunic, giving him her most glowing smile. “Of all us royal heirs, I’m your favorite, aren’t I, Uncle Hopper?”
Hopper beamed at her. It was true that Hope held a special place in her godfather’s heart. And with very good reason:
When the royal litter had arrived, Hopper and Pinkie had both been there to provide Zucker, the nervous first-time father, some much-needed support and distraction. Marcy, back in the palace on one of her rare visits, had skillfully assisted the midwife, Maimonides, who’d come all the way from the Mūs village to lend her experience and expertise. When Mamie, as the midwife was called, handed Zucker his firstborn—a daughter—he’d kissed the squirming infant on her forehead and promptly named her Gowanus.
Marcy gave the second pup, a boy, to Pinkie to hold.
“We’ll call him Verrazano,” Zucker decreed. “Raz for short.”
Little Raz’s first royal act was to spit up all over Pinkie’s golden cape. Hopper took some brotherly pleasure in seeing that.
Two more pups arrived, mewling and cooing—twins, one male, one female. They were christened Fiske and Brighton, and handed to Dodger to snuggle. At last the fifth and final royal rat-ling entered the world. Yet another precious baby girl.
“Hope,” Firren whispered, exhausted but happy. “Her name is Hope. After your mother, Hopper.”
Hopper had been too choked up to speak at first, so touched was he by such a tribute. “It’s a lovely name,” he whispered at last, when Marcy placed the babe in his arms. The rush of love he’d felt was nearly indescribable. Such innocence, he thought, gazing down at her scrunched-up little face. Such possibility and promise.
But it was immediately clear that Princess Hope was by far the smallest of Firren’s litter—the runt, as Pinkie might have said in the old days. It was also evident that the newborn princess was in great distress. She struggled to catch her breath, writhing and squirming, as though the act of living was simply beyond her capability.
Marcy had given Hopper a somber look. “Keep her warm,” she advised softly. “And think good thoughts.”
While the other four robust heirs had snuggled up to their empress mother in peaceful slumber, poor little Hope wheezed and gasped and shuddered, fighting for her life.
As the night wore on, Hope’s condition worsened. Zucker was inconsolable, sick with worry. For hours he paced the palace floor, stomping his paws in anger, crying out in frustration and sending off muttered wishes to La Rocha (something Zucker rarely did) that his infant daughter might be spared.
Hopper saw in Hope’s pale little features how much she resembled her father, the friend and comrade he loved so dearly; he simply could not stand the thought of what it would do to Zucker and Firren if they lost this precious bundle. So the Chosen One had held the shivering pup while murmuring words of encouragement and hope, humming to her gently and keeping her warm all through that endless night.
“I don’t know what else to do,” he’d said to Marcy, his voice trembling.
Marcy had smiled. “Tell her a story. Tell her your story. I can’t imagine a better pep talk.”
So Hopper did. He told the sickly baby about his brave escape from the pet shop, his fall into the tunnels, and his journey to becoming the Chosen One. He cradled the baby close to his heart, hoping the powerful beat of it would somehow transfer to her and give her the strength she needed. Her own tiny heart was beating quickly but quietly . . . much too quietly for Hopper’s comfort; still, he continued to whisper in her dainty, translucent ear:
“I know it’s hard to be strong, and even harder to be brave,” he confided. “When I thought I couldn’t carry on a moment longer, I found the strength in my own little mouse heart to do it. You must do the same, Hope! You must find the courage in your heart to be strong.” He cuddled her even more snugly to his chest, hoping the steady rhythm of his heartbeat would calm her, inspire her, make her well.
And suddenly she opened her eyes—two miniature black jewels they were, glittering with curiosity and determination as they stared up into the weary but grateful face of her protector.
Hopper’s relieved and joyful countenance, with its distinctive white circle of fur around the right eye, had been the first thing Hope had ever seen. The two had been best pals ever since.
Sometimes Hopper imagined he could still feel the wispy flutter of her newborn heartbeat against his chest. He understood that part of the reason he adored Hope so much was that she reminded him of Pup back in the days when they’d lived together in the cage in Keep’s shop. Back then, Pup had been helpless and trusting and sweet. But now . . .
In Hopper’s mind’s eye, he could still see the last missive dispatched by La Rocha:
BEWARE THE TINY VILLAIN
RINGED IN A CIRCLE OF GLOOM
FOR HE IS THE THIEF WHO STEALS OUR HOPE
AND THE LOSS OF HOPEFUL IS DOOM
Now into the frame of his imagination floated an image of his brother the last time he’d seen him; in this recollection Pup had a menacing scowl on his once-sweet face. And his eye! Like Hopper’s and Pinkie’s, one of Pup’s eyes was outlined with a circle. But this was no natural birthmark of soft white fur. This coal-black circle had been added by Pup himself with a sooty stone—an angry tattoo. A self-inflicted stain meant to reflect outwardly the darkness that had overtaken him from within.
Again, Hopper pushed aside his grim thoughts and gave Hope’s paw a squeeze.
“Come on now, back to the palace.”
She gave him a coy flutter of her eyelashes. “Just out of curiosity, how exactly might a princess earn herself a whirligig?”
“Well . . .” Hopper threw her a wink. “Perhaps by working hard at your lessons. If you do that, not only will you show Brighton that you are just as smart as she is, but I will personally take you out to the market square to buy you whichever whirligig you choose. Okay?”
Hope nodded hard, her eyes shining. “Okay. But tell me again about the time you went upland in a Windbreaker and met a cat named Ace and a white lab mouse named Carroll and ate eggplant parmigiana at Bellissimo’s Deli.”
“Again?” Hopper laughed. “You’ve heard it a million times already.”
“I know, but I like to hear about the daylight world. Tell me everything about Brooklyn, New York!”
So Hopper retold the whole incredible story of the enormous Barclays Center, and the sprawling grasslands where his friend Valky the bespectacled chipmunk lived, and the Italian delicatessen where a stout bulldog named Capone lolled contentedly on a plump pillow by the back door.
Hope gasped at the part where Hopper found himself hanging off the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge, and she sighed dreamily when he told her how he’d gone weak in his little mouse knees the moment he’d first laid eyes on Carroll.
“I would like to meet her someday,” Hope said.
Hopper felt a flutter in his belly.
He wouldn’t mind seeing Carroll again himself.
“Well, I’d be happy to introduce you, but only good students get to go upland,” he explained. “So . . . let’s get you to that schoolroom.”
Together the unlikely pair—the pet-store mouse and the princess rat—made their way back down the long flight of stairs and into the palace.
Neither had any idea they were being watched.
CHAPTER TWO
PUP HAD HEARD EVERYTHING.
Thanks to his eight-legged friend, Hacklemesh, Hopper’s little brother had been present during the entire conversation, hovering . . . listening.
Hack was not only a loyal companion but a powerful weaver as well. He’d wrapped Pup in a snug cocoon of spider silk and slowly lowered him to dangle above the ledge while clinging with his craggy legs to a high spot on the outer wall of the tunnel.
Hopper had had no idea that Pup was looming overhead the entire time he and Hope had been talking . . . which was precisely how Pup had planned it. He couldn’t proceed with his plan until he determined Hopper’s (and the city’s) current mood. Hanging there like a caught fly, Pup had been closer to his brother than he’d been in what felt like ages. It had taken all he had to keep from reaching out for Hopper with both paws; he’d wanted to grasp him with all his strength . . .
And say . . .
Well, he did not know exactly what he would have said to his brother at this point. There were so many feelings inside him; feelings that were, it seemed, almost beyond expression.
Now, as Pup regained his footing on the narrow blister of tile that buckled out from the tunnel wall, he swept away Hack’s silk from his belly and shoulders. He wished he could sweep away his mistakes as easily.
And oh, what monumental mistakes Pup had made! Who would have believed that such a tiny creature could err so enormously?
“Look at this place, Hack,” he said, gesturing with a paw at the bustling city below. “So much is happening. Rodents are accomplishing things. All kinds of things! Every individual has his own piece of the power.”
Hacklemesh blinked all eight of his eyes at once. Pup took this as a sign of agreement. He continued to survey the activity of Atlantia, overwhelmed by the pace of its commerce, the sense of its purpose. Here was an entire society of well-meaning rodents, united in their common goal of peace and prosperity. And for the last several weeks Pup had skulked around the dank tunnels thinking of only one thing: how to destroy it.
It was an obsession that had very nearly destroyed him.
For so long, Hopper and their sister, Pinkie, the celebrated Chosen Ones, had refused to give Pup the responsibility and stature he craved. They’d been far more intent on sheltering and protecting him. He had to admit, after creeping around in these unpredictable tunnels, he had come to understand just how much there was to be protected from. Still, his escape from the Mūs village had given him the autonomy and independence he’d believed he deserved.
But independence was scary.
Not to mention exhausting.
And lonely.
He closed his eyes now (one of them still stained with the dark, chalky marking with which he’d encircled it) to picture Hopper and the rat child standing together on the ledge. The warmth and affection in the Chosen One’s voice had been impossible to miss. He was her protector now.
Pup wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about that.
But he was sure of this . . .
It was time to finish what he’d come here to do.
All he needed was the guts.
CHAPTER THREE
THE BATTLE RAGED.
Rats pounced, dove, and ducked for cover in a riot of tails, ears, and whiskers. There were screams of fury and shouts for mercy. At last a sword came slashing to rest with its tip poised against a swiftly beating heart.
All went silent as the attacker and his victim stared each other down.
“Remove that blade, sir,” the victim demanded.
The swordsman laughed, twirling his weapon carelessly. “You aren’t the boss of me. And besides, it ain’t even real.”
“ ‘Ain’t’ is not a word,” someone corrected from the far side of the battlefield. “The proper grammar is ‘it’s not even real.’ ”
“Oh yeah?” snapped the swordsman, Fiske, who had his paw planted firmly on his victim’s tail. “Well, neither are your eyeglasses, Brighton. Everybody knows you only wear ’em to make yourself look smart!”
“Smart-er,” Brighton huffed, pushing her round-rimmed spectacles up higher on her snout.
“I captured Gowanus fair and square,” Fiske insisted. “She’s my prisoner.”
Before Brighton could comment, Gowanus—despite still having a sword aimed at her chest—raised her chin and glared with flashing eyes.
“I’m going to tell you one more time, Fiske of Romanus. Remove that silly toy blade this instant before you mess up my fur. I just combed it!”
Fiske huffed but obeyed his slightly older sister, grudgingly slipping the wooden sword back into its sheath. “You’re such a priss, Go-go, ya know that?”
“She is not a priss,” Brighton defended.
“Oh no?” Fiske, the self-proclaimed jester of the royal brood, gave each of his sisters a wicked grin. “Well, if she’s not, then she won’t care if I do this!” With that, he flung out a paw and snatched the pretty ribbon right off Go-go’s head.
“Give that back!” Go-go commanded.
“Give it back, Fiskey!” shrieked Brighton to her twin.
“Hah!” cried Fiske. “Make me!”
The scuffle resumed in full force. From the doorway, Hopper and Hope watched in amazement as the three heirs tumbled over one another, squirming, pounding, nipping, and kicking.
“Now do you see why I don’t like the schoolroom?” Hope asked with a sigh.
Hopper had to admit, he didn’t blame her. “It is a bit rowdy.”
Fiske had now succeeded in maneuvering his weapon so that it was pressed to the tip of Brighton’s nose. Brighton pinched him hard on the snout, and Go-go used this distraction as her opening to surprise Fiske, grabbing her ribbon out of his thieving claws. Unfortunately, Fiske was fast and spry; he released Brighton but sprung at Go-go and wrestled her to the ground. Brighton flung herself on top of the brawling pair so that the three of them were once again fighting with all their might.
“Enough!” came a bold voice from the corner.
The word brought the action to an instantaneous halt, even before the echo of this confident command had faded to silence. With guilty expressions the siblings untangled themselves and scrambled to their feet, brushing off jerkins, straightening petticoats, and righting bent whiskers.
“Now they’re in for it,” Hope whispered.
But the cease-fire directive had not come from the siblings’ schoolmaster. Nor had it come from their father, Zucker, or their mother, the fierce and lovely Firren. The demand had been uttered by Verrazano, the second oldest royal sibling, who was now strutting out of his shadowy corner to frown at his littermates. Raz proudly donned a smaller version of the purple-and-silver tunic worn by Zucker’s soldiers. He had inherited his father’s height and bulk, as well as his mother’s intensity. Young as he was, he cut an imposing figure there among the rest of the rumpled heirs, who had now fallen into a crooked line and were all staring down at their paws or flicking their tails in nervous anticipation of a much-deserved scolding.
Raz folded his arms and walked slowly along the line, sizing up his siblings like a five-star general examining his troops. Then he made a tsk tsk sound and shook his head. “This conduct is unbecoming,” he declared. “How will we ever defeat our enemies if we can’t keep peace amongst ourselves?”
“What enemies?” Gowanus asked. “Everybody loves us!”
Verrazano rolled his eyes. “The schoolmaster will be here any minute,” he continued. “Now, all three of you to your desks. When he arrives, we will stand and greet him in a polite and civilized manner. Is that u
nderstood?”
“Understood,” his siblings mumbled. They shuffled off to their respective seats and bent their heads low over their books and lessons. Raz gave a satisfied nod.
Then he noticed Hopper and Hope in the doorway. He immediately executed an elegant bow.
“Chosen One,” he said in a noble tone. “It is inspiring indeed to have such a valiant mouse in our humble schoolroom.”
From her desk, Brighton made a face. “Oh, brother.”
Hopper had to laugh.
A commotion in the hallway announced the arrival of another visitor: their father. Hopper could hear the flurry of salutations, the clicking of heavy boots, and the rustle of skirts as soldiers stood at attention and maids curtsied to their liege. Zucker’s own booming voice rang along the corridor as he greeted his staff, replied to queries, and granted favors.
“Daddy’s here!” cried Go-go.
“Don’t you think you should call him ‘Highness’?” Raz admonished.
“Don’t you think you should mind your own business?” Go-go shot back.
When Zucker strode into the schoolroom, Hope jumped into his arms and he caught her effortlessly.
“I see you’ve been playing dress-up in your grandmamma’s old wardrobe again,” he said, watching as she adjusted her tiara, which had slipped down over her eye.
“It’s not playing dress-up when you’re an actual princess,” she informed her father sweetly. “It’s just being dressed.”
“Honestly, Hope, the way you and Raz cling to the old ways is positively archaic,” Brighton challenged. “You pretend to be so fancy and regal!”
“Be nice, Brighton,” Zucker chided. “Your brother and sister are entitled to their opinion. If they want to play prince and princess, there’s nothing wrong with that. As long as they know our real government functions differently now.”
“Yes, but how am I supposed to concentrate with all those diamonds and ruffles all over the place?” Brighton huffed. She removed her faux eyeglasses and polished them on the hem of her simple cotton school dress. “It’s impossible to focus without all that . . . what do you call it, Hope? Zing?”