by Lynne Jonell
The little mouse nodded.
“Even knowing what that means for you?” The professor spoke very gently.
“What? What does it mean?” asked Emmy, glancing from the professor to the mouse.
The Endear Mouse nodded again, looking determined.
“Very well,” said the professor, hanging a small tag around its neck. “Here are the directions, Emmy. Don’t read them until you get to your room.”
Brian and Emmy stood in the shadows near her back door, listening. No sound came from the house; no light shone through the windows.
They had picked up her backpack on the way. Raston and Cecilia had hung out of the side pockets, while the Endear Mouse had preferred to ride on her shoulder.
“Do you have your key?” Brian whispered.
Emmy nodded. “Good night,” she whispered as she slipped inside.
“Mrrrrow?”
The rodents squeaked. Muffy strolled into the kitchen as coolly as if she had spent the night on her own kitty bed, rather than terrorizing innocent little creatures.
“I know what you did last night,” Emmy whispered, looking sternly into the yellow green eyes shining in the darkened kitchen. “Bad Muffy. Bad.”
Muffy stared back, looking bored, and padded silently up the stairs to the housekeeper’s room. Emmy followed, strongly tempted to indulge in a little cat kicking; the Endear Mouse was trembling on her shoulder.
Once safely in her bedroom, Emmy took the rodents to the dollhouse. Raston and Sissy seemed glad to curl up on the beds, but the Endear Mouse wouldn’t let go.
“All right,” said Emmy, walking back to her bed. “You can sleep on my pillow, if you want.”
The Endear Mouse ran down Emmy’s sleeve and jumped onto the bed. Then it turned and hugged her bare wrist, its arms as far around as they could reach.
“Bad cat,” said a small voice.
Emmy looked at the mouse, startled. “Did you speak?”
The Endear Mouse looked confused. It withdrew its paw and shook its head.
“But I heard you say, ‘Bad cat.’ I didn’t know you could speak.”
The mouse edged closer and touched Emmy’s hand again. “I can’t.”
Emmy stared at the tiny face. The mouth hadn’t opened. Yet she had heard the words as plain as anything.
“Can you … hear me?” The eyes of the Endear Mouse widened in question as the words made their way into Emmy’s mind.
“Yes!” whispered Emmy. “When you touch me—I can hear you think!”
The Endear Mouse’s face lit with joy, and Emmy laughed, delighted. The mouse had touched her before, but always so briefly that Emmy hadn’t registered its thoughts. And now—what an amazing thing!
The mouse bounced on Emmy’s pillow, kicking its legs and laughing. Then it curled itself up in a little ball of fluff, tucked its nose beneath its paws, and nestled down to sleep.
The instruction tag was still around its neck, and looked uncomfortable. Emmy found small scissors in her bedside table and carefully cut the string. The tag came free and opened in her hand. Taped to the inside was a needle, long and sharp and hollow.
“‘Endear Mouse,’” she read. “‘Makes the absent heart grow fonder. Steep one hair from the beloved in three drops of heart’s blood. Survival of the mouse is not guaranteed.’”
EMMY STIRRED, opened her eyes, and gazed for a moment at the sun on her pillow. It lay golden across her hand and the sleeping Endear Mouse, shining through the window blinds in stripes of shadow and light.
Emmy’s eye was inches from the mouse. She could see the small pink nose, and the closed eyes, and the gossamer fur that rose and fell with each quick breath. Carefully, delicately, Emmy moved her hand, just touching the mouse’s tiny chest.
The pulse was rapid, as rapid as a bird’s. She could feel it beating against her fingertip.
What, exactly, was she supposed to do with the hollow needle? Plunge it into the mouse’s little heart? And then what?
Emmy shut her eyes. She imagined herself putting the drops of blood on her parents’ hairs, while the Endear Mouse lay dying—
She opened her eyes abruptly, willing away the thought. Her gaze fell on the little frame on her bedside table, and her parents’ smiling faces.
No. The tag didn’t say the mouse would die. It just said “Survival of the mouse is not guaranteed.” Most times, it would probably live.
On the other hand, she wasn’t just talking about making one heart grow fonder. She was talking about two. That would mean two hairs—one from each of her parents. That would mean six drops of blood.
Emmy looked at the mouse, small and defenseless.
And then she made a decision.
She would not do it.
Emmy sat up and threw back the covers. She wasn’t going to think about this anymore. She had decided. Even if her parents went away again, even if it took months for the chinchilla effect to wear off, even if she was stuck with Miss Barmy all that time, she would not use the Endear Mouse, and everything would still turn out fine in the end. Because this time she had Joe and the professor and Raston and Brian to help her, not to mention Mrs. Bunjee and Buck and Chippy and Sissy and all the rest.
Emmy leaped out of bed and brushed her hair vigorously. That was why Miss Barmy had gone to the school and done her weird atmostherapy, trying to make sure that no one ever noticed her. Friends are people who help when things go wrong; but Miss Barmy had wanted her to be alone, without any help at all.
“Well, I’ve got friends now,” said Emmy, throwing down her brush and opening the window.
“I want to look out, too,” said the Rat from the playroom door. “Fresh air is good for sprained ankles, right?”
“Probably,” said Emmy, lifting the Rat to the windowsill. “Good morning, Ratty.”
“Afternoon, I’d say.” He leaned out and tried to grab a fluttering oak leaf.
Emmy looked at the clock, startled. It was past lunchtime! Of course she had been up most of the night, so it wasn’t surprising that she had slept so long. But why hadn’t anyone gotten her up for school?
There was a brisk knock. Maggie bumped the door open with her hip and came in carrying a glass on a tray.
“So you’re finally awake, Em—EEEEEEEK!”
“Shhh—don’t scream, please—”
“It’s a RAT!” Maggie’s whisper sounded like a tiny screech.
“It’s … it’s dead,” said Emmy quickly, turning the Rat over on his back. He grinned sardonically, let his eyes roll back in his head, and kept his paws stiff in the air. Even in her panic, Emmy had to admire his acting talent. He looked as if he had been dead for days.
“What on earth,” Maggie said hoarsely, “are you doing with a dead rat?”
“It’s a science project,” Emmy said, glancing at her pillow in time to see the Endear Mouse scurry off the bed. “Please don’t tell Miss Barmy, please.”
Maggie looked at her doubtfully. “But a rat—”
“Please please please please please please—”
Maggie sighed. “Oh, all right. But keep it out of sight, and if it starts to smell—”
“I’ll get rid of it,” Emmy promised. “Um, why didn’t anyone wake me up for school?”
“Miss Barmy wanted you to stay home today,” Maggie said, plumping Emmy’s pillow and pulling up the covers.
“Why?” Emmy asked, but immediately knew the answer. Miss Barmy had planned to do “atmostherapy” today. Of course she didn’t want Emmy around.
“She says your nutritional balance is upset—”
Emmy rolled her eyes.
“—and she says you have to drink this—”
Emmy looked at the glass filled with blue liquid and shuddered.
“—and then rest all day because your parents want you at their charity event tonight—”
“Really?”
“—for exactly two minutes, to be shown off.”
“Oh.” Emmy hesitated. “Maggie, why toni
ght? My parents usually don’t want me around when they have a party.”
She waited for the answer, holding her breath. Was the chinchilla footprint wearing off early for some reason?
Maggie opened the door to the hall. “It’s because the event is for the Society for the Protection of Abandoned and Neglected Kids. The chairman thought it would be nice to have a real child there, and you happen to be around.”
“Oh,” said Emmy, as Maggie closed the door gently behind her.
There was a derisive snort from the Rat as he sat up, massaging his arms. “She has got to be kidding. ‘The Society for the Protection of Abandoned and Neglected Kids’?”
“S.P.A.N.K.,” said Cecilia brightly, emerging from the toyroom.
“Why don’t they protect you?” Raston demanded, skidding into the room, his ankle apparently all better. “Why don’t they stay at home for once, and get rid of that loathsome nanny, and stop neglecting their own daughter?”
Emmy had no answer. She poured the glass of blue liquid into the toilet and flushed.
“Come on, Sissy,” said the Rat, taking his sister’s paw. “You, too, Endear. I want to show you the train. It really goes!”
Emmy, hungry after missing both breakfast and lunch, headed for the kitchen. She was halfway down the grand staircase when she heard Miss Barmy’s voice below.
“I have enough on my mind without your interference.”
Emmy stopped dead on the stairs and turned to face the wall. It was covered with old portraits. They had come with the house and no one had ever bothered to take them down, and they were as good an excuse as any for standing motionless on the steps. She gazed at a picture of an old man in a pinstriped suit who looked familiar.
Well, of course he looked familiar … she must have walked by his portrait a thousand times. Emmy stared blankly at his gold tie pin and listened carefully.
“I know the charity event is tonight, Mrs. Brecksniff, but I absolutely had to visit Emmaline’s school today—uoough—”
Miss Barmy’s voice stopped suddenly with a little grunt, and all at once the entryway echoed with a rich, ripe, startlingly loud fart.
There was a stunned silence below. Emmy peeked over the banister. And then the odor hit her, rolling toward her nose with the power of an exploding bomb. It was, quite simply, the worst thing she had ever smelled. A combination of old garbage and decaying flesh and skunk all together might possibly be as bad, but she doubted it.
“Perhaps some fresh air,” said Maggie hastily, opening a window.
“I meant to say,” Miss Barmy amended quickly, “that it was important to me to visit Emmaline’s school today.”
The smell disappeared at once. Miss Barmy, who had faltered for a moment, soldiered on. “The florist is arriving at four, the caterers at five, and the bartenders at six, but I shall be attending to Emmaline.” She paused, experimentally. There was no smell.
“She is my first priority, you understand,” Miss Barmy added, and promptly let loose another ear-splitter.
Mrs. Brecksniff gagged audibly. There was a low moan from Maggie. Emmy plugged her nose a second too late.
Miss Barmy raised her voice angrily. “Well, maybe not my very first priority, but her nutritional balance is at a critical point, she needs me to watch over her—aiiiieeee!” She let another one rip, even worse than before.
Mrs. Brecksniff fanned the air desperately with both hands. Maggie put her head right out the window and gasped for air.
“I’m only concerned for her well-being!” shrieked Miss Barmy and ran up the stairs without even seeing Emmy, followed by a rapid-fire burst of popping gas and a cloud of noxious fumes.
The horrible smell lingered a moment, then was abruptly gone. Mrs. Brecksniff and Maggie stared up in wonder.
“That,” murmured Mrs. Brecksniff, awestruck, “was enough to choke a buffalo.”
“Did you notice,” said Maggie slowly, “it only seemed to happen when she said something that—well, that was probably—”
“A lie,” whispered Emmy, realization dawning. A wide grin spread over her face as she remembered the dusty brown bottle she and Joe had pushed across the shelf to Brian. Oil of Beaver—guaranteed to sniff out a lie! And Brian had told Miss Barmy to be sure to smear it on with her fingertips …
Emmy ran back upstairs and stopped outside Miss Barmy’s door. The nanny’s voice was high with hysteria.
“And not only didn’t it work at school, but now every time I say anything to anybody, there’s this awful smell—”
Emmy could hear Miss Barmy pacing back and forth.
“I don’t care what the label said, it didn’t work!” Miss Barmy shrilled. “I smeared it on the candle like you said, and then the very minute I was finished, that teacher—Heesabore, whatever his name is—asked about Emmaline! He remembered her! Oh, it was terrible. I had no influence over them at all!”
Emmy walked to her father’s office and picked up the phone very quietly, muffling the mouthpiece with her hand.
“My dear Miss Barmy, I see it now,” said Professor Capybara’s soothing voice over the wire. “Scent of Shrew was on the shelf right next to Oil of Beaver. My assistant must have gotten the two confused.”
“Your assistant? Who are you, then?”
“I am Professor Capybara, Cheswick Vole’s new partner. While Cheswick is … unavailable, I take full responsibility for any problems that may arise.”
“Well, you can start by firing that fool with the long beard and hairy nose!”
“My dear lady,” said Professor Capybara’s reassuring voice, “I know this must be terribly upsetting. But the oil should wear off in a few days—”
“A FEW DAYS?” shouted Miss Barmy. Emmy held the receiver slightly away from her ear.
“—but until then, I strongly suggest that you tell the truth. The Oil of Beaver, absorbed through the skin, allows everyone in your vicinity to sniff out a lie, so to speak. As long as you tell the truth you’ll have no problem.”
“STOP LYING? ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
“Madam, you are the customer,” said the professor. “Tell me what you require. I shall do everything in my power to assist you.”
“Everything is going wrong! I’m losing control! And there’s a big party tonight, and the Addisons have to be carefully watched—my plans are almost in place, but I can’t even leave my room, this terrible smell sends everyone absolutely running from me—”
“My dear lady, calm yourself. I have the solution. I shall attend the party and monitor the Addisons myself, and give you immediate warning should they show any signs of—well—whatever it is you don’t want.”
“It’s an exclusive party. They won’t let you in.”
The professor chuckled. “Ever since I invented the Universal Rodent Translator, I have been in demand as a party guest; my years out of circulation will only have added to my mystery. I should be very surprised if I weren’t welcomed with open arms.”
“But there’s the brat to deal with still,” Miss Barmy wailed.
“The—brat?”
“Emmaline. She’s getting worse and worse, I kept her in her room all day today but I won’t be able to watch her tonight. This disgusting smell follows me everywhere—”
“Ah.” Professor Capybara coughed slightly. “If you will allow me to act as her attendant this evening, I can make sure she is adequately supervised. I know a fair amount of child psychology.”
“That doesn’t work on her, I’ve tried—”
“Well, then, would you like me to use more traditional techniques? Arm twisting, nose tweaking, hair yanking—”
“Yes! Yes!”
“—along with bullying, pretended concern, and shame—”
“We understand each other perfectly,” said Miss Barmy. “And just to make absolutely sure that she’s under control, I want you to bring the chinchilla. Stamp its paw into something that children like to eat, and make sure Emmaline eats it. In fact, I want to see her eat it myself.�
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“But my dear Miss Barmy,” began the professor, “what good will that do?”
“She won’t drop any more cats on my potato rolls, for one thing,” snapped Miss Barmy, and she hung up with a bang.
There was silence on the other end, and then a deep sigh.
Emmy hastily removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “Professor Capybara?” she whispered. “It’s me, Emmy. Listen—I have an idea.”
EMMY SKIPPED down the hall and skidded into her room with a pleased sense that things were going very well, indeed.
“Oh, saaay can you seeee, by the daaawnzer lee liiight …”
Emmy approached the playroom door on tiptoe. Someone was singing in a rather husky baritone. She poked her head cautiously around the corner. The Rat was on the stage of the puppet theater, looking self-conscious.
“Lovely!” said Mrs. Bungee, clapping her paws. “I knew you had a special talent, Raston!”
“But I’m not a star,” said the Rat glumly.
“You just need an audience,” said Mrs. Bungee. She chittered loudly, and all over the playroom, rodent heads popped up.
“Come, everyone!”
Chippy left the train with a clatter of tools. The Endear Mouse and Sissy came at a run from the art center, their paws red with fingerpaint. And Buck, who had been trying out Emmy’s peashooter, bounced across the room with Joe clinging to a harness on his back. Emmy, watching with interest, wondered if they had traveled like that all the way from Rodent City—but Mrs. Bunjee was asking for quiet.
Mrs. Bunjee smiled encouragingly at the Rat. “Now, Raston, you have your audience.”
“No—I don’t really think—,” said the Rat, twisting his paws.
“Come now, Raston,” Mrs. Bunjee said bracingly. “Sing! Sing from your heart!”
The Rat cleared his throat, opened his mouth—and shut it again. He looked at them helplessly. There was an uncomfortable pause.
“He’s scared,” said Chippy, snickering.
“Stage fright,” Buck said, getting up as if to go. “It happens sometimes.”
Sissy’s nose turned a deeper shade of pink. “My brother is not afraid. He’s just—” She looked at Raston appealingly.
“I’m just saving my voice,” said the Rat faintly, looking at Sissy.