Whiskerella Page 3

  “Errr . . . are you doing okay?”

  The coach-mouse didn’t move a muscle. Harriet had to stop and wipe her watering eyes.

  The coach-mouse did not reply, or move, or blink.

  Harriet reached out a fingertip, very slowly, and touched the coach-mouse’s shoe.

  He exploded.

  “GAAAH!” said Harriet. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that! She’d whacked people with swords, axes, frying pans, and, on one memorable occasion, an antique silver creamer in the shape of a cow, but she’d never made anyone explode just by touching them before.

  She looked around wildly for bits of coach-mouse, which was probably going to be very messy, but there was nothing. Just some rather glittery dust and, on top of the coach, a pile of clothes and . . .

  It was a rather small lizard with goggly eyes. It stared at her in exactly the same way that the coach-mouse had.

  Harriet began to get a suspicion.

  “Were you a lizard all along?” asked Harriet.

  “Harriet?” called Wilbur. “What just happened? I saw a flash . . .”

  Harriet turned her head to look for Wilbur and heard the scrabble of lizard feet. She whipped back around in time to see a tail vanishing over the side. “Blast!”

  “I came out looking for you!” said Wilbur. “They’re about to unmask!”

  “I don’t care about that,” said Harriet. “I mean, Mom’ll be mad, but—”

  “No!” said Wilbur. “Not that! She left again! And she’s calling for her coach!”

  “There’s magic going on!” said Harriet. “And we’ve got to get to the bottom of it!”

  “Well, you’ve got about two minutes to do that,” said Wilbur. “Because they’re getting the quail out of the paddock now.”

  Harriet looked at Wilbur.

  She looked at the pile of clothes that had recently been on an enchanted lizard.

  She began to grin.

  “Hey, Wilbur,” she said. “Do you know how to drive a coach?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Harriet clung to the back of the coach with her teeth bared in a grin.

  They were rattling down the road in the dark. The quail seemed to know the way to go, which was good, because Wilbur had no idea where they were headed.

  He’d done great, though. Harriet had known he would. Wilbur was reliable that way.

  With the hat pulled down over his small ears and the coach whip sticking out like a mouse’s tail, he’d managed to pass as the coach-mouse. Nobody had really been looking at him, which helped. They were too busy staring at the beautiful stranger, and the stranger was too busy trying to get into the coach and away.

  Harriet herself had grabbed on to the back of the coach and swung up onto it as it was leaving the courtyard. There was lots of trim on the coach—curving bits and curlicues and things carved to look like leaves and vines—so there were plenty of handholds. She just had to hang on.

  The galloping quail began to slow down after a few minutes. Harriet recognized the turnoff to a nearby village. They hadn’t gone very far at all, no more than a couple of miles.

  The quail slowed to a walk and turned down a road, to a house set back in the trees.

  Now we’ll see where she lives, thought Harriet. There can’t be a grand manor house or a castle back here, can there? Somebody would have noticed . . . You can’t just hide palaces around a corner in the village . . .

  It was not a manor house. It was a rather nice little two-story cottage with a thatched roof and a garden.

  Harriet felt the coach coming to a stop and leaped down. She dove into the shrubbery before anyone could see her.

  The door of the coach opened and Whiskerella got out. She looked tired and she was carrying her glass shoes in one hand.

  “Good job, guys,” she said to the quail, patting them on the shoulder. “You’re really getting the hang of two legs.”

  As compliments went, this was decidedly odd.

  “You too,” she said over her shoulder to Wilbur. Wilbur wisely said nothing.

  She opened the door of the cottage and went in.

  Harriet glanced around the yard. It was neat and tidy, and nobody appeared to be watching. It wasn’t the sort of place that had armed guards hanging around.

  She was just about to sneak toward the coach when the clock tower in the village went:

  The coach exploded.

  So did the quail.

  It was a noiseless explosion, much like the coach-mouse. Glittering dust sprayed everywhere. The quail vanished and were replaced by a pair of newts. Wilbur let out a yelp and suddenly was sitting on top of a pumpkin.

  “Hsst! Wilbur, over here!”

  Wilbur looked around, determined that the voice was coming from the shrubs, and hurried to join Harriet. He looked like he was covered in silver flour.

  “What. Just. Happened?” he demanded.

  Harriet swiped a finger through the glitter and stuck it in her mouth. It tasted like spun sugar and dreams coming true and (faintly) like pumpkin.

  “I just got a wedgie from an enchanted vegetable!” snapped Wilbur. “That pumpkin stem went places!’

  “Hazard of the job,” said Harriet, slapping him on the back. Fairy dust rose in a cloud. They both coughed.

  “So now what?” asked Wilbur.

  “I want to know whose house this is,” said Harriet. “There’s a fairy at work here, and they’re spending a lot of magic. Look at all this dust!”

  They looked at the house. It continued to be dark. The two newts who had previously been quail curled up in one corner of the yard and began to snore.

  “Errr . . . are we gonna be here for a while?” asked Wilbur. “Because I have a philosophical objection to lurking in a stranger’s shrubberies. People catch you lurking in shrubberies and they think you’re a weirdo.”

  “You are not cut out for adventure, Wilbur,” said Harriet. “Lurking in strange shrubberies is like half the job. Possibly two-thirds.” She chewed on her lower lip. “Hmm, maybe not quite that. Nine-sixteenths, let’s say . . .”

  The snoring changed in volume as the newts rolled over.

  “Maybe she’ll come back out,” said Harriet.

  “Maybe she’s tired,” said Wilbur. “She was dancing for half the night. I’m tired, and I mostly stood by the punch bowl.”

  “Fine,” said Harriet. “We’ll try the direct approach.” She climbed out of the shrubberies, crossed the yard, and knocked on the door.

  CHAPTER 11

  It took a few minutes for anyone to answer. Harriet had to knock again, and was about to start banging on the door in earnest when it opened.

  It was Whiskerella, but it took Harriet a moment to recognize her.

  She wasn’t wearing a mask. She wasn’t wearing glass slippers or a ball gown. She had on an old bathrobe and she looked tired.

  And she wasn’t . . .

  Well, she wasn’t . . .

  “You’re not beautiful!” blurted Harriet.

  “And you’re not tactful, Princess,” said Whiskerella dryly. “I can maybe do something with my hair, but I think you’re stuck.”

  “Sorry,” said Harriet. “I mean—um—you’re very pretty. Still. That didn’t come out right. I mean—that is—”

  Whiskerella shook her head. “Quit while you’re ahead,” she suggested. “And come inside.”

  They followed Whiskerella into the cottage. Wilbur elbowed Harriet. “That was rude!” he hissed.

  “I’m sorry!” whispered Harriet. “Really! I just—I wasn’t expecting—”

  Because the truth was that Whiskerella was still a very pretty hamster . . . but only pretty. The strange, otherworldly gorgeousness that had hovered around her at the ball was gone. Her fur was the soft gray of dusty velvet, not of clou
ds, and the sparkle in her eyes was like crystal, not like diamond.

  Whiskerella led them into the kitchen. “Pull up a chair, Your Highnesses,” she suggested. “I’ll make some tea.”

  “No Highnessing,” said Harriet. “Please.” She and Wilbur sat down at the table.

  Whiskerella looked doubtful.

  “Look, you’ve met the princes,” said Harriet. “Royalty isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.” Whiskerella laughed and seemed to relax.

  It was a nice little kitchen. It was warm and cozy, even at night.

  “You’re plenty beautiful,” said Wilbur gallantly.

  “That’s sweet of you to say,” said Whiskerella. “But it’s not the same without the mask and the enchanted slippers. When I have those on, I’m beautiful. Magically beautiful.”

  “There’s a fairy involved, isn’t there?” said Harriet.

  Harriet and Wilbur turned to the new arrival. She was a bit older than Whiskerella and looked as if she’d just woken up.

  “Yes, Misty,” said Whiskerella. She held out her hand to the newcomer. “This is Princess Harriet and Prince Wilbur, from the palace.”

  “Oh dear,” said Misty. She sat down at the table. “Have they come because of the business?”

  “What business?” asked Wilbur.

  “Fairy business,” said Whiskerella. “Harriet’s right.”

  “But who are you?” asked Wilbur. “You’re not a fairy!”

  “Oh dear, no!” Misty laughed.

  CHAPTER 12

  I’m afraid there’s only one of me,” said Misty apologetically. “I know there’s supposed to be two stepsisters. But I try to make up for it by being especially wicked.”

  Whiskerella rolled her eyes. “You’re about as wicked as a cinnamon roll.” Misty giggled.

  “A wicked stepsister,” said Harriet thoughtfully. “And a fairy who turns your newts into coach-quail . . . You don’t have a wicked stepmother too, by any chance?”

  “Oh, dreadfully wicked,” said Misty, giggling harder. “A regular monster!”

  Whiskerella groaned.

  Whiskerella put her head in her hands. “Right. Well, it all started a few weeks ago . . .”

  She waved her hands in the air. “And the next thing I knew, she was turning my clothes into ball gowns and I had glass slippers and the poor newts were turned into quail and Misty’s lizard, Stinky, was turned into a mouse!”

  “I offered to go,” said Misty. “I’m already a mouse. But apparently it was enchantment or nothing. Where is Stinky, anyway?”

  Misty looked worried for the first time. “Oh dear! We should probably find him. He widdles when he gets nervous.”

  Harriet thought that she could have handled a fairy. She could have handled the enchantments, and Whiskerella’s not-particularly-wicked stepsister, and the glass slippers. These were properly heroic things for a hero who was also a princess to deal with.

  A widdling lizard named Stinky, however, was just too much. Heroes could not be expected to work under these conditions. She rubbed her hands over her face.

  “It’s his bladder, you understand,” said Misty. “He’s not as young as he used to be.”

  “Let’s focus on the fairy for a minute,” said Wilbur, glancing worriedly at Harriet. “I’m sure Stinky will turn up.”

  “Right. Well, thought maybe it was just one of those things that happens,” said Whiskerella glumly. “Mistaken identity or something. I don’t know why I’d need a fairy godmouse.”

  “Fairy godmice are notorious do-gooders,” said Harriet. “They will do good at anything that can’t run away. Sometimes it’s best to just get it over with. I had three.” She looked gloomily into her teacup. “One of them did a spell to cover the castle in huge thorns. Dad is still mad about that.”

  “No thorns,” said Whiskerella. “Just pumpkins. And she turned poor Stinky into a mouse! And the newts—Webby and Wubby, they’re sisters—she turned them into quail. They were so confused.”

  “So I did,” said Whiskerella. “I put on the shoes, and suddenly I was spectacularly beautiful. And that’s when it started to go wrong.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It was fun, the first time.” She gave Harriet a defiant look. “All those princes wanting to dance with me, when I knew they’d never look at me in real life.”

  Wilbur sighed.

  “But then it got weird,” Whiskerella continued. “I didn’t expect there to be a second ball! I went to take the trash out yesterday evening and there was this POOF and fairy dust everywhere and there was the coach and the quail and poor Stinky in a hat!”

  “He widdled everywhere,” said Misty.

  “And then at the ball—one of the princes proposed to me! And another started talking about engagement rings!”

  “Yeesh,” said Harriet.

  “I suppose you don’t want to marry any of them?” said Wilbur.

  “No! And even if I did, what do you think would happen when I took the magic shoes off and wasn’t beautiful anymore?”

  Harriet winced. She couldn’t imagine one of the princes A, B, or C being understanding about that sort of thing.

  “Fairy curses don’t work like that,” said Harriet apologetically. “I mean, not that this was meant as a curse, I guess it was supposed to be a gift, but it’s basically the same thing. All fairy magic is basically alike, whether the fairies are trying to be nice or not. If she said you’re going to the ball and going to meet a handsome prince who will sweep you off your feet, then . . . well . . . that’s what’s going to happen. And keep on happening. Whether you want it to or not.”

  “You’ll be going to balls until you meet that prince or you die of old age,” said Wilbur. “I mean, possibly you can’t even die of old age until you meet him. You might not even age. Fairy magic is weird.”

  “Ooh!” said Harriet. “That’d be awesome! You could be totally immortal and like a thousand years old, as long as you keep going to balls every now and then!”

  She waved her bare foot in Harriet’s direction. Her toes were red and starting to blister. “My toes will fall off!”

  Harriet considered this. “Okay, yeah, immortality where you have to keep going to balls would be pretty annoying. The cucumber sandwiches aren’t that good. Plus the feet-falling-off thing.”

  “Particularly if I have to keep dancing with princes!” Whiskerella put her face in her hands and groaned. “They all seemed awful. They kept telling me how wonderful they were compared to the other princes. Except for the rat prince, but I don’t think he was really interested in me.”

  “He’s hopelessly in love with Ratpunzel,” said Harriet. “It’s cool.”

  “He was worried about the newts,” she said. “Because they’re not good at running on two legs. He thought they had something called ‘wobbly quail.’ And he asked about poor Stinky. He kept saying he didn’t have to sit on the coach this time, he could come inside with everybody else and if he was shy, that was fine, he didn’t have to talk. He could just have some cider, he didn’t have to stay outside in the cold.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “But then he actually looked at me and he suddenly got all tongue-tied and ran away.”

  Wilbur and Harriet exchanged looks. There was only one groom who fit that description.

  “. . . You mean Ralph?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Well, this is a problem,” said Harriet as she and Wilbur trudged up the road toward the castle.

  “You mean the fact that we’ve stayed out half the night and missed our bedtime, curfew, and, at this rate, probably breakfast?”

  “What?” said Harriet. “I stay out all the time.”

  “Is your mom afraid something will happen to you?”

  “I,” said Harriet, with absolute confidence, “am something that happens to other people.”


  Wilbur nodded. This was undeniably true.

  “We’re gonna have to find a prince to sweep Whiskerella off her feet.” She scowled. “It’s a shame we can’t make Ralph a prince.”

  Wilbur rubbed his forehead. Harriet was a great warrior, a fantastic quail rider, a skilled cliff-diver, and a good friend. As a matchmaker, however, she left a lot to be desired. “They’ve talked once. About wobbly quail. And then he panicked and ran away.”

  Wilbur floundered for a way to finish that sentence, and eventually settled on “. . . you.”

  “Quail diseases are important, Wilbur. Have you ever seen a quail with bent gizzard?”

  “Will bent gizzard get us any closer to breaking this fairy magic?”

  “Fine, fine . . .” Harriet sighed. “We can’t make Ralph a prince anyway. He’s older than either of us.”

  “. . . say again?” said Wilbur.

  “Okay, look,” said Harriet. “This is really straightforward. Kings and queens have princes and princesses for kids, right?”

  “I am with you so far,” said Wilbur.

  “And the oldest prince or princess becomes the king or the queen when their parents either die or retire, right?” (Harriet’s grandfather had retired and taken up fishing and now lived in the far north, where he said that the ice fishing was excellent and much better than having to run a country.)