Emmy and the Home For Troubled Girls (8 page)

“Seen who?” said Raston, leaping from behind a stack of books and skidding across the desktop in a belted trenchcoat and dark glasses.

“Rasty!” Sissy fumbled with the straps of her satchel, pulled out a battered peanut-butter cup, and held it up with pride. “Delivery accomplished!” she said, and collapsed.

The carrying case was clean, dry, and large enough for the five of them. Cecilia, more or less recovered, went inside, followed by Raston, Joe, and the professor. Emmy stepped in last of all, and Brian shut the door with a snap.

Suddenly they were plunged into a deep-brown gloom. Thin pencils of light came in through the airholes, crisscrossing above, but they didn't illumine much. Emmy was glad of the dark; she couldn't see the Rat's accusing eyes.

She had only meant to make Sissy happy by giving her a delivery to make. It was hardly an urgent delivery—nobody ever died for lack of a peanut-butter cup—but Cecilia had spent the afternoon dragging herself from place to place, searching for her brother, and getting sick in the process.

She tried too hard; that was the whole problem. It wasn't Emmy's fault that Sissy was the anxious type.

Brian cleared his throat high above them, and the steady joggle of his long strides turned to an uneven sliding as he stopped and set the carrier down. There was a scraping sound, as of shoes on cement, and the creak of a large body settling on a wooden bench.

“We must be at the tunnel entrance,” whispered the professor. “What's he waiting for?”

A slight vibration trembled through the bottom of the case, and Emmy turned her head. A sound of voices, high and giggling, came in faintly and grew steadily louder.

“… but don't you think she's stuck-up?”

“She's rich enough, that's for sure.”

“I don't think she's stuck-up, exactly,” protested a third. “Just … different.”

Emmy recognized Meg's voice with a rush of silent gratitude. But Kate cut across the others.

“Well,
I
think she's stuck-up. Every time I invite her to do something, she makes up a stupid excuse …” The voices faded, became indistinguishable, as the girls passed the place where Brian sat. A last fragment of conversation wafted back: “… never going to ask her to do
anything
again …”

Silence. A fumbling sound at the latch of the pet carrier, and a click as the side door was opened. Five small figures pressed toward the opening, formal clothes rustling.

Emmy looked dully past Brian's ankles, large and hairy, to a sweep of grass beyond. She could see the girls in the distance, walking away. She winced.

Joe turned to the professor. “But why are we on the green?”

“Keep your voice down, lad … They haven't cleared the front entrance yet of the mess from that infernal jackhammer. Follow me, everyone.”

The small man in gray pinstripes ducked his head and entered a hole, cleverly hidden beneath the low, spreading branches of a yew and angling down beneath the bench's concrete slab.

Sissy muffled another sneeze in her paw, and turned to whisper to Emmy as she passed. “I'm sorry—truly, I am. I'll do better with the next message.”

“It's okay,” Emmy protested, but Sissy had already disappeared after the others.

Emmy looked at the gaping mouth of the tunnel.

“Go!” said Brian urgently, as a slobbering, snuffling sound came to Emmy's ears, along with a bounding vibration of the earth and a smell of damp dog. Emmy glanced up to see a gigantic white puppy approaching faster than she could have believed possible.

The puppy's high-pitched yapping brought her to her senses. With a shimmer of blue, she caught up her long dress and scampered into the hole.

T
HE TUNNEL WENT ON
and on, dimly lit by a long string of twinkle lights. Some of the bulbs were out, and in those patches the tunnel was dark indeed, and smelled strongly of worms.

“Criminy,” said Joe over his shoulder, “what if we
met
a worm?”

Emmy gripped the professor's coattails and tried not to think about the size a worm would be, or its moist pink-and-brown squishiness. And then she tried not to think about screaming. And just as she was deciding she could not possibly think about the tunnel collapsing all around her and burying her alive, they came to a section where track was laid, and the walls were rough timbers instead of packed dirt, and a handcart stood ready. The lighting was better, too, and when they all got on the cart and Joe and Ratty pumped the handle and they began to roll smoothly down the track, Emmy breathed a little easier. In a minute the rough timbers changed to
smooth paneling, and the twinkle lights changed to sconces of gleaming brass, and then the track stopped abruptly and they were standing on a polished parquet floor with padded benches on either side. Just before them was a carved wooden archway hung with velvet curtains of a deep forest green.

From behind the curtains came the vague muffled noise of many voices talking all at once, combined with the clink of bottles and an occasional shriek of laughter. Professor Capybara pulled back the heavy curtains and the sound spilled out in a burst of light and color and a vaguely familiar scent.

“Oh, here you are at last, Professor! And Raston and Joe—my, don't you two look handsome—and Emmy dear! I'm
so
glad to see you again!” Mrs. Bunjee, swathed in violet silk, flung her furry arms wide and clasped Emmy to her chest.

Emmy tried not to breathe in. Chipmunk fur up her nose always made her sneeze, and she wasn't sure that her dress could stand the strain.

“And, Cecilia, how lovely that you're here! You'll want to run up and put on your party dress; it's laid out and pressed.”

Emmy looked up, but she couldn't pinpoint the
Bunjee loft out of so many others that ringed the city. Was it on the fourth level, or the fifth?

Rodent City had been built in the crawl space of the art gallery. Its walls were of red brick, and rough wooden uprights supported the floor above. But the massive pillars were connected by carved trusses, and twiggy lofts, and swinging ladders, all hung with garlands of twinkling Christmas lights like stars on a rope. And tonight, for the party, the central area on the ground floor had been covered with tables and lit with candles, creating a festive look.

“I have to deliver my message first.” Sissy straightened the badge on her jacket and stood proudly, her eyes bright and her voice pitched above the noise of the crowd. “A message for Mrs. Bunjee, of Rodent City, from Emmy Addison. Do not—repeat—do
not
trust Miss Barmy or Cheswick Vole. More information later.”

The hum of conversation near them died down, and Emmy winced. That message should have been given in private. Still, Sissy had remembered it word for word …

Emmy looked around. What was wrong? Sissy had blurted out her message at an awkward time, but
that shouldn't have caused Mrs. Bunjee to look so annoyed, or stopped all conversation nearby.

“Didn't I say it right?” Sissy whispered to Emmy, wiping her nose on her paw.

A light, tinkling laugh broke the silence, and an amused voice spoke clearly from the outer edges of the group. “Emmaline always did like to make jokes …”

Emmy's breath stopped. She felt as if she'd been hit in the chest.

The crowd parted to reveal a piebald rat, elegant in a rose-and-silver gown, with curled whiskers and a sparkling tiara between her ears. “… but perhaps she's still too young to realize there is a time and place for everything, even her delightful sense of humor.”

A black rat with a sleek coat and a red bow tie murmured something in her ear.

“Of course I forgive her, Cheswick. She's a lovely, dear child, and then she's an Addison, too. I'm sure that someday her manners will reflect her training.” Miss Barmy smiled at the rodents around her, dimpled charmingly, and waved at Emmy. “Have a wonderful time at the party, little Emmaline, and don't forget to thank your hostess.”

The rodents crowded around her again, not without a few disparaging looks at Emmy, and the conversation rose to its previous hum. Emmy took a step backward—she hardly knew what she was doing—and bumped into Joe.

“Wow,” he said, very low.

“You almost have to admire her,” said Professor Capybara. “Such a splendid example of manipulation! A textbook case!”

Emmy didn't trust herself to speak as she watched the piebald rat move gracefully away. With growing outrage she saw that the rat's dress was made of several Barbie gowns, re-cut and stitched together in a striking pattern.

“Did I do it wrong?” Sissy sneezed again and turned to her brother, bewildered. “Maybe I'm not cut out to be a messenger.”

Mrs. Bunjee turned, paws on her hips. “The problem isn't with the messenger; it's with the message. Cecilia, dear, go get your dress on, and don't forget a handkerchief—your nose is running. Raston, bring her to table three afterward—you're sitting with the Gopnichiks and the Grebblers. Don't forget to congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Grebbler on their new litter—they had four boys and two girls.”

“Gophers,” muttered the Rat, taking Sissy by the elbow. “Oh, joy.”

“Now, Emmy,” said Mrs. Bunjee firmly. “No matter what Miss Barmy has done in the past, she deserves our support and help.”

“Deserves?” said Joe, with a rising inflection.

“Everyone deserves a second chance.” The chipmunk looked from Joe to Emmy to the professor, her face calm and certain. “Miss Barmy wants to turn over a new leaf. She told me while we were sewing her dress.”

“
My
dress,” Emmy said in a choked voice. “And I'll bet she watched while you did all the work.”

Mrs. Bunjee shrugged. “It's true that she didn't know how to sew, but she did pay me—very well, I might add.”

“She didn't pay
me
,” said Emmy coldly. “She sent Cheswick to steal doll clothes from my own room.”

Mrs. Bunjee blinked. “Perhaps there was a misunderstanding,” she suggested. “If you look carefully, you may find that Cheswick left a nice pile of seeds to pay for the things he took. Of course,” she added quickly, “he shouldn't have taken them without your permission. But people can't switch from bad to
good all at once, without a few false steps along the way. It's our job to help and guide, not to criticize.”

“B-but,” Emmy sputtered, “Cheswick said Miss Barmy had plans—she was going to do something behind our backs, to show us—”

Mrs. Bunjee made a chirking sound of disapproval. “And why do you assume Miss Barmy's plans must necessarily be bad? Perhaps she has
good
plans. Perhaps she wants to surprise us.”

Emmy was speechless.

“For instance,” said Mrs. Bunjee, beaming, “we had so much dust from that awful jackhammer, I couldn't think how I would ever get ready for the party. But Miss Barmy paid the Finicky Field Mice Cleaning Service to take care of everything. And then she had flowers delivered, enough to fill the city! Look around you, breathe in that lovely fragrance, and tell me she's not trying to become a better person!”

Emmy looked at the flowers in tall floor vases everywhere—huge pink blooms with ragged edges and a spicy-sweet smell. Now she knew why she recognized the scent. The flowers were just like the ones Mr. Peebles had picked and brought to their table
last night; only now, the tiny pinks were as big as her head.

“My dear Mrs. Bunjee,” said the professor, patting her furry shoulder, “you're an optimist, and I certainly hope that you're right.”

“After all,” said the chipmunk, looking up with a pleased smile, “you said Jane had to learn to love, if she wanted Cecilia's kiss to work and turn her back to a human again. She's taking your advice very well, I do believe!”

“Perhaps so,” said Professor Capybara kindly. “Now, where should I sit, and when do I give my speech?”

“Oh, the head table, of course.” They moved off together, Mrs. Bunjee chattering away. “… and Chippy rigged up a microphone just for you …”

Joe looked at Emmy, his face somber. “This is
terrible
.”

Emmy nodded emphatically. “We'd better talk to her again after the party.”

Joe shook his head. “Mrs. Bunjee won't listen. She's made up her mind. But what about the professor? He doesn't believe Miss Barmy's changed, does he?”

Emmy threw up her hands. “No, but he doesn't
take her seriously. He says she can't do much harm—she's only a rat.”

“Yeah, well, show me another rat who could have everybody against her one day and then turn it all around the next. That lady has talent, and she
scares
me.”

“Appetizers? Sparkling pear cider?”

Two mice were at their elbow with silver trays. The speaker, a kangaroo mouse, held out a tray with slender glasses of something pale and fizzy. Emmy reached out and then stopped, hand in midair, as she caught sight of the other mouse, dwarfed by its tray.

“Endear? Is that you?” She peeked under the silver tray of hot appetizers. The mouse, balancing the tray above its head, gave her a shy, pleased smile.

“Joe! Look who's here!” Emmy touched the Endear Mouse lightly, and the two exchanged delighted greetings without needing to say a word.

The Endear Mouse had the power to transfer thoughts, just through touch. This had been very useful a few weeks ago, now it was just an easy way to say hi—especially since the mouse had never been known to speak. And though Endear was still very young, and didn't always understand big words, it was quick to sense feelings.

Unfortunately, Emmy remembered this too late to hide her own.

“Bad lady—bad,” came the thought from the small mouse, and Emmy realized that it had taken in all her fear and anger about Miss Barmy.

“Don't worry,” Emmy said hastily, withdrawing her hand. “She's gone now. The bad lady won't bother me again.”

The Endear Mouse's big eyes looked solemnly at Emmy from beneath the tray.

“Don't you have a job to do?” Emmy asked, smiling, and the Endear Mouse nodded happily, easily distracted. Its tail curled around Emmy's wrist just long enough to send a quick good-bye, and then the mouse moved off into the crowd, offering appetizers to anyone who stopped.

“I'll bet anything the bad lady
will
bother you again,” said Joe at her elbow.

“Of course she will,” said Emmy absently. Her rage had faded, but in its place was a cold determination. “Let's see if we can figure out what she's up to.”