“No,” cried Despereaux, “no, no, no!” He broke into a trot, chasing the thread through the darkness.
But the spool had a head start. And it was faster. It flew down the dungeon stairs, leaving Despereaux far behind. When it came to the end of the stairs, it rolled and rolled, until finally, lazily, it came to a stop right at the gnarled paw of a rat.
“What have we here?” said the one-eared rat to the spool of thread.
“I will tell you what we have,” said Botticelli Remorso, answering his own question. “We have red thread. How delightful. Red thread means one thing to a rat.”
He put his nose up in the air. He sniffed. He sniffed again. “I smell . . . could it be? Yes, most definitely it is. Soup. How strange.” He sniffed some more. “And I smell tears. Human tears. Delightful. And I also detect the smell” — he put his nose high into the air and took a big whiff — “of flour and oil. Oh my, what a cornucopia of scents. But below it all, what do I smell? The blood of a mouse. Unmistakably, mouse blood, yes. Ha-ha-ha! Exactly! Mouse.”
Botticelli looked down at the spool of thread and smiled. He gave it a gentle push with one paw.
“Red thread. Yes. Exactly. Just when you think that life in the dungeon cannot get any better, a mouse arrives.”
47
DESPEREAUX STOOD TREMBLING on the steps. The thread was most definitely gone. He could not hear it. He could not see it. He should have tied it to himself when he had the chance. But it was too late now.
Despereaux’s dire situation suddenly became quite clear to him. He was a two-ounce mouse alone in a dark, twisting dungeon full of rats. He had nothing but a sewing needle with which to defend himself. He had to find a princess. And he had to save her once he found her.
“It’s impossible,” he said to the darkness. “I can’t do it.”
He stood very still. “I’ll go back,” he said. But he didn’t move. “I have to go back.” He took a step backward. “But I can’t go back. I don’t have a choice. I have no choice.”
He took one step forward. And then another.
“No choice,” his heart beat out to him as he went down the stairs, “no choice, no choice, no choice.”
At the bottom of the stairs, the rat Botticelli sat waiting, and when Despereaux stepped from the last stair onto the dungeon floor, Botticelli called out to him as if he were a long-lost friend. “Ah,” said Botticelli, “there you are. Exactly. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Despereaux saw the dark shape of a rat, that thing that he had feared and dreaded for so long, finally step out of the gloom and come to greet him.
“Welcome, welcome,” said Botticelli.
Despereaux put his paw on the needle.
“Ah,” said Botticelli, “you are armed. How charming.” He put his paws up in the air. “I surrender. Oh, yes, certainly, exactly, I surrender!”
“I . . .,” said Despereaux.
“Yes,” said Botticelli. “You.” He took the locket from around his neck. He began to swing it back and forth. “Please, go on.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Despereaux. “I just need to get by you. I . . . I am on a quest.”
“Really?” said Botticelli. “How extraordinary. A mouse on a quest.” Back and forth, back and forth went the locket. “A quest for what?”
“A quest to save the princess.”
“The princess,” said Botticelli, “the princess, the princess. Everything seems to be about the princess these days. The king’s men were down here searching for her, you know. They didn’t find her. That goes without saying. But now a mouse has arrived. And he is on a quest to save the princess.”
“Yes,” said Despereaux. He took a step to the left of Botticelli.
“How inspiring,” said Botticelli. He lazily took a step to his right, blocking Despereaux’s way. “Why the hurry, little friend?”
“Because,” said Despereaux, “I have to —”
“Yes. Yes. You have to save the princess. Exactly. But before you save her, you must find her. Correct?”
“Yes,” said Despereaux.
“What if,” said Botticelli, “what if I told you that I know exactly where the princess is? What if I told you that I could take you right directly to her?”
“Ummm,” said Despereaux. His voice shook. His paw on the needle trembled. “Why would you do that?”
“Why would I do that? Why would I help you? Why . . . to be of service. To do my part for humanity. To aid in the saving of a princess.”
“But you are a . . .”
“A rat,” supplied Botticelli. “Yes. I am a rat. And I see by your trem-trem-trembling that the greatly exaggerated rumors of our evil nature have reached your oversize ears.”
“Yes,” said Despereaux.
“If,” said Botticelli, swinging the locket back and forth, “if you allow me to be of assistance, you will be doing me a tremendous favor. Not only can I do a good deed for you and for the princess, but my actions will help to dispel this terrible myth of evil that seems to surround rats everywhere. Will you let me assist you? Will you let me assist myself and my kind?”
Reader, was it a trick?
Of course it was!
Botticelli did not want to be of service. Far from it. You know what Botticelli wanted. He wanted others to suffer. Specifically, he wanted this small mouse to suffer. How best to do that?
Why, take him right directly to what he wanted. The princess. Let him see what his heart desired, and then, and only then, faced with what he loved, would Despereaux die. And at the end of it all, how tasty the mouse would be . . . seasoned with hope and tears and flour and oil and thwarted love!
“My name, little friend, is Botticelli Remorso. And you may trust me. You must trust me. Will you tell me your name?”
“Despereaux. Despereaux Tilling.”
“Despereaux Tilling, take your paw from your weapon. Come with me.”
Despereaux stared at him.
“Come, come,” said Botticelli, “let go of your needle. Take hold of my tail. I will lead you to your princess. I promise.”
What, reader, in your experience is the promise of a rat worth?
That’s right.
Zero. Zip. Nada. Goose eggs.
But I must ask you this question, too. What else was there for Despereaux to hold on to?
You are right again.
Nothing.
And so the mouse reached out. He took hold of the rat’s tail.
48
