Harder to deal with was her own inner voice. It kept insisting that if what she and Ragweed had done was the reason for keeping others from moving and being safe, maybe she should sacrifice herself. A tear trickled down her face, rolled to the end of a whisker, and dropped into her pillow.
Oh, she thought, if only Ragweed were here. He would have had something to say.
But what? she asked, trying to cheer herself up. Most likely a question, a backward one just like the time he asked Lungwort how Mr. Ocax could confuse huge porcupines with small deer mice.
Even as she thought about Ragweed’s asking, Poppy realized that her father never did give an answer. She wondered why.
Poppy forced herself back to her problem. Mr. Ocax said he was refusing permission because of something she and Ragweed had done. How would Ragweed have turned that around?
Poppy could almost hear it: Ragweed would have said, “What did refusing permission allow Mr. Ocax to do?”
Just asking herself the question—because it lifted some of the burden from her—gave Poppy a touch of encouragement. Well, then: What did refusing permission allow Mr. Ocax to do?
Poppy tried to remember exactly what occurred when her father finally came to his point and requested permission for the move.
Slowly but clearly it came back: When Lungwort asked the question, Mr. Ocax became flustered. He seemed unsure about something, something connected with New House. That is, he didn’t ask Lungwort about the move, he asked if he had been to New House. In fact, he actually asked the question twice. Or was it three times? The point was, the moment Lungwort said he had not been to New House, that was when Mr. Ocax said no.
But it was not, Poppy recalled, “No, you can’t move.” Rather, it was “No, you cannot move to New House.”
Well, then, what did refusing permission allow Mr. Ocax to do? It allowed him to keep the mice away from New House!
Poppy sat up. Was it possible that there was something there—at New House—that Mr. Ocax wanted to keep hidden from them? Was that the real reason for his refusal?
The idea so excited Poppy that she felt like rushing downstairs to tell Lungwort. She started to get up—only to stop.
If she had hit upon the real reason for Mr. Ocax’s refusal, there was but one way she could prove it. She would have to go to New House and see what was there. And she could hardly ask Mr. Ocax permission to do that!
“I don’t care,” Poppy said aloud, making a fist of a paw. “I’ll do it. I will.”
With a sigh of exhaustion, Poppy finally fell asleep. But it was not a restful sleep. She kept dreaming she was lost. Worse, no matter where she turned for help, she saw only eyes—Mr. Ocax’s eyes. They were always just above and behind her.
CHAPTER 8
Poppy and Papa
FROM THE MOMENT LUNGWORT pulled the curtain across the entrance to his boot study, he did not show himself. When inquiries were made, the curtain was opened by Sweet Cicely, but merely a fraction. Looking out just long enough to say, “He’s not well,” she would draw the curtain closed.
Now Poppy stood before the study, working up the courage to speak to him. She kept asking herself—as she’d already done a hundred times—if she really wanted to go to New House. The answer, plain and simple, was no. Just the thought frightened her. But still, she was convinced it was the only way to prove that she and Ragweed were not really the cause of Mr. Ocax’s refusal. Nonetheless, she feared that when she told her father about her intentions, he would be displeased.
With a sigh she braced herself and called, “Papa!”
Her mother peeked out from behind the curtain. “He’s not—oh, Poppy, it’s you.”
“Mama,” Poppy said, “can I speak to Papa, please?”
“Well, if anyone . . . Just make it brief.”
Poppy slipped into the boot. “Is he still ill?” she whispered.
Sweet Cicely nodded. “I’ve never seen him looking so poorly. He lies there whimpering, though every once in a while he’ll shake his head and sob, ‘What are we going to do?’ or ‘It’s all over with us now.’”
Poppy’s heart sank.
“Poppy,” Sweet Cicely continued, “I do hope you’re going to tell him something that will cheer him up.”
“I’m not sure I will,” Poppy confessed.
Her mother sniffed. “Well, then, you’d best know what else he keeps saying.”
“Oh?”
“He says, ‘If only Ragweed and Poppy had asked permission!’”
Poppy’s heart sank even further.
“And I must agree with him,” Sweet Cicely went on. “Well, if you insist on seeing him, come along.”
Lungwort had curled himself into the absolute toe of the boot, the gloomiest part. His tail was wrapped around his feet, his whiskers were limp, and his front paws were in constant motion as if squeezing a sponge. Poppy thought his fur had grown grayer, too.
Sweet Cicely leaned over him. “Lungwort, dearest. It’s Poppy come to visit.”
Lungwort shook his head, and mumbled as if holding an argument with himself.
Poppy came forward. “Papa . . . ,” she said.
Lungwort looked up and stared fixedly at his daughter. “Doomed,” he said mournfully.
“Who is?”
“The whole family.”
“But . . .”
“If rules aren’t followed,” he began, but stopped to shake his head. “No, it’s my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I had raised you properly, you would never have gone to Bannock Hill without asking permission and none of this would have happened. I accept full responsibility.” His tail swished in dismay and he started squeezing his paws again.
Poppy appealed to Sweet Cicely with a look, but her mother was gazing piteously at Lungwort.
“Papa,” Poppy said, “I have an idea that there may be another reason why Mr. Ocax refused us.”
Lungwort sniffed. “You’re too young to have ideas.”
Poppy didn’t protest but pressed on. “I think Mr. Ocax refused permission because of something about New House, something he doesn’t want us to know.”
Lungwort
