Poppy stepped back as though struck. But she managed to say, “I’m going to try to find out.”
“How?”
“I’ll go to New House.”
Lungwort turned limp again. “Why tell me?” he said with a shrug. “You don’t care what I think. You’ll go anyway.”
Poppy wanted to say something kindly, but the words would not come. Instead, after a painful silence, she turned to go.
Suddenly Lungwort cried, “Poppy!”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Look out for porcupines!”
Poppy lay upon the floor of her Log Cabin Syrup room and studied a map of the area. As far as she could see, there were three ways to reach New House. The easiest would be to go along the Tar Road. But if she took that route, she’d be traveling in the open. That was reason enough to rule the Tar Road out. The longest way would be to go around the Marsh, but that meant going over Bannock Hill, and it held too many painful memories—and fears—connected to Ragweed’s death. No, Poppy was not ready to go there again. Not yet.
Her third choice was Dimwood Forest. Few mice who had ventured in had returned to tell of their experiences. Even so, the dark woods seemed to offer real advantages. She could travel midday even in bright sun. Mr. Ocax and most other creatures would be asleep then. And if and when the need arose, the same light would enable her to find a hiding place. If the forest had anything, Poppy assumed, it would have plenty of places to hide. She would go that way.
Poppy told only Basil about her plans. If she succeeded in discovering the real reason for Mr. Ocax’s refusal, there would be time enough to let everybody know. On the other hand, if she discovered nothing, who would know—or care—if she disappeared?
She asked Basil to meet her at the back steps of Gray House when the sun was at its highest the next day. That morning she mingled with the family so none would suspect what she was up to. But with so many convinced that she was the cause of the crisis, the hostility made it too painful to wait. Some time before her appointment with Basil, she was pacing by the back steps, ready to go.
“I’m leaving right away,” Poppy announced as soon as her cousin appeared.
“You forgot something,” he said.
“What?”
“This.” Basil held out Ragweed’s earring. “For courage,” he said.
Poppy held still while her cousin gently affixed the earring. When she shook her head, it tickled her ear. “I need a nuzzle,” she said, caught in a swell of emotion.
As they nuzzled, Basil whispered, “I could go with you.”
Poppy broke away. “It has to be just me,” she said, and leaped off the back steps.
“Why?”
“If I’m the one who caused this mess,” she called, “it has to be me who sorts it out.”
“Good luck!” Basil cried after her.
Poppy, not wanting to look back because she thought it might make her lose heart, dashed away.
CHAPTER 9
On Her Way
ONCE PAST THE RUSTY water pump, Poppy had to cross Old Orchard. Mr. Ocax’s permission was not required here. Even better, the grass was high among the old twisted apple trees, providing good camouflage. Here and there delicate pink lady’s slippers bloomed. Berry bushes were heavy with fruit. Bluebirds, jays, and warblers flitted by. Grasshoppers leaped about joyfully.
“Oh my, oh my,” Poppy murmured as she rested halfway across. “It’s too nice a day to be worried and sad.” She was sitting beneath the shade of a snowberry bush, nibbling on a succulent dandelion stem. Above, only a few high-flying clouds floated in the blue sky.
The graceful drift of clouds reminded Poppy of her secret desire, something she had never told anyone, not even Ragweed. She suspected he would have teased her.
Once, when up in the Gray House attic, chewing through some old magazines, she had come upon pictures of the old ballroom dancing team of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Here the couple dipped. There they soared. Here they spun. Poppy was enraptured. From that moment on, her greatest desire was to be a ballroom dancer. Oh, to glide effortlessly across the floor in the arms of a handsome mouse!
Forgetting everything for a moment, Poppy plucked a pair of lady’s slippers and fitted them to her feet. How cool, how soft and delicate they were, as if someone were kissing her toes.
She jumped up, lifted her arms, flexed her paws—elegantly, she hoped—leaned her head back, fluttered her eyes, and twirled about just as in the pictures. Round and round she spun.
Suddenly—as if a voice actually whispered into her ear—Poppy recalled something Sweet Cicely had told her many times, that “the only live mouse is an alert mouse.”
Feeling alarmed—and embarrassed—Poppy promptly kicked off the lady’s slippers, scampered beneath the protection of some stinkweed, and scanned the skies. Yes, she must keep on guard even though Mr. Ocax was probably sound asleep.
Mr. Ocax was not asleep. He was flying over the Marsh in the direction of Bannock Hill. Though working daylight hours displeased him, he was convinced it was necessary. Ever since Lungwort had requested permission to move some of the mouse family to New House, Mr. Ocax had been uneasy. He kept wondering about the mice. Had they discovered what he had discovered? Did they know something he did not? He knew the reason they gave for moving to New House, but were they telling the truth?
Then there was Lungwort’s daughter Poppy, who had escaped him twice. The effrontery. How had she done it? the owl kept asking himself. Did she possess special skills? Why had Lungwort brought her to that meeting? Was it to mock him? Was she going to take over from the old fool?
And why did this business of New House and the matter of Poppy occur at the same
