As Lilly approached Gray House, she noticed the yellow bulldozer. It caused her to stop. Though she was relieved it hadn’t moved, just seeing the huge machine squatting there, gross and ominous, made her heart beat quicken and her small, round ears begin to twitch ever so slightly. Then she turned toward Gray House and spied the red flag flying from the roof—her father’s way of announcing an emergency. She ran the rest of the way to Gray House.
“Hey, Lilly,” called one of her cousins as she hurried up to the dilapidated building. “Did you find Poppy?”
A grim Lilly didn’t even answer.
“Lilly,” called another. “Is Poppy coming?”
“Where’s Poppy?”
“Did you find her?”
“Is Poppy going to come?”
Why do they always ask for Poppy? thought Lilly as she scrambled up the porch steps and into the house without replying. The great number of mice milling about the doorway made it hard to get far. “Excuse me!” she said, pushing her way through. “Can I get past? Sorry. Please!” She headed right behind the front hall steps. There Lungwort had established his private study in an old boot that Farmer Lamout—the original human owner of the farm—had left behind years ago.
The boot was comfortably lined with odd bits of potato sacking. A couple of windows—covered with napkin bits—had been chewed through the leather. An old plaid necktie curtained the entryway.
Out of respect for Lungwort’s position as head of the family—and now for his age and infirmities—no one entered the boot without permission of Sweet Cicely, Lungwort’s wife and Lilly and Poppy’s mother. As far as Lilly knew, Lungwort’s boot was just about the only truly private place remaining in Gray House.
When Lilly finally reached the boot, she halted and caught her breath. Once composed, she pulled the curtain aside and called softly, “Mama? Are you there, Mama? It’s me, Lilly. I’m back!”
Sweet Cicely stepped out of the boot. She was small even for a deer mouse, with soft, pale-gray eyes, thin whiskers, and a nervous habit of flicking her ears with her paws as if they were dusty. Her orange-brown fur was flecked with white.
“Oh, Lilly,” she said. “I’m so glad you got back. Papa will be much relieved.”
“How is he?” asked Lilly.
“Very much the same,” said Sweet Cicely. “Troubled and full of complaints as always, the poor dear.” She looked about and gave her ears a quick, nervous flick. “But Lilly, dear, where’s Poppy? Were you not able to find her? Isn’t she coming?”
“Oh no, I’m afraid she is coming.”
Sweet Cicely blinked. “Afraid she’s coming? But why?”
“Mama, Poppy has, well . . . she’s become . . . different.”
Sweet Cicely put a paw before her mouth in alarm. “Good gracious! Different in what way?”
“She lives in a dead tree. Has a husband. And eleven unruly children. “
“Oh my.”
“She’s not nearly as refined as she used to be. Or gracious. The truth is, Mama, she’s become quite . . . insensitive.”
Sweet Cicely sighed. “It was after that Ragweed got into her life that she changed. She became—”
Lilly finished the sentence: “Coarse.”
“Ragweed was a difficult sort,” said Sweet Cicely. “Not a good influence. Always demanding answers to everything. And then, to die so young, so tragically. You know, I was—of course I was—dreadfully sorry about his death.” Sweet Cicely lowered her eyes for a respectful moment. “But then, Lilly, as you also know perfectly well, that mouse would simply not listen to your papa. What happened was Ragweed’s own fault. But surely Poppy isn’t that way . . . is she?”
“Mama, she married Ragweed’s brother.”
“Did she!”
“He’s a golden mouse, too.”
“Golden!”
“Then, Mama, Poppy named one of her children . . . Ragweed.”
Sweet Cicely gasped.
“And Mama—she’s bringing that young Ragweed here.”
“Here?”
Lilly nodded.
“But—” Sweet Cicely flicked her ears nervously.
“It’s terrible to say so about your grandchild,” said Lilly, “but this new Ragweed is, well, not so very different from his namesake. To begin, he’s dyed himself completely . . . black.”
“Black!”
“With a white stripe down his back.”
“Merciful mercy!”
“He’s very rude. And he—they call him Junior, by the way—is bringing a friend. . . .”
“Heavens to betsy!” cried Sweet Cicely. “What a time to bring a friend.”
“This friend, Mama”—Lilly had become quite shrill—“is . . . a . . . skunk!”
Sweet Cicely patted a paw over her mouth.
“Mama,” Lilly confided in a lower voice, “it was all I could do to get Poppy not to bring a horrid porcupine friend of hers along.”
“Lilly, do you mean to say those rumors we heard, that Poppy had a good friend who is a . . . porcupine, were true?”
“I told you they weren’t rumors, didn’t I? And if ever there was an unpleasant, gross, offensive . . .”
Sweet Cicely’s whiskers drooped. Her tail whipped about. With each word her voice went up. “Is Poppy bringing that . . . porcupine here?”
“No, no,” said Lilly. “But only because I put my paw down.”
“Oh, please, Lilly,” said Sweet Cicely. “You mustn’t even whisper the word ‘porcupine’ in the presence of your papa. You know how he still is obsessed about them.”
“Is that you, Lilly?” called a rather feeble voice from within the boot.
“Yes, Papa,” called Lilly. “I’m right here.”
“Why are you wasting your time out there with your mother? You should be talking to me!”
Mother and daughter exchanged sympathetic, knowing looks. “You’d best go in,” whispered Sweet Cicely. “I’ll be fine.” She held back the cloth that covered the entryway and whispered, “Lilly, dear, please, please, be careful what you tell him.”
“You don’t wish me to fib, do you?”
“No. No. Of course not. But, as my mother used to always remind me, ‘When in doubt, leave it out.’”
“But, Mama, I have no doubts,” said Lilly. She held up her leaf packet of pine seeds. “I did bring Papa some seeds.”
“Oh, Lilly, I do wish your father grasped what a good daughter you are.”
Lilly smiled ruefully, gave her mother’s paw a reassuring squeeze, and went through the plaid necktie.
CHAPTER 16
Lungwort
LILLY PASSED DEEP INTO THE BOOT. It was gloomy, the air
