Ullig clattered off at the head of his troops, knowing that the specter would be gone when he reached the room upstairs. It was not the first time something like this had occurred.

Lantur stowed the “White Ghost” in its corner cupboard and poured two goblets of plum wine. Sliding one across to the rat Wilce, the Marlfox smiled maliciously, listening to the guards hastening up the stairs.

“She’ll have frightened herself to death by winter, Wilce, and then we’ll prepare a deadly reception for my returning brothers and sisters. Give me a toast, Wilce!”

The female water rat nodded over the rim of her goblet. “To High Queen Lantur, next ruler of this island and all the lake surrounding it. Long life and undisturbed sleep!”

Lantur quaffed her goblet’s contents. “Aye, I’ll drink to that. After all, who could disturb my sleep? The White Ghost?”

Wilce topped up Lantur’s goblet from the wine flagon. “How could the White Ghost disturb my lady when ’twill be lying at the bottom of the lake, wrapped around ex-Queen Silth!”

“Heehee! Pour yourself more wine, Wilce!”

*

Cregga stumped her way downstairs to find out what had been going on in her absence. The few days she had spent alone in her room had been irksome. Now recovered from her wounds, the blind badger was eager for company, longing to be part of the daily hum of Abbey life. Her tread was slow and sure, and she kept to one side of the stairs, using the wall as a guide. Every joint and crack of the ancient red sandstone, each paw-worn stair with its own small dip or hollow, the Badgermum knew well. Redwall Abbey was her home, and she loved it so much that she felt every stone of it was part of her.

Reaching Great Hall, Cregga’s sharp instincts told her things were not as they should be. She knew it was nighttime, and there were always Redwallers about this late in the evening. But now there was a hushed silence over everything. Moreover, her senses told her that candles and lanterns aplenty were lit, for she could feel their presence, the slight warmth, a guttering flicker, the odd drip of melted beeswax from a brimming sconce, the fragrant odor of pine resin. All was not right.

Moving silently into what she knew was the shadow of a thick stone column at the edge of the hall, the big badger felt about until her paw rested on the long pole of a brass-cupped candle-snuffer. Grasping it tight, she called out, “Who’s there? Speak if you know what’s good for ye. I don’t like creatures sneakin’ about around me!”

From somewhere out at the hall’s center, a voice she identified as Friar Butty’s whispered, “One, two, three . . . Now!”

Music burst out everywhere, fifes, drums, and all manner of stringed instruments, with massed voices singing in harmony.

“Midsummer midsummer the solstice is here,