“Well, well, my one-time brother, I thought perhaps that you had perished by now in this unhealthy atmosphere, dark, cold, damp, with little to eat. But cheer up, I’ll find you an even darker and deeper prison when you move out to make room for the new lodgers I’m planning. How would that suit you?”

Gingivere stood clasping the cell bars. He stared at his sister.

Tsarmina shifted nervously. Her previous mood of euphoria rapidly disintegrating, she became irritable.

“Never fear, my silent, staring brother. I can soon fix up other arrangements for you. A sword, perhaps. Or a spear during the night to deepen your sleep.”

Gingivere’s eyes burned into Tsarmina, and his voice was like a knell. “Murderer!”

Tsarmina broke and ran, pursued by the voice of her brother like a spear at her back.

“Murderer! You killed our father! Murderer! Murderer!”

When the sounds of Tsarmina’s flight had died away, Gingivere let go of the bars and slumped to the floor, hot tears pouring from his fevered eyes.

* * *

After their trek through Mossflower to find Chibb, the little party were ready for food. Now that all the woodlanders were billeted at Brockhall, mealtimes were like a constant feast, so many different dishes were contributed. A pretty posy lay in the middle of the festive board symbolizing the coming together in springtime to oppose the reign of Kotir.

Gonff was conscious of Columbine watching him. Bella had given the little mousethief permission to sing grace, and he stood up boldly and sang aloud,

Squirrels, otters, hedgehogs, mice,
Moles with fur like sable,
Gathered in good spirits all,
Round this festive table.
Sit we down to eat and drink.
Friends, before we do, let’s think.
Fruit of forest, field and banks,
To the springtime we give thanks.

The woodlanders began passing food. As Gonff sat down, he winked at Columbine, showing no sign of modesty.

“Good, eh? That’s an ancient chant that has been sung through the ages. I composed it a moment ago for today.”

Gonff was so pleased with himself that Columbine could not help laughing with him at his outrageous statement.

Martin had sat at many tables—farm tables, inn tables, and, more often than not, any handy flat piece of rock where he could lay his food. Now he sat back and surveyed the board before him with wonder. Bulrush and water-shrimp soup provided by the otters; a large flagon of Skipper’s famous hot root punch; hazelnut truffle; blackberry apple crumble; baked sweet chestnuts; honeyed toffee pears; and maple tree cordial, a joint effort by hedgehogs and squirrels. The Loamhedge and Mossflower mice had combined to provide a number of currant and berry pies, seedcake and potato scones, and a cask of October ale. By far the biggest single offering was a colossal turnip ’n’ tater ’n’ beetroot ’n’ bean deeper ’n’ ever pie with tomato chutney baked by the Foremole and his team.

Normally a solid trenchermouse, Martin would have stuck to deeper ’n’ ever pie, but Gonff encouraged him and Columbine to sample some of everything.