“You leave that to old Skip, marm.” Skipper laughed drily. “Bula, you take charge of the crew while I’m away. I think I’ll pay the Mask a visit.”

“What’s the Mask?” Several woodlanders voiced the question.

“You’ll soon see!” Bula winked.

Consternation reigned at Kotir.

A luckless stoat had been “volunteered’ from the cell guards by Fortunata and Cludd, and he was pushed unwillingly into Tsarmina’s chamber.

“Er, your Maj of the green Queenest, er upper of all ruler and lower Moss. Er, er . . . The prisoners have gone!”

“Gone! What do you mean, gone?” The wildcat Queen left her seat in a single bound and picked the stoat up by his throat.

“Yuuurrkkgghhaaaarrr . . . ’Scaped.”

Tsarmina threw the gurgling heap to the floor. Her voice echoed in the stairway as she dashed down to the cells.

“Escaped? Impossible! Guards, get down to the cells quickly.”

The cells were searched.

The corridors were scoured.

The outer walls were surrounded.

The parade ground was gone over inch by inch.

The barracks were turned inside out.

Not a room, passage, cupboard, chamber, kitchen, guardhouse, or scullery remained unprobed.

Gingivere, however, was officially nonexistent. His cell was not searched. Nobody thought of looking in a prison cell that was already bolted and barred.

Except maybe Tsarmina.

* * *

Columbine sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Was it night or day? she wondered. How long had she slept in this warm dry cavern? Everything seemed so quiet and peaceful after the noise and panic of the battle she had witnessed. There was an old patchwork quilt covering her. She pushed it to one side as a little molemaid entered.

“Mawnen to ’ee. Wellcum t’Moledeep. Brekkist be ready.”

She followed the mole into a larger cave, where Ben Stickle and the woodlanders who had been injured sat with the Loamhedge mice and the mole community.

Foremole waved her to a place between himself and a grizzled old mole whose fur was completely gray.

“Set ee by yurr, maid. This be Owd Dinny, t’other young rip’s granfer.”

Old Dinny nodded and continued spooning honeyed oatmeal.

Obviously the moles liked a good solid start to the day. There was a variety of cooked roots and tubers, most of which Columbine had never seen before. All of them tasted delicious, whether salted, sugared or dipped in honey and milk. (Some of the moles did all four.) The bread was wafer thin and tasted of almonds, small cakes patterned with buttercups were served warm. There were fluffy napkins and bowls of steaming rosewater to cleanse sticky paws. As Columbine nibbled at a rye biscuit and sipped fragrant mint tea, she could not help asking Foremole where all the huge deeper ’n’ ever pies and solid trencherfood the moles seemed to favor were.

Foremole chuckled. He gestured at the table with a massive digging claw. “Ho urr, Combuliney. This yurr be on’y a loight brekkist for ’ee an’ yurr friends. We’m fancied it up a bit for ’ee. Moles be only eaten solid vittles at even toid when they’s ’ungered greatly.”