On a blue painted windowsill in the northeast turret of the Addison mansion, a glossy black rat lay panting. He had never been in the best of shape, even when he was a human. Now that he was a rat, all the tunneling and gnawing and climbing of vines that seemed to be expected of him was a bit much.

“You’re getting too old for this, Cheswick,” he muttered to himself.

But of course he was doing it for his darling Barmsie, who he had adored for years. True, she was now quite a bit shorter than she had been—and hairier—with a prominent set of whiskers. And though her piebald blotches were interesting, and her long tail was certainly nice and pink, she was no longer the beauty queen of former days.

But she was still his precious tulip, and he was glad to do anything she asked. Just now he was on a daring mission into enemy territory. Cheswick grasped the window-blind cord, slid into Emmy’s bedroom, and trotted into the playroom. He took a brown rucksack from his shoulders and waded manfully into a pile of doll clothes.