The Tale of Despereaux - Kate DiCamillo [27]
“Gor,” agreed Mig, “a princess is exactly what I want to be.”
“There is, my dear, a way to make that happen. I believe that there is a way to make that dream come true.”
“You mean that I could be the Princess Pea?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Roscuro. And he swept the spoon off his head and bowed deeply at the waist. “Yes, your most royal Princess Pea.”
“Gor!” said Mig.
“May I tell you my plan? May I illustrate for you how we can make your dream of becoming a princess a reality?”
“Yes,” said Mig, “yes.”
“It begins,” said Roscuro, “with yours truly, and the chewing of a rope.”
Mig held the tray with the one small candle burning bright, and she listened as the rat went on, speaking directly to the wish in her heart. So passionately did Roscuro speak and so intently did the serving girl listen that neither noticed as the napkin on the tray moved.
Nor did they hear the small mouselike noises of disbelief and outrage that issued from the napkin as Roscuro went on unfolding, step by step, his diabolical plan to bring the princess to darkness.
End of the Third Book
READER, you did not forget about our small mouse, did you?
“Back to the light,” that was what Gregory whispered to him when he wrapped Despereaux in his napkin and placed him on the tray. And then Mig, after her conversation with Roscuro, carried the tray into the kitchen, and when she saw Cook, she shouted, “It’s me, Miggery Sow, back from the deep downs.”
“Ah, lovely,” said Cook. “And ain’t we all relieved?”
Mig put the tray on the counter.
“Here, here,” said Cook, “your duties ain’t done. You must clear it.”
“How’s that?” shouted Mig.
“You must clear the tray!” shouted Cook. She reached over and took hold of the napkin and gave it a good shake, and Despereaux tumbled out of the napkin and landed right directly, plop, in a measuring cup full of oil.
“Acccck,” said Cook, “a mouse in my kitchen, in my cooking oil, in my measuring cup. You, Mig, kill him directly.”
Mig bent her head and looked at the mouse slowly sinking to the bottom of the glass cup.
“Poor little meecy,” she said. And she stuck her hand into the oil and pulled him out by his tail.
Despereaux, gasping and coughing and blinking at the bright light, could have wept with joy at his rescue. But he was not given time to cry.
“Kill him!” shouted Cook.
“Gor!” said Mig. “All right.” Holding Despereaux by the tail, she went to get the kitchen knife. But the mouse tail, covered as it was in oil, was slick and difficult to hold on to and Mig, in reaching for the knife, loosened her grip, and Despereaux fell to the floor.
Mig looked down at the little bundle of brown fur.
“Gor,” she said, “that killed him for sure.”
“Kill him even if he’s already dead,” shouted Cook. “That’s my philosophy with mice. If they’re alive, kill them. If they’re dead, kill them. That way you can be certain of having yourself a dead mouse, which is the only kind of mouse to have.”
“That’s some good sophosy, that is, kill ’em, even if they’s already dead.”
“Hurry, you cauliflower-eared fool!” shouted Cook. “Hurry!”
Despereaux lifted his head from the floor. The afternoon sun was shining through the large kitchen window. He had time to think how miraculous the light was and then it disappeared and Mig’s face loomed into view. She studied him, breathing through her mouth.
“Little meecy,” she said, “ain’t you going to skedaddle?”
Despereaux looked for a long moment into Mig’s small, concerned eyes and then there came a blinding flash and the sound of metal moving through air as Mig brought the kitchen knife down, down, down.
Despereaux felt a very intense pain in his hindquarters. He leapt up and into action. Reader, he scurried. He scurried like a professional mouse. He zigged to the left. He zagged to the right.
“Gor!” shouted Mig. “Missed him.”
“Ain’t that a surprise?” said Cook just as Despereaux