The Tale of Despereaux - Kate DiCamillo [41]
“Well, well,” said Roscuro.
“How do I look?” Mig asked, smiling at him.
“Ridiculous,” he said. “Laughable.”
Mig stood, blinking back tears. “You mean I don’t look like a princess?” she said to the rat.
“I mean,” said Roscuro, “you will never look like a princess, no matter how big a crown you put on your tiny head. You look exactly like the fool you are and always will be. Now, make yourself useful and chain the princess up. Dress-up time is over.”
Mig sniffed and wiped at her eyes and then bent to look at the pile of chains and locks on the floor.
“And now, Princess,” he said, “I’m afraid that the time for your truth has arrived. I will now tell you what your future holds. As you consigned me to darkness, so I consign you, too, to a life spent in this dungeon.”
Mig looked up. “Ain’t she going upstairs to be a serving maid?”
“No,” said Roscuro.
“Ain’t I going to be a princess, then?”
“No,” said Roscuro.
“But I want to be a princess.”
“No one,” said Roscuro, “cares what you want.”
As you know, reader, Miggery Sow had heard this sentiment expressed many times in her short life. But now, in the dungeon, it hit her full force: The rat was right. No one cared what she wanted. No one had ever cared. And perhaps, worst of all, no one ever would care.
“I want!” cried Mig.
“Shhhh,” said the princess.
“Shut up,” said the rat.
“I want . . .,” sobbed Mig. “I want . . . I want . . .”
“What do you want, Mig?” the princess said softly.
“Eh?” shouted Mig.
“What do you want, Miggery Sow?!” the princess shouted.
“Don’t ask her that,” said Roscuro. “Shut up. Shut up.”
But it was too late. The words had been said; the question, at last, had been asked. The world stopped spinning and all of creation held its breath, waiting to hear what it was that Miggery Sow wanted.
“I want . . .,” said Mig.
“Yes?” shouted the Pea.
“I want my ma!” cried Mig, into the silent, waiting world. “I want my ma!”
“Oh,” said the princess. She held out her hand to Mig.
Mig took hold of it.
“I want my mother, too,” said the princess softly. And she squeezed Mig’s hand.
“Stop it!” shouted Roscuro. “Chain her up. Chain her up.”
“Gor,” said Mig, “I ain’t going to do it. You can’t make me do it. I got the knife, don’t I?” She took the knife and held it up.
“If you have any sense at all,” said Roscuro, “and I heartily doubt that you do, you will not use that instrument on me. Without me, you will never find your way out of the dungeon, and you will starve to death here, or worse.”
“Gor,” said Mig, “then lead us out now, or I will chop you up into little rat bits.”
“No,” said Roscuro. “The princess shall stay here in the darkness. And you, Mig, will stay with her.”
“But I want to go upstairs,” said Mig.
“I’m afraid that we are stuck here, Mig,” shouted the princess, “unless the rat has a change of heart and decides to lead us out.”
“There will be no changes of heart,” said Roscuro. “None.”
“Gor,” said Mig. She lowered the knife.
And so, the rat and the princess and the serving girl sat together in the dungeon as, outside the castle, the sun rose and moved through the sky and sank to the earth again and night fell. They sat together until the candle had burned out and another one had to be lit. They sat together in the dungeon. They sat. And sat.
And, reader, truthfully, they might be sitting there still, if a mouse had not arrived.
“PRINCESS!” Despereaux shouted. “Princess, I have come to save you.”
The Princess Pea heard her name. She looked up.
“Despereaux,” she whispered.
And then she shouted it, “Despereaux!”
Reader, nothing is sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name.
Nothing.
For Despereaux, the sound was worth everything: his lost tail, his trip to the dungeon, and back out of it and back into it again.
He ran toward the princess.
But Roscuro, baring his teeth, blocked the mouse’s way.