Bubble held up a piece of pumpkin chocolate-chip bread. “Bribery,” he said smugly. “Highly effective in our line of work, I’ve found.”
The four of them watched as the Mayflower disappeared over the horizon.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Bunsen.
“Bad rodents, don’t you mean?” quipped Glory. “And speaking of rodents, what about Fumble?”
Squeak consulted a tiny compass that hung from her utility belt. “If the wind holds, we should be able to pick him up on the other side of the pond,” she reported. “That ship’s on a direct course for England.”
“If he survives the trip,” said Bunsen. “Last we saw of him, he was on his way to becoming an appetizer.”
“Or a pair of slippers,” added Glory. “Or both.”
Bubble shook his head. “I highly doubt it. Dupont will never allow it. The information he possesses is far too valuable.”
“Well, he’d only be getting what he deserves,” said Glory, who was not at all regretful at the thought of her turntail colleague ending up as a rat snack. She shaded her eyes with her paw and gazed across the harbor. “Why don’t you drop us off there,” she suggested, pointing to the Statue of Liberty. “It’s close enough to shore for us to flag down a Pigeon Air taxi, and that way you can go straight to the airport.”
“Splendid idea,” Bubble replied. He held out another piece of pumpkin chocolate-chip bread for the seagull, and a short time later they landed atop Lady Liberty’s torch.
“Do come visit us sometime,” said Bubble, as Glory and Bunsen climbed down from the bird’s broad back. “You’d be most welcome in London, and I know Sir Edmund Hazelnut-Cadbury is eager to meet you.”
The two spy mice waved as the seagull bearing their British friends rose into the air.
“Cheerio, then—and good luck!” called Squeak.
“Cheerio!” echoed Glory. She turned to Bunsen and smiled. “Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER 32
DAY THREE • THURSDAY • 1800 HOURS
“You should have seen their faces!” said Lavinia Levinson. “Fifty feet tall on every billboard in Times Square, plastered in pigeon poo.”
D. B. gave a snort of laughter, and Oz grinned at the recollection. He could smile now that he knew Glory and Bunsen were safe. B-Nut had sent them a message via pigeon post as soon as he got the news. Vinnie had reached them just before they left the Waldorf-Astoria to return home to Washington.
“I got it all on film, too,” added Amelia Bean proudly. “A real scoop for Channel Twelve.”
“A scoop of poo,” quipped D. B.’s father, and everyone laughed.
“I say it serves them right, the rascals,” Luigi Levinson said. “They had no business picking on our little sugarplums.”
He glanced fondly across the table at Oz and D. B. Both families were gathered around the Levinsons’ long dinner table for a celebratory Thanksgiving feast. Oz’s father had been busy all day preparing for their triumphant return from New York. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet-potato casserole with miniature marshmallows—all of Oz’s favorites. And pumpkin chocolate-chip bread, of course.
Just then the doorbell rang. Oz’s father excused himself to answer it. He returned a moment later with a puzzled look on his face.
“Who was it?” asked Oz’s mother.
Luigi Levinson shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied. “There was no one there. Just a pigeon on the railing. But this was on the doorstep.”
He handed a small package to Oz. The names Ozymandias Levinson and Delilah Bean were inscribed on the brown paper wrapping in very precise, very tiny handwriting.
“Looks like our two Bake-Off celebrities already have some fans.”
“Pretty soon they’ll be asking for your autograph instead of ours,” added Oz’s mother, winking at Amelia Bean.
D. B.’s mother leaned over and inspected the package curiously. “You almost need a magnifying glass to read that address.”
“Uh, can we be excused?” asked Oz, kicking D. B. under the table.
“Hey!” cried his friend, scowling. “What did you—oh. I mean, yeah, can we be excused?”
“Certainly,” said Luigi Levinson. “Clear your places first, please.”
Oz and D. B. carried their dishes to the kitchen, then ran up to Oz’s room. Oz rummaged in his desk for a pair of scissors. He clipped the string and together he and D. B. unwrapped the package.
“Wow!” breathed Oz.
Inside were a pair of Popsicle-stick skateboards painted with silver nail polish.
“Oz!” said D. B., gazing at them in wonder. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
Oz steered the tiny skateboard around the top of his desk with a pudgy finger. There was a dreamy look in his eye. Even James Bond didn’t have one of these. “I think so,” he replied. He poked through the small box and emerged with a tiny envelope. “Let’s see what the note says.”
It was in code. D. B. got the magnifying glass while Oz fished the cipher wheel from his pocket. Together they decoded the message.
“FOR YOUR PAWS ONLY,” it began. “IN RECOGNITION OF ANOTHER GOOD JOB WELL DONE, WE AT THE SPY MICE AGENCY HEREBY EXTEND OUR DEEPEST THANKS AND PROMOTE YOU TO HONORARY SILVER-SKATEBOARD STATUS. THE WORLD IS YOURS.” It was signed “Julius Folger.”
“What does he mean, the world is yours?” asked D. B., staring at the piece of paper.
“Glory says that Silver Skateboard agents get all the glamorous overseas postings,” Oz explained.
D. B. grunted. “Yeah, right,” she said. “Chester B. Arthur Elementary is about as glamorous as we get.”
Oz poked at his glasses, then popped a wheelie on his desk with his new Popsicle-stick skateboard. “Well, we did get to go to New York, remember?”
“That’s true,” D. B. replied.
“So you never know,” said Oz. “You just never know.”
CHAPTER 33
DAY THREE • THURSDAY • 1800 HOURS
“You look fine, Bunsen,” said Glory. “Relax.”
Across the street from the Levinsons’ townhouse, the two mice were standing on the doorstep of the giant oak tree where the Goldenleaf family lived. Bunsen fidgeted nervously with his bow tie.
“Are you sure I have it on straight?” he squeaked, his nose and tail an anxious pink.
Glory plucked a small brass key from a pocket on her backpack and inserted it into her front door. It was a beautiful door, its elaborately carved pattern of intertwined leaves and acorns a mirror image of the nearby estate’s iron gates. “Trust me,” she said. “You look very handsome.”
As they stepped inside, Bunsen looked about the entrance hall in wonder. It was very different from the sterile white walls and stainless-steel tables of the laboratory where he had been raised. Goldenleafs had lived on the grounds of Dumbarton Oaks since the big brick mansion was first built back in the early 1800s, and their home reflected nearly two centuries of gracious living. The walls were painted the color of a ripe peach, and the oak floor, its honey-colored surface polished smooth by generations of Goldenleaf paws, gleamed in the light of a pair of birthday candles that flickered from paper-clip sconces.
“Snug, isn’t it?” asked Glory, sliding her skateboard into its slot in the closet. She hung her backpack neatly on its peg above a plumply upholstered bench and led the way upstairs.
As they climbed the staircase that wound through the heart of the tree, Glory lifted her elegant little nose and sniffed the air. “Mmmm, mmmm,” she said. “A real Thanksgiving feast!” She sighed a deep, contented sigh.
“Do you really think they’ll like me?” fretted Bunsen, as the sound of conversation and laughter drew closer.
Glory paused. She turned and looked down on him from the stair above, then leaned over impulsively and kissed the tip of his nose. “What’s not to like?” she replied with a saucy wink.
Upstairs, they found the Goldenleaf family seated around a long, narrow table
(a dominoes box foraged long ago from the nearby mansion’s attic). At one end was Glory’s distinguished field-mouse father, General Dumbarton Goldenleaf; at the other sat Glory’s mother, Gingersnap Goldenleaf, a pleasantly round gray house mouse with a particularly attractive set of whiskers. Julius Folger was seated to her right. Hotspur was nowhere to be seen. Rumor had it that his uncle had sent him packing—posted him to a desk job in Nome, Alaska, to cool his tail for a bit and reflect on the reckless decision that had nearly cost two spy mice—not to mention several humans—their lives.
Ringing the rest of the table were Glory’s sixteen brothers and sisters. Perched in matchbox high chairs near their mother were Truffle and Taffy, the babies (or candy batch, as they were called, for in honor of her Bakery Guild roots Gingersnap Goldenleaf had given all her children names that reflected their house-mouse heritage). Farther down, where their father could keep an eye on them, were the school-age “cookies,” Snickerdoodle, Macaroon, Hermit, and Brownie. Seated around them were the “French pastries,” Croissant, Éclair, Petit Four, Napoleon, and Chantilly. The oldest batch of Goldenleaf offspring, they had moved out last year and were already launched on lives of their own. Soon, Glory knew, it would be her turn to leave the nest and make her way in the world, but for now she was perfectly happy living here at home.
A shout of laughter went up around the room as B-Nut finished describing the aerial pigeon bombing of Jordan and Tank in Times Square.
“You should have seen their faces when they saw themselves on the billboards!” he said with glee. “A real pair of great white sharks!”
Gingersnap Goldenleaf looked over toward the doorway. “Glory!” she cried in delight. “You’re home!” She sprang up from the table and scampered over to hug her daughter. “Shove over,” she said to the “muffins” (in addition to B-Nut, Glory’s batchmates were Chip, Bran, Pumpkin, and Blueberry). “Make room for our guests of honor.”
She turned to Bunsen. “You must be Glory’s beau!” she said, enveloping the lab mouse in a warm hug, too. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Burner.”
“You have?” Bunsen looked surprised.
“Certainly,” said Gingersnap, shooting her husband a significant look. “Haven’t we, dear?”
“Uh, yes, of course. Absolutely. Quite right. Glory talks of little else.” General Goldenleaf stood up, extending his paw. “Good to see you again, Bunsen. I understand from B-Nut here that we owe our daughter’s life to you once more.”
“Well, I—uh, that is—” Bunsen stammered.
“C’mon, Bunsen, admit it,” said B-Nut. “You’re a hero!”
“I don’t know about that,” replied the lab mouse. “Glory helped, too. And don’t forget Bubble and Squeak.”
“Who are Bubble and Squeak?” piped Snickerdoodle.
Julius winked at him. “That’s For Your Paws Only,” he whispered. “Top secret.” He lifted his cider cup in a toast. “Here’s to the many brave mice in this room, and to all their colleagues!”
“Especially Bunsen,” said Glory, reaching over and clasping the lab mouse’s pale paw in her own soft brown one. “He’s true-blue. And far too modest.” She took a seat beside Julius.
“So glad to see you home safe and sound, my dear,” said the elder mouse. “And hearty congratulations for disposing so neatly of Dupont. Not to mention all the rest of the Global Rodent Roundtable.”
Glory frowned. She wasn’t so sure that Roquefort Dupont wouldn’t turn up again. He had more lives than a cat. Still, no point worrying about it now. Pushing all unpleasant rodent thoughts aside, she surveyed the room with satisfaction. It was painted a warm, glowing cranberry with glossy white trim, and portraits of Goldenleaf ancestors beamed down at them from the walls. A cheery blaze burned in the fireplace, its light joined by that of the twinkling birthday candle chandelier overhead. And the table! Glory’s mother had outdone herself with the table. The crisp white tablecloth was spread with all of their finest things—bowls made from polished walnut shells, crystal punch cups foraged from an abandoned dollhouse a century ago, and her family’s prized heirlooms, gleaming in the candlelight: tiny silver salt spoons plucked from the rubbish by an enterprising Goldenleaf after a careless servant at Dumbarton Oaks had thrown them out.
Bunsen, meanwhile, eyed the bounty. A generous tureen of butternut-squash soup held place of honor in the center of the table. Surrounding it were platters piled high with golden kernels of corn, yeast rolls, toasted nuts, apple slices, and more. On the sideboard, a row of pumpkin pies awaited the dessert course.
“This looks wonderful,” he said happily.
“Please help yourself,” said Gingersnap Goldenleaf, and the feast began.
Glory gazed around the table fondly at her family and friends. She couldn’t remember ever feeling more content. She had an adventurous job by day and a cozy home to return to at night. Best of all, at her side was a fine, brave, loyal mouse who loved her, and whom she loved in return.
I’m the luckiest mouse in the whole wide world, thought Glory.
“Bunsen,” she whispered.
“Mmmm?” replied her colleague. His mouth was full of chestnut stuffing, and he had a blissful expression on his face. Behind them, where no one else could see, his tail was intertwined with hers.
Glory smiled. “Please pass the cranberry sauce.”
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SECRET LOOK AT THE THIRD SPY MICE ADVENTURE!
DAY ONE • DECEMBER 23 • 0001 HOURS
At exactly one minute past midnight, a large black taxicab turned into the sweeping drive in front of London’s Savoy Hotel.
A mouseling stepped out of the shadow of the curb as the vehicle approached. Its headlights caught the hopeful gleam in his bright little eyes. He watched as the cab pulled up smartly in front of the entrance. It swished through a puddle as it did so, drenching him with icy water.
The mouseling slumped back against the curb, the hopeful look instantly extinguished. He’d thought that perhaps his luck had finally changed. It hadn’t. Not one bit. He swiped dejectedly at his sodden face with a grimy paw and sneezed. What a horrid night! The skies were spouting the kind of cold, sleeting rain that only London in late December could produce—and now this. His slight body shook violently, and the mouseling wrapped his tail tightly around himself in a vain attempt to keep warm.
Shivering, he watched as the cab driver hopped out and trotted round to open the door for his passengers. The mouseling’s tummy rumbled. Not only had he had no luck tonight, he’d had nothing to eat either. He hadn’t earned it yet. “Only mouselings who sing for their supper get their supper,” Master always said.
And the mouseling desperately wanted to please Master. Master was the giver of all that was good: food, warmth, praise. The mouseling owed Master his life. Before Master, he’d been nothing. An urchin. A throwaway. “Nobody wants worthless street trash like you,” Master reminded him often. Reminded all of them often. “Nobody but me.”
Still shivering, the mouseling peered over the curb as two pairs of feet emerged from the taxi: a lady’s and a gentleman’s. His tiny heart began to beat a little faster. Maybe his luck had changed after all. The gentleman’s shoes were highly polished and expensive looking. The lady’s stylish sandals crisscrossed her pale toes with narrow straps. Useless for walking, especially in this weather, but perfect for making an impressive entrance at one of London’s poshest hotels. Which was just the sort of thing that toffs liked to do.
“You can always tell a toff by his shoes,” Master had instructed. “That and his bags. Toffs like to spend money on shoes and bags.”
The cab driver removed a trio of suitcases from the taxi’s trunk and placed them on the sidewalk. The mouseling watched intently. He lifted his grubby little nose into the air and sniffed. Leather! Expensive leather. Hope soared in him once again. This was what he’d been waiting for all evening. These were just the sort of bags that toffs liked to take to fancy hotels.
And toffs—upper-crust, we
ll-heeled, wealthy humans—were what the mouseling was after tonight. What all Master’s mouselings were after in every corner of the city tonight.
The small mouse’s tummy rumbled again. Right, then. Time to get to work if he fancied any supper. He shouldered his soggy duffel bag (made from the toe of a sock) and with a practiced leap swung himself up over the curb. As the taxicab pulled away, he tumbled into the cuff of the gentleman’s well-cut trousers, and a moment later the Savoy’s doorman ushered the two human guests—and one unseen mouseling—inside the hotel.
DAY ONE • DECEMBER 23 • 0001 HOURS
The British airport official looked up from the counter at the chubby boy standing in front of him. “Purpose of your visit?” he asked.
The boy, who was sweating profusely, prodded at the round, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. “Uh, I guess, uh—” he stammered, still a bit groggy from the long flight from Washington, D.C. Nervous, too. This was his last hurdle. Once he passed through immigration and customs he was home free.
“Purpose of your visit?” repeated the man. There was a note of irritation in his voice. Behind the boy, a long line of waiting travelers snaked through the airport’s crowded screening area. “Business or pleasure?”
“Um,” said the boy. A bit of both was the correct answer, but how many ten-year-olds had business in London? He didn’t want to arouse suspicion. He couldn’t afford to do that. Not with what he had hidden in his shoe. “Um,” he said again.
“Are you hard of hearing, lad?” demanded the official, glaring at him. “What’s your name, anyway?” He squinted down at the passport that lay open on the counter in front of him. His bushy eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath the bill of his uniform cap. “Ozymandias Levinson? Blimey, who names a kid Ozymandias?”
A blush eclipsed the boy’s round moon of a face. “It’s just Oz, actually,” he muttered. He glanced anxiously over to where his parents, whose passports had already been approved and stamped, were waiting.