The Rat Prince by Bridget Hodder Page A

is it not?”
    Swiss whispered, “Things are looking good for the rat-candidate.”
    It did sound as though Prince Geoffrey would do as I’d hoped, and choose Rose because of her fine looks. But I felt stirrings of uneasiness in my chest. I did not quite understand what the king meant by “an ideal situation for our purposes.”
    So I paid close attention when Lord Hamp spoke once again. “Very well,” he said, “since it appears the young lady may meet our needs, let us hope Rose de Lancastyr will be in attendance at the ball tonight.”
    I still was not enlightened. What exactly were the needs to which Hamp referred?
    Suddenly, the giant double oaken doors facing the throne were flung open to admit the tall figure of a young man wearing a crown, trailed by several people who were probably a mixture of courtiers and servants. “Father! Father!” he called in a rich, musical voice—the sort of voice I thought human girls would find compelling.
    King Tumtry sat upright and hastily dropped his own crown upon his head. It slid a little to one side.
    Meanwhile, I took stock of the famous Prince Geoffrey.
    â€œOoooh, he’s so haaaaandsome,” Swiss cooed.
    Swiss was teasing, of course, but according to what I knew of humans, I believed the shining Geoffrey should please Rose greatly, at least in the matter of looks.
    So why was I not pleased?
    â€œYes, my son?” King Tumtry asked, blinking a little as Geoffrey rapidly advanced toward the throne.
    â€œFather, this knavish fool has endangered the success of tonight’s ball before it has even begun!” The prince flung an accusing finger toward a bowing, scraping man who, with his thick lips and balding head, seemed quite as harmless as he was frightened. The prince’s eyes were fierce, and his golden hair moved as he did, dramatically.
    â€œCome now, Son,” King Tumtry said. “Let the man explain. What is your name, my good fellow?”
    â€œQuintilius Porter, Your Majesty,” he said, and exhaled heavily as he got down upon one knee before the throne. “I was charged with delivering and installing the great artist Fieresci’s marble statue of your son, His Royal Highness, in time for tonight’s ball. I was to install it in the center of the Fountain of Love in the courtyard, to bring good fortune to the prince as he chooses his bride.”
    â€œAnd instead, what do you think he has done?” Geoffrey bellowed. “The clumsy oaf has allowed one of the arms to break off!”
    â€œThat certainly sounds unfortunate,” the king said carefully. “Yet perhaps all is not lost. What think you, my lord councillors?”
    â€œMaster Porter,” said Lord Hamp, “can the statue be mended by tonight?”
    â€œOh yes, yes, Lord Hamp, we can reattach the arm with a strong bolt, and then—if I may be so bold as to make the suggestion—I should drape a velvet cloak across the shoulders of the statue to hide the break. After the ball, the sculptor will be able to do a more thorough job of repairing his work.” Quintilius Porter did not raise his eyes. “I exceedingly regret the carelessness of my assistants. I humbly beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I will remain at the ball tonight if you wish, out of sight, with the sole object of watching over the statue.”
    Lord Hamp gave a guarded smile. “Your Majesty, so long as Master Porter makes good on his promise, His Highness the prince need have no fear. He shall laugh and dance the night away with many a beautiful woman, secure in the knowledge that he has been blessed with good fortune by the statue in the fountain.”
    â€œI will do so, Lord Hamp,” said Geoffrey, drawing his sword and turning to Quintilius Porter. “But this lout shall not be in attendance.”
    He raised the blade high in both hands. Then he swung it down hard, striking off the unsuspecting Master Porter’s