The Rat Prince by Bridget Hodder

might possibly mean.
    And then I saw them.
    There, standing just a few feet away from me in the weak candlelight, were Blackie and Frump-Bum.
    â€œYou!” I gasped.
    They were not alone. There was another large rat with them, a sleek white one who had a distinctly female, almost regal, air about her, and fifty—no, a hundred—no, what looked like a veritable host of mice waiting there, too.
    Incomprehension gave way to a strange dread. I groped for the sapphire ring in my bodice, and held it tight as if to ward off evil. My entire body was shaking.
    â€œYou—Blackie—” I stammered. “How can this be?”
    He stood mute, looking at me.
    Wheels and gears turned in my head, spun, caught, spun again. “Am I to understand that you brought this clothing here, as you have brought me food before? But how did you know I needed it? And how did you carry it? You would all have had to work together … It’s just not possible.”
    Blackie’s gaze was dark and locked with mine.
    He was only a beast, a lowly beast. How could he have aught to do with a ball gown?
    Silence within, silence without. And many little furry animals, watching me as if they expected I would eventually understand.
    â€œWhat are you?” I blurted, as though they could answer. “What manner of person or power has sent you?” Feeling the first stirrings of terror, I backed away toward the door, step by careful step.
    Then Blackie turned to Frump-Bum and made a low series of sounds.
    As if on command, Frump-Bum scurried to a corner of the room and began to push a red leather book across the dusty floor with his shoulder and snout. Efficiently, purposefully, he brought it toward me, as though he did this sort of thing every day. Then he dropped back on his haunches and looked up into my astonished face.
    Blackie made more commanding noises, this time aimed in my direction. Though I am not a rat, I could recognize the tone of authority when I heard it. I was being told to do something.
    Still trembling, clutching my family’s ring in my left hand, I moved forward and leaned over. With my right hand, I picked up the book. It was very old, and gave off a slight smell of mildew. I could just make out the words stamped in gold across the cover: Baron Dominick de Lancastyr, Sherriff of Lancashyrre, Knight of the Sacred Order of the Tyne, Keeper of the Privy Seal and Lord of the Anglander March. His Book .
    I almost dropped it.
    â€œBaron Dominick was the first Lancastyr!” I said, looking at Blackie. “My ancestor. Why, this book must be over two hundred years old!”
    The black rat—a pet to me, a menace to most—held my astonished gaze and ever so slowly, ever so deliberately, nodded his smooth head.
    Too much.
    I fainted, crumpling into a heap on the bare boards of the floor.
    *   *   *
    An agitated chorus of twitters and ack ack ack sounds awakened me. Something was swarming across my body. With a cry, I brushed at my torso, making frantic, sweeping slaps. My hands met tiny warm balls of fur and sent them flying in every direction as they emitted squeaks of distress.
    Mice! They’d been crawling all over me! Good Lord’s hooks, what were they doing? Were they going to eat me alive?
    When I shot up to a sitting position, I saw fat wax candles positioned in each corner of the room, making it as bright as day. And … o’ Lord, o’ Lord … I was wearing the Queen Lizbeth gown.
    The mice now huddled in a corner at a safe distance, chattering faintly, watching my every move as if in fear. In their tiny paws I saw the gleam of silvery needles, trailing golden thread.
    I felt that I had lost my reason. I would be carted off to the madhouse, and the Lancastyrs would be no more.
    But before I could give way to utter panic, I felt a warm, comforting weight curl up in my lap. Catching my breath, I looked down and saw Blackie. I hugged him to me