Three Taps at the Door

Outside the great tree, the autumn rain came down in cold, gray sheets. Freezing gusts shook the high branches and rattled the rough outer bark of Hollowbrook. Inside the secret room behind the library, the world was dry and calm. The acorn-cap lamps cast a warm, butter-yellow glow over the stone table. The low musical hum from the deep roots had faded into a quiet whisper, leaving the friends with a peaceful afternoon to spare.

Bramble leaned over the smooth slate tabletop. His hedgehog snout twitched with focus. In his paws, he rattled three tiny dice carved from dried hazelnuts. With a flick of his wrist, he sent them tumbling across the stone. They clicked and rolled, coming to rest in a tidy row. Bramble let out a low, gravelly chuckle. Two of the faces showed the neat carving of an oak leaf.

"A double oak leaf," Bramble said, smiling. "Beat that if you can, Barnaby."

Barnaby sat on the oak bench across from him. The little mouse smoothed his whiskers, which were still speckled with golden dust from the amber chamber. He gave his woven dandelion-silk pouch a gentle pat, then scooped up the hazelnut dice with both paws. He shook them near his ear, listening to the dry rattle inside his grip. Over on her soft moss cushion, Saffron pulled her brown cloak closer around her shoulders. She held a warm clay cup of clover tea in two paws, blowing gently on the steam and watching the game with bright, dark eyes.

"The wind may blow outside," Barnaby said cheerfully, "but luck is on my side today."

Barnaby gave the dice a confident toss across the table. Two of them rolled neatly into the center, showing acorns. The third die took a wild hop. It clattered loudly against the side of an empty clay cup, spun like a top, and skidded right off the edge of the slate.

"Oh!" Saffron gasped, sitting up straight.

The stray die fell from the table and hit the wooden boards below. It bounced once, twice, and kept rolling fast across the room. It zipped straight past Pip and Clover, headed directly toward the dark gap where the ancient roots curved into the wall. Barnaby slid off the bench in a scramble, his paws reaching out. The tiny hazelnut die wobbled on its edge, slowed down, and stopped just a whisker away from tumbling down into the dark opening beneath the baseboard.

Barnaby let out a big puff of air. "My lucky acorn. That was close!"

He reached down to scoop the die from the brink of the crack. But before his paws could close around the wood, a strange sound broke the quiet.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was not the rattle of the freezing rain, and it was not the wind howling against the branch tips. It was three soft, polite scratches right against the thick bark door that led out to the rainy tree trunk.

Saffron froze on her moss cushion. Her teacup hovered near her chin, and her round ears twitched toward the entrance. Barnaby stayed frozen on his knees, his paw still hovering over the lost die. In the quiet room, only the steady drip of rain outside filled the silence.