A Wet Cape at the Door

The cold wind died down at last. Outside, the rain made a steady drumming sound against the thick bark of the ancient oak. Barnaby stood by the writing desk and shook his front paws dry. He brushed a speck of golden root-dust from his dandelion-silk pouch. Across the room, Saffron tucked the loose paper scrolls into a neat stack so the damp mist would not curl their edges.

Just as the room began to warm again, a small sound broke through the patter of the storm. Tap, tap, tap.

It was a polite, three-part knock. The sound came right from the thick wooden wall of the library trunk near the secret entrance.

Pip perked up his ears. He stepped over the amber floorboards, which gave off a soft, welcoming hum beneath his toes. He parted a curtain of dried fern leaves and peeked behind a tall stack of story scrolls. There, right outside the trunk's outer ledge, stood a tiny fieldmouse. Her whiskers drooped with heavy water drops. Her brown fur was soaked flat against her sides. She held her tiny paws tight against her chest to keep from shivering.

"Hello?" Pip whispered gently.

"Excuse me," the little mouse squeaked in a thin voice. "My name is Marigold. The wind blew my path away in the canopy. But then I heard a low, lovely humming sound in the wood, and I followed it all the way here."

Clover came over at once, her long ears tilted forward with concern. She slid open the carved wooden latch on the lower door and pushed it wide. "Do not stay out in that freezing gale, Marigold! Come inside where it is dry."

Clover hurried to the linen drawer by the wall. She pulled out a soft little cape of spun green wool that had stayed warm and snug inside the wood. With careful paws, she draped the cape over Marigold’s wet shoulders. The dry wool felt soft and good.

Barnaby bustled over to the corner hearth. He nudged a low wooden stool right beside the glowing red embers. "Sit here, little friend," Barnaby said kindly, smoothing his golden whiskers. "Put your feet toward the heat."

Marigold climbed onto the stool with a grateful sigh. Clover poured warm roasted acorn tea from a small clay pot into a carved wooden cup. Steam rose up from the dark brew, smelling sweet and nutty in the warm air of the room. Marigold wrapped both paws around the cup, letting the heat sink deep into her chilly paws before taking a slow sip.

As Marigold dried off, she looked around the cozy hideaway with wide, dark eyes. Behind the low bench, the blue thread Saffron had pulled still rested against the corner shelf, where the funny wooden puzzle box peeked out from the dark corner.