the otherwise empty, moonlit street. Minutes passed. A
pink rope snaked down from the open window. Jon-Tom
reached up to take hold of the chain of knotted bedsheets.
“They’ll support me,” he told Roseroar. “I don’t think
they’ll hold you.”
“Nevah mind. Y’all are just goin’ to spend a few ‘
minutes talkin’ to the girl-cub anyways.” She nodded
toward the nearby grove. “Ah’ll wait foah y’all up in the
same tree. Ain’t nobody goin’ to spot me up theah. If I see
anyone comin’ this way and it looks tricky, I’ll whistle
y’all a warnin’.”
As she stood there in the pale light Jon-Tom was
conscious of her strength and power, but her words struck
him as odd. “I didn’t know tigers could whistle.”
“Well, ah’ll let ya’all know somehow.” She turned and
loped toward the trees.
Jon-Tom braced his feet against the wall and pulled
himself up. Mudge was waiting to help him inside.
Jon-Tom found himself standing in near blackness. “Where
are we?” he whispered.
“Some sort o’ storage closet, mate.” Mudge’s night
vision was several cuts above his friend’s.
But as they moved cautiously through the darkness
Jon-Tom’s eyes adjusted to the weak illumination, and he
was able to make out buckets, pails, piles of dust rags,
curry combs, and other cleaning supplies. Mudge stopped
at the door and tried the handle.
“Locked from the other side.” The otter hunted through
the darkness, came back holding something that looked
like an awl. He inserted it into the door lock and jiggled
delicately. Though Jon-Tom heard nothing, the otter was
apparently satisfied by some sound. He put the awl aside