to shamble past her. Only the fact that Clothahump lay
dying in his tree along with any chance Jon-Tom had of
returning home kept him moving. His head rotated like a
searchlight, and he followed the perfect vision with his
eyes until she’d disappeared down the stairs.
As he forced himself down the hall, that image lingered
on his retinas like a bright light. Sadly, he found the right
door and knocked gently, sparing a last sorrowful glance
for the now empty landing.
“Mudge?” He repeated the knock, was about to repeat
the call, when the door suddenly flew open, causing him to
step back hastily. Standing in the opening was a female
otter holding a delicate lace nightgown around her. Her
eyebrows had been curled and painted, and the tips of her
whiskers dipped in gold. She was sniffling, an act to which
Jon-Tom attached no particular significance. Otters sniffled
a lot.
She took one look at him before dashing past his bulk
down the hallway, short legs churning.
Jon-Tom stared after her, was about to go in when a
second fur of the night came out, accompanied by an
equally distraught third otter. They followed their sister
toward the stairs. Shaking his head, he entered the dark
room.
Faint light flickered from a single chandelier. Golden
shadows danced on the flocked wallpaper. Nothing else
moved. Two curved mirrors on opposing walls ran from
floor to ceiling. An elegant china washbasin rested on a
chellow-wood dresser. The door to the John stood half-
agape.
A wrought-iron bed decorated with cast grapevines and