Chapter 2

"Lily told me that Uncle Markas used to go on all sorts of wild adventures," Primrose said, her blueberry-filled basket banging against her leg. "I wish we could. That way we wouldn't have to go berry-picking all the time."

"We don't always go berry-picking," argued Petunia, who was hefting two baskets.

"Oh yes," Pansy interrupted sarcastically, swinging her own basket about. "Sometimes we have to wash our clothes or sweep the stairs."

"Stop complaining, you three," ordered Merola, who was older and grayer than ever. "You have much to be grateful for. Warm clothes, shelter, and plenty of food and drink. All of you would be dead or barely alive right now if you hadn't been taken in. And stop swinging that thing about, Pansy. You'll spill."

"Yes, Merola, you tell us that every day," sighed Primrose.

"And that we'd be scraping together a meal from bark and tree-leaves," Pansy added, smiling cheekily as she stopped swinging her basket.

The old badger grumbled, shaking her head. Young 'uns today.

Ten seasons had past since Markas the Warrior left Noonvale: the longest he had been away yet. Though at first Lily had high hopes that her uncle would return in good time, Merola noticed a steady decline in the mousemaid. But Lily had little time to feel sad and no reason to feel lonely, as she still had Merola and the three foundlings to look after.

The ten seasons of Markas's absence had certainly transformed the three foundling-babes:

Primrose, now fifteen, had grown into a tall and willowy ferretmaid of extraordinary beauty. Her cream-colored fur gleamed softly in the sunlight, while her deep brown eyes twinkled brightly. Many a male would often be twisted and land on his tail whenever she walked by.

Petunia, however, was nowhere near being the beauty that Primrose was. Shorter and stockier than most hares, the fourteen-season-old haremaid was rather plain, with sandy fur and eyes that, even though they were brown like Primrose's, did not sparkle or enchant.

Pansy was a different matter. Twelve seasons old, her fur was the reddest in all of Noonvale, and her eyes the bluest. Despite these qualities, however, she grew up to be a typical squirrelmaid: small, pretty, and lithe. Pansy was undoubtably the most graceful of her adoptive sisters. She was also the bluntest.

"But I agree with you, Merola, when you say these two have something to be grateful for. At least they're old enough to stay up late for all the dances at celebrations," Pansy complained. "I have to go off to bed like a good little squirrel while the rest of you dance your little feet off, and here I am, a better dancer than either of you combined!"

"Less of that talk, thank you, missy!" Merola barked.

"You like to dance, dear?"

The group paused and turned to look at the creature who had called out to Pansy. The creature was a female squirrel, like Pansy, only she was much older, darker, and dressed rather gaudily.

"Yes I do, very much!" Pansy replied. Pansy was never shy with strangers.

The nameless squirrel turned to an otter and a hedgehog sitting on a nearby log. "Well, don't just sit there! Play something, you two!"

Smiling, the two creatures, who were dressed almost as gaudily as the squirrel, brought out a banjo and a lute. Soon the air was filled with a lively tune.

The squirrel whipped out a long scarf made of purple gauze and danced to the beat of the music. Pansy didn't hesitate. She dropped her basket and was by the other squirrel's side in an instant and twirling up a storm.

"Perfect!" gasped the unknown squirrel, genuinely impressed. She then looked at the remaining group and bounded over.

"Come along, don't be shy!" she cried, seizing Primrose's paw and pulling her into the dance.

Laughing, the ferretmaid set down her basket and went along, managing to keep up with the steps and movements.

"Oh, don't think you can hide, shy one!" the nameless squirrel cooed as she also pulled a trembling Petunia into the fray.

All this while Merola was roaring with laughter. Pansy, with her poise and grace, was easily the best dancer. Petunia and the nameless squirrel were still adjoined in a clumsy dance. Primrose was twirling around faster and faster.

Finally the otter and hedgehog ceased playing, gasping for breath and clapping. Merola and the three maids also clapped, thanking the unknown squirrel for the dance.

"Thank you, very much! That was very refreshing!" Pansy said brightly.

"And may I ask," said Merola, "if you and your friends are part of a traveling performance group?"

"Indeed we are, my good badger," the squirrelmaid replied. "My name's Vanna. And these are Rogak and Spiketipp. We're part of a troupe called–"

Rogak the otter and Spiketipp the hedgehog jumped up and spoke the name along with Vanna: "The Roaming Whimsical Players!"

"Ah. And where is the rest of your troupe?"

"Back there a-ways," explained Vanna, gesturing over her shoulder. "Our troupe-leader, Ferdinand, he's in a bit a temper right now, and we're all trying to avoid him."

"He's mad because he'll never have the handsome face I do," grinned Rogak with a roguish wink.

Spiketipp elbowed him in the stomach. "He got mad because he stepped on a sharp pebble during rehearsal, and then tripped over a branch, and ended up sitting in one of the pots that had some leftover porridge in it."

The three maids, who had been giggling so far, now burst with laughter. Merola also laughed, though not so hard as the others.

"But you're looking for a place to perform, are you not?" the old badger-lady asked Vanna.

"Marm, you took the words right out of my mouth."

"Well, if you'll just follow us, we can be back at Noonvale in time for your troupe to put on a show and have supper, eh?"

"Ah, Ferdinand will enjoy that!" hooted Rogak. "He's a hare!"

"Oh dear," murmured Merola.