Chapter 5: Reading Between the Lines

Summary: In the space between the walls, Stuart overhears a conversation between George and Dad. Later, a phone call gives us more backstory of the friction between the Harpers and the Littles, and Mr. Harper proposes an outing which sets up a serious problem for Mrs. Little.

Only a dim ring of light managed its way beyond the mouse hole. As soon as he stepped beyond that, Stuart felt blind.

It was too late in the year for air conditioning, but the space between the walls seemed significantly colder. The same insulation meant to keep the house cool in the summer and warm in the winter may have had a curious reverse effect within the walls. Stuart tried to cross his arms over his chest, but forgot he needed the glow stick out before himself. So he pulled his forearms close to his torso while keeping the end of the stick pointed as far away as possible, and pressed on.

He had gone along the right side of his room and took another right down what he suspected was the way to the den. A metal grate he passed on the left confirmed that he'd left the foyer behind, and had made it on through to the hallway. Stuart stooped to peer through the grate, got his bearings, and kept moving.

He wasn't sure where he intended on going. The adventure was in the unknown. Moving forward until he hit some sort of dead end that forced him to turn back. This wasn't exactly a planned route when they built the house, so he didn't expect to get very far. And Stuart hadn't found another mouse hole yet to indicate that the former squatter in the walls had two exits.

One thing was slightly odd. This place should've been thick with cobwebs by now. If the vents at the orphanage were anything to base off of, Stuart expected to be positively draped in them by now. But only a thin layer of dust had settled between these old walls, the glow stick light showing ghostly tracks from his sneakers behind him. Was the former mouse a neatfreak? Or was this some sort of deep level of cleaning only Mrs. Little was capable of?

Geez. That's some dedication to cleanliness, Mom.

"Can't we do this tomorrow?"

Stuart paused mid step. He hadn't noticed the voices until he was practically right on top of them.

"That's what you said yesterday."

That's George and Dad! Stuart lay on his stomach and put an ear to the metal. He heard something heavy drop.

"But it's Saturday night! I thought we were gonna catch the new episode of Cops!"

"That's what you said last week." Dad replied calmly. "And last Sunday, you were asleep before we could study."

"Ugh."

"Come on George. I promised your Mom I'd help you finish your homework before the party. Then you have all of tomorrow to yourself. Doesn't that sound good?"

Stuart's eyes widened. The party. How had it slipped his mind? In just a few hours, he was going to meet the rest of the Little family, some of which were driving from miles away, just to meet him!

Talk about pressure. He had better get back to his room and lay out a game plan. Decide how to greet them, and how to address the inevitable questions. But Stuart didn't wanna leave just yet. Up until now, George had been a big mystery box. The mouse hadn't gone onto the walls with the intent of eavesdropping, but now that he was here, it seemed as if he might just learn something new about his brother.

A faint puddle of light sat on the floor. He held up the glow stick. Just a foot ahead, Stuart saw the point from which the sound was coming from: Another mouse hole, this one a third smaller than the one in the foyer. He laid down the stick and tiptoed over to the pool of light before the hole, kneeling down to peer through it.

He could make out the den, as well as Dad and George. His brother had his back arched over a tabletop. The thing he'd heard drop must've been a textbook, fallen open with its spine up. Seated on the right side of the table, Dad reached over to the side of his chair to pick it up, sitting back up with a groan. Despite his lecture to George about the importance of history, he massaged his lower back with one hand, and gave the book another look over with a suspicious eye, as if he were second guessing himself. "If these things get any better, the kids are gonna need a chiropractor. "

With that thought, he tossed the instrument of gradeschool torture back onto the table with the others with less care than he originally intended. In the orphanage, textbooks weren't usually allowed to leave the classroom they were used in, even for as old and battered as they were.

"Anyway, I already finished my homework." George reached for something across the table and handed it to their father. "See?"

Dad took the homework paper from George's hand, adjusting his glasses. "Well, your handwriting has gotten a lot better. And you're doing great with fractions. How are you with multiplication tables now? What's twelve times nine?"

"One O eight. Come on, Dad! We learned this last year."

"Geez. That was quick," Stuart murmured. He was still counting up from 90 when his brother spat out the answer. And fractions, in his brief encounters with them, might as well have been hieroglyphics, for how well he could understand them.

But math didn't seem to be a weak point for George. The boy shoved his homework into his battered homework folder, then spun around in his seat. "I wanna catch the new episode before the party—"

"Hold on. What about that history test on Monday?"

"Oh, geez…" George fell back and slumped into the chair.

"You thought I didn't know about that one, did you?"

"It's fine, Dad! Really."

"I don't know about that. You've been getting a lot of D's on those tests. Have you been reading the textbook?"

"Yes!"

"Really?" Dad crossed his arms. "Who discovered America?"

"Ugh…"

"Christopher Columbus!" Stuart whispered. Actually, that's just one answer, He was credited by Queen Isabelle, who granted his charter, but a number of people discovered the continent before he did, including the natives who were thought to have crossed over during the ice age. And then there was Amerigo Vespuchi, for which it was named after. Stuart read about all of this before it had even come up in class.

"Dad…"

"Sailed the ocean blue in 1492? Aren't you even gonna give it a try? Throw a name out?"

"Dad—"

"We get off one Monday every September because of him."

"Martin Luther King?"

"In September?"

"Okay, okay!" George buried his face in his hands. "I don't know!"

"How much did you read?"

"I dunno, how long are commercial breaks?"

Stuart's eyes widened, his tail whipped behind him in the dark with heightened interest. So that's what this was about! Dad wasn't here to check on George's math skills. It was just a segue into talking about his reluctance to read the history book.

The mouse was normally empathetic to everyone's struggles, but Stuart simply couldn't relate. History was, like, the easiest subject ever! Like popular culture, all it required was the reading and retaining of ideas and dates—not that asylum bound orphans got much access to the latter, anyway, but still. Math required understanding the patterns and formulas, and they hadn't even gotten to Algebra yet.

"C'mon, work with me, George." Dad sounded a little desperate, now. "You could be on the honor roll! All you have to do is get this grade up."

"But history's the worst. It's so much 'what president said this?', or 'what year did the Spanish war start?' I can't keep it all straight in my head. It just turns to mush."

"You've got to be kidding me." The mouse had never known anyone who was so good at math, but couldn't be bothered to remember basic history. A new dread was setting in. There he was, breaking his own moral code, just to see if he could learn anything that could make George like him.

All this did was show me that we're even more different than I thought.

Before Stuart could stew on this for too long, his view of George and Dad at the table was suddenly overtaken by a shadowed, furry mass, with gleaming green eyes.

Stuart yelped and fell backwards, hitting the floor with an audible thump. A paw four times the size of his hand came reaching through the hole, swiping at him with claws that gleamed in the light of the room. Stuart scooted backwards, slamming a hand over his mouth.

He didn't think human ears were as good as mice, but Dad must've heard something, because from the crack between the cat's furry arm and the wall, Stuart heard Dad's muffled voice call the cat's name. "Snowbell, what are you up to over there?"

"Maybe he was just chasing the light flickering off a car outside again," George supposed.

Yeah, right. Stuart didn't know a lot about pets, but they'd become monumentally more confusing now that he'd gotten to meet Snowbell. He was positively fascinated by how the cat could launch a barrage of personal insults, then spend the rest of the evening chasing high beams across the wall until Mom closed the blinds. He wasn't sure how much of the simpleminded behavior was genuine, and how much was just for humans.

"Or maybe it was a spider." The chair squeaked. George or Dad must've left their seat.

Two pairs of footsteps confirmed it: they were coming closer. "Get over here, you ol' troublemaker. Scratching up the walls again," Fredrick scolded in the mildest of scolding tones. The hole cascaded with the soft yellow light of the old chandelier once more as Snowbell was picked up from the floor. "You know better than that."

Stuart's would-be predator retracted his paw from the hole, and then made a hard to believe, pitiful, soft 'meow'.

Even if he wasn't busy trying to keep his beating heart under his ribs, Stuart couldn't be that annoyed. Snow's want to appear innocent was probably meant to keep him housed and fed, as well as maintain whatever odd balance of power was at play between pet and human here. And on that matter, it seemed to work perfectly.

Stuart sat there in the dark, his back and ears flat with the wall, both hands over his mouth to muffle his breathing.

"Looks like he found a hole in the wall," George noted. "Neat."

Fredrick Little stepped up to the wall and ran a finger over the broken wood, much like Stuart had done to the other hole earlier. "Huh. Would you look at that? Looks just like a mouse hole."

"Looks like a mouse hole! I never noticed before! So, wait, Stuart's not the first mouse who lived here?"

"I suppose uh… maybe not."

"Do you think he'd wanna check it out?"

Frederick Little replied with a severe question. "Don't you think asking him something like that would hurt his feelings?"

"Why? He said himself he is a mouse."

"George, that's not…" Dad sighed. What could he say? 'That's not nice?' But it was true. That's not sensitive? But it wasn't like Stuart was ashamed of what he was.

Was he?

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry."

Whether George was only sorry that he'd tried Dad's patience, or that he truly believed he might have offended Stuart with such a question, Stuart didn't know, and right now at least, he could care less. His heartbeat thudded in his ear as the Littles stayed crowded before the mouse hole. Getting caught and dragged out in his eavesdropping by Snowbell was about as bad as it could get, but Stuart could not let them find him at all.

"I'm gonna grab the flashlight."

As soon as he heard that, Stuart slowly began scooting away from the hole. To his right was the bend into the next room, but the insulation was thick, and had fallen away from the wall's framework. Forgetting the glow stick completely now, Stuart had to suck in his gut and crouch on his knees to squeeze between the material, listening to the sound of George and Dad's voices going quieter and more muffled.

It wasn't like he'd been there long enough for the home-cooked meals to affect his weight, but the experience made the orphan rat feel fat anyway. By the time he'd arrived on the other side and was able to stand tall again, he found that his legs were shaking. However, he quickly forgot it, as when he got far enough away, Stuart believed he was hearing voices again. He didn't think he was still in the den. Now he'd totally lost his bearings.

He had almost expected to stumble upon the second mouse hole again. However, the closer he got, the more he began to realize that those voices didn't sound like George and Dad at all. Between clanks and chops and the sound of heavy things moving around were the sound of house shoes flying back and forth over clean tile.

And two ladies talking.

"I'm really starting to get anxious, Bee."

"Oh, Ellie, come on. You're always anxious about something. Ever since we were kids."

Stuart's hand became flush with a cool, metal surface. He'd stumbled upon the outside of an air vent. A dead end. Or at least it should have been. Where am I now?

A prickle of light illuminated the tops of Stuart's shoe tops. He got on his knees and felt the wall downward until he encountered a strange bend in the metal. The vent wall was sliced, bent backwards and slightly curled towards Stuart in a diagonal. It was rusted on the edges, and had probably been there for years. But there was no way for the family to know the damage was even there, unless they could see beyond the walls.

Now that was strange. If the former mouse had managed to do this, he must've been one strong dude.

With some effort, he pulled back the curled metal slice and pushed himself through. It was a tight squeeze, but Stuart got on his stomach and wiggled his way under the metal. Even as it tried to grab his shirt, he managed to get through without snagging his new clothes. Not much could be said about their cleanliness anymore, though. The thin layer of dust turned the front of his shirt gray, and tickled the inside of his nose. Stuart grabbed his mouth in the nick of time, and muted a sneeze.

Inside the vent was bright, thanks to the light streaming in via little slots of the vent cover, and dust particles floated in the air around him. It was harder to see, but on the other side of the vent cover was the kitchen. and the voices belonged to Mom, and a similarly tall, thin woman with dark brown curls. She had a slim build, with a stained apron hurriedly tied over an orange blouse and blue jeans. This must be Aunt Beatrice. He recognized her from the old photo in the foyer, even as that had been black and white. Decades had passed since that photo was taken, but she looked very much like the same person, if a little thinner in the cheeks.

"Maybe I am. But is it any wonder I am the way I am? Ever since I've married into this family, I've wanted things to be different. Handmade ornaments made by the children on the Christmas tree made by the children, vacations that didn't function as business trips. I just want something more substantial." Stuart's new mom ran around the place, darting from the counter by the sink, to the island, adding to a militant line on what looked like one of a dozen sheets of appetizers. She circled around the kitchen, doing circles around the other woman. "Something more…."

Beatrice took her time, calmly tapping a blanket of powdered sugar onto the tops of two bundt cakes. One lemon, one vanilla. "More real."

Eleanor set down the tray she'd just picked up, inspecting her work for the third time over. "It's just that I want everything to go perfectly. Stuart's never had a party for himself. I want him to have everything that we've been lucky enough to give George. But I wonder if it's still too soon." She rested her chin in her fingers. "Do you think we should've waited until his birthday?"

"Isn't that in December? You want what's left of both sides of the family to be clomping away through ten inches of snow?"

"You got me there."

"I don't get it." Beatrice stopped tapping the sugar strainer, and laid it to the side. "Is he not potty trained, or something?"

"No, he's got that down."

"Is he… a troubled kid?"

"Oh, no, no no. Not… by choice, anyway."

"Well, nevermind, then! Now, I don't care if the kid was nine, ten, eleven years old, and I don't care where he came from. Hell, I don't care if he was a martian with three antennae. He's family now, and he's only the second child in this generation between both families, so we're going to spoil him rotten. anyone who says a word pending otherwise is gonna have me to deal with." And she punctuated the thought by displaying a prominent bicep on her otherwise thin arm.

Stuart dared to smile. They hadn't even met yet, and she was already another fighter in his corner. If the rest of the extended family was as unconditionally accepting, maybe the party wouldn't turn out so bad after all.

"Wait a second." A wry smile crossed the older sister's face. "He's a teenager, isn't he?"

"He's… nine. Although Frederick and I thought the same thing when we met him."

"So that's what this is about! All this time I thought you were still getting a baby!" Beatrice put a finger to her lip. "Hm. Good thing I kept the gift receipt for the kangaroo jumper."

"That's part of the situation, anyway."

"Okay." Eleanor's sister put a hand on her hip, looking her sister in the eyes now. "Enough with the suspense. What's really going on?"

The mouse's breath caught in his throat. Wait. She doesn't know.

Of course Aunt Beatrice doesn't know! Maybe she was ready to fight for him now, but how would that change once he saw him?

"What did Mom say to you?"

"What makes you think we've spoken?"

"Does she know?"

"About… the age? Yes."

"And what did the High Horse have to say about that?"

"Of course she doesn't understand. She thinks it's gonna be impossible to bring him up with our own values. Nevermind that we wouldn't have chosen him if we didn't already all get along so well."

"So? Stop second guessing yourself! Look, the prep's done. The food looks amazing." She stepped forward and pressed a hand over her sister's shoulder. "And if you go through with this now, you don't have to worry about a certain someone's comments, seeing as she can't be bothered to rush home for this."

"You're right." She looked at Beatrice gratefully. "I guess that's something to worry about for another day. Thank you for coming over to help."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She winked, hanging up her apron. "Hostess Little can run her own kitchen with nary an extra hand to help."

"Way to make me sound like a snack cake mascot."

Stuart liked this aunt already. She might not have been a Little, but she seemed to possess all the goodness of one. She hadn't stopped by early to help Mom bake and cook. Based on what he'd seen so far, Mrs. Little could probably run a military kitchen if she set her mind to it. As far as her own kitchen, she seemed to be on top of that, as if she'd hostessed parties like this dozens of times over. This visit was about moral support. Something that Mom needed, whether she was ready to admit it or not.

"Shoot!" She looked up at the clock, and tossed her hands behind her back to untie the apron. "I didn't realize how late it was getting. Gotta run home and change, and I promised I'd stop by the hospital to check on the mister on my way back. And, bring him a case of the good beer."

"Tell Bill we miss him, and Fredrick and I we'll be seeing him in a few weeks if he's not out by that time!"

"Aye aye, Cap'n." She snatched her coat off the back of one of the chairs for the breakfast nook. She flew to the back door, leaving the same discreet way that she'd come. She opened the door, but before she closed it, she spun around to give her sister one last comment. "And don't forget to eat something!"

Eleanor paused in place, lingering on the closed back door. She turned and eyed her spread, the trays of Triscuits and cheese, fruit and raisins laid out in militant rows before her. But her own stomach was the last thing on her mind. She tapped her finger to her chin and verified the time with her watch. "Better go tell the boys to start getting ready."

The mouse's heart dropped into his shoes. Oh no. She was going to come upstairs to speak with him, and where was he going to be?

Not in this wall, that's for sure. He had to get back up to his room, and fast. Stuart squeezed back under the curled vent metal, and bolted back the way he'd come. Squeezing around the corner and through the insulation with double the speed. He ran beyond the second mousehole, not hesitating for the chance that a flashlight or another clawed paw would be coming for him. In any event, there was neither. As he dashed beyond the den, he heard Mom tell George to hurry up and get washed. "And don't spend an hour in there. Your brother needs to use the bathroom, too!"

"Alright, alright!" The mouse heard him grumble something or other about it being unfair that he had to shower on a Saturday anyway.

Stuart had to stop to gather his breath. Even with the draft, sweat was matting his fur, under his arms, behind his knees, and behind his neck. He hoped this announcement meant he had time to get back to his room. But quickly found himself put on overdrive as he heard Mom add something to dad. "Go up and tell Stuart to get his party clothes laid out, won't you?"

"But I'm doing my homework!""Really, Frederick?""Kidding, kidding. You know, I don't know how George got the hang of fractions so fast. I'm just glad he doesn't need me to try and help him with them."

"Aren't we so lucky."

A smooch sound later, Dad pushed back his chair, and his footsteps indicated he was on his way to the staircase.

Stuart began running again, panting as he went. If he didn't beat Dad to his room, they'd start looking for him. But Dad was a tall guy with long legs. Combined with a straight path though the house, there was no way the mouse could beat him there,

He was already contemplating what he was going to say when he crawled out of the hole—what could he say? "No, no, no, no…"

It was just then, like another many small miracles that had found Stuart in this crucial transition period in his life, the telephone rang. Only he didn't realize it was a miracle at the time.

Mom let out a tired sigh. "Oh, who's that, now? Let me guess. Crenshaw?"

"Calling to say he's running late," Dad agreed. "It isn't the autobahn, but it makes you wonder how it takes a man three hours to get over the Brooklyn Bridge."

Even without the glowstick to light the way, Stuart was flying. He tripped over a nail sticking out inside the wall, but caught himself with his other foot, and after the briefest stumble, kept on running. He wasn't sure if it was instinct, or just dumb luck, but he managed to find his way all the way back to the foyer, without being able to see a thing.

While Dad was occupied with his phone call above, Stuart found the hole from which he'd entered. But just before he put his foot through, an angry persian pounced before him. "Going somewhere, partyboy?"

"Snowbell, you gotta let me through!"

"Or what? Have the entire family see the Man of the Hour stumble out of the snoop hole? You think I'm really gonna let this opportunity go?"

"Come on, Snowbell! Please? Look, this was wrong, but I wasn't out to do wrong. All I want is to learn how I can make them happy. You understand, dont'cha? You love the Littles, too. Don't you want to see them happy?"

"OF COURSE I DO!" Snow bellowed in his face. "Haven't you been paying attention? That's what I'm here for! That's what a pet does! Sure, we cats play aloof, but we serve the same function as our canine counterparts, minus all the drooling and the panting, perhaps…"

"Uh huh." Stuart peered over Snowbell's shoulder. As the cat rambled, he noticed Dad's footsteps drawing nearer. And then he spotted his salvation: Across the foyer, in the living room, Mom had come into the living room with the first platter of party goods.

"… I mean, really! After everything I've done for them, this is the thanks I get?! Do you not understand how insulting your existence is for me?"

"Snowbell, how do you feel about hors d'oeuvres?

It was such a simple question, but it threw the cat so far off course from his theraputic rant. Like a T-boned car on a NASCAR racetrack. "What?"

"Because Mom just laid out a tray of 'em, and if you don't get them now before the family arrives, chances are, they'll be all gone."

"Aaaaaand why should I care about snacks, when I've got a smug little brat for a meal right in front of me?"

"Well, I'm not seasoned or cooked, or anything. And…" And then, just then, he decided to air a suspicion he'd had about the cat for days, now. One that, as Stuart finally said it out loud, gave him the confidence he'd need to deal with the cat from this point forward. "... And, I... don't actually think you've ever eaten a mouse before. Have you?"

Snowbell spluttered. "What? What do ya mean? Of course I-I—"

"I can't speak for Mom's ability to make a nice meal out of me," Stuart pressed on. "But she did a good job on those appetizers. Look—"

Against his better judgment, the persian turned and looked at the tray Mrs. Little, in her party prep flurry, had absentmindedly left on the coffee table. "Is that… TUNA PATE? On saltine crackers?"

"With olives and chives," Stuart said, grinning from ear to ear. "Mmm, mmm." He rubbed his own stomach, feeling in that moment like an adult talking to a toddler. He really was hungry. This whole party business meant everybody in the house had missed lunch, and he might run to the coffee table himself for some refreshments, if there wasn't a ten pound monster with claws in the way. He watched Mom spin out of the room and leave the tray unattended. "You'd better go for it now."

Snowbell was conflicted. He might never get an opportunity to rat Stuart out like this again. But Mrs. Little rarely left food unattended in sight like that, too.

He wasn't the smartest fourth grader, if his math skills were anything to go by. But if there was one thing Stuart was good at, it was reading people-and animals, for that matter. In the end, even for having known him only a few days, the child had his senior pegged absolutely correctly, and without prompt, the persian burst from under the phone table, running for the coffee table. "IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, IT'S ALL MINE!"

"Atta boy," Stuart whispered, smiling as he vanished back inside the mouse hole.

"Freddie! Glad you could pick up! Listen, I have something to ask you."

"Ah, geez, Mr. Harper, you know I'm glad to help—even if it is... off the clock." Mr. Little added with thinly veiled contempt. "It's just that this is kind of a busy night. I've got family coming over, and—"

"Oh, this isn't about tonight. It's not for a few weeks."

"Oh." Mr. Little raised a brow. He spun in a half circle, phone in hand. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Well, you know my brother's wife just had a new baby? They've got their christening coming up, and I was wondering if I couldn't invite you and yours to witness."

Mr. Little tightened his grip on the receiver. "What, you mean, bring my family?"

"Of course. There will be a little luncheon afterwards, and you're all treated. Anton should like it, I figure. He won't have anybody else his age there except George, and it'll probably be a dull day for him."

"Gosh, I dunno, Mr. Harper. There's a lot of things going on in the next few weeks. We've got some pretty massive… adjusting things…" He was reluctant to mention the adoption specifically, unless he had to. The less said about it, the less people they had to explain Stuart to. Besides, it was none of his business, anyway.

"Ah, but you can spare a couple hours on a Saturday, can't ya?"

"I suppose… seeing as you've invited my boss." Great. He has me cornered. "Tell you what. I'll run it by Eleanor, and I'll get back to you with an RSVP."

"What for?"

"Because… don't you feel she ought to know about it?"

"Come on, Freddie. You're telling me she can't just throw on a dress and come along for a day saved from cooking and cleaning?"

"When we have somewhere to go or something that needs to be done, we talk it out together. We're a team." Mr. Little said simply, neglecting to emphasize that he was loyal to his wife, whereas the lack thereof had driven the previous Mrs. Harper to the west coast.

"Well, you're lucky. You married a Sawyer girl." Mr. Harper crossed his arms over his chest. "Even if they are high maintenance, you get the pleasure of buying them their clothes." In a much lower voice, he added: "And the pleasure of seeing them without."

You better stop thinking about my wife, Harper. "Eleanor picks out her own clothes, thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I've got my own party to attend."

"Cute kid you've made by the way, Freddie boy. It's a shame about those glasses, though. I'll expect your RSVP."

Click. And the dial tone droned on, menacingly before Mr. Little, with shaking hands, calmly hung up the phone.

"Stuart?"

The mouse froze in place. Mom had caught him.

Well, sort of. Stuart had tried escaping the walls via the second mouse hole in the den. It was a tight fit, but he'd managed to pull his whole body through the much smaller hole, and he was on his way back upstairs when Mom had caught

"How on earth did you get your clothes so dirty?"

"Oh, I was just... playing rough I guess. I uh, was hungry, so I came down to get some snacks."

"Help yourself to the table in the living room, but when George gets out of the bathroom, I want you to march—SNOWBELL! Get down from the table! Those are for the guests! For goodness sake, I just fed you thirty minutes ago!"

While the cat became the target for Mom's frustration, Stuart slipped out of the room. When he was safely out of sight, he wiped the sweat from his brow, and attempted to steady his heartbeat as he calmly climbed the stairs back to his room.

"So what did Mr. Harper want?"

Frederick Little sighed before his bedroom mirror. "Unfortunately," he said, hardly hiding his agitation as he swung the arms of his party jacket on, "we've been invited to his new nephew's Christening. It's the Saturday after next."

Already in her party dress, Mrs. Little sat slumped at the edge of the bed. The party hadn't even begun, and she was already tired, and not at all in the mood to analyze this confusing development. "Why would he invite us? Why not just take his son?"

"I'm not sure, but it sounds as if he doesn't have many people to ask."

"But it's just a Christening, it's usually just a small party anyway. And we've never met them!"

"I don't understand these silly aristocratic politics, not anymore than you do. But I know office politics. And unless we come up with a good excuse otherwise, we've gotta show our faces at Our Lady's Saving Grace on the following Saturday, or my boss will find out I've snubbed one of his best clients, and it could be my job on the line."

Unbeknownst to Frederick, who was too consumed in his own insult and trying to secure the buttons on his jacket, his wife "Our Lady's Saving Grace?"

"Yes." He turned around to find out why she'd echoed the name so strangely, only to see her face drained of all its color. "Eleanor, what is it?"

"That's the church? The one in the bronx?"

"Yes."

She shook her head. "We have a problem."

"No. Don't tell me—wait a minute." His eyes widened as he remembered. He came to her. "Was that the place where—?"

"Yeah. Where my grandfather's funeral was held." She blinked back tears that had suddenly welled in her eyes. Bloody kneecaps and humiliation and grief of one of the only people in her life to protect her from her mother's wrath, storming together to make it the worst day of her life. The mixed trauma had turned the church into the only place on Earth she at a mere six years old promised she would never step foot inside again. Now she stood there, a woman in her early thirties, tasked with doing just that.

"I didn't realize—I'm so sorry." He grasped her by the shoulders so he could look into her eyes. "We're not going. Nothing is worth putting you through that."

"We have to go! You just said your job is on the line! We have to. I can't let some… ugh… stupid memories of mine get in the way of that."

"It's not stupid. Maybe it isn't bungee jumping from the Brooklyn Bridge, but you told me what happened back there. I'm not making you live through that day again."

When he pulled her into a hug, their voices lowered to whispers. "But when we became parents, we promised we'd leave our fears at the door. We'd have to be able to do anything for the children."

For whatever reason, she'd found it much easier to say what she was really feeling into his shoulder than anywhere else in the world. "But God, I'd rather bungee jump."

A weak chuckle escaped her, and he merely stroked her back in response. When the doorbell rang, George, who was forbidden from answering for safety reasons, shouted for his parents. "They're here!"

With the promise of many living, loving relatives at the doorstep, it was hard to dwell on the long since dead. Eleanor pulled apart, looking at her partner in life with renewed gratefulness. "Nevermind that all now," she told him. "It's—"

"Showtime," he finished with a nod.

One thing the mouse wasn't annoyed with, unlike George, was a Saturday bath. He preferred feeling clean, and he relished the privacy of a locked bathroom, all to himself.

His anxiety rose again during his sink bath. As he returned to his room to dress for the party, Stuart tried to imagine what it would be like to be in George's shoes for just a moment—metaphorically speaking, of course. To not be fazed by the arrival of these people as total strangers, but have met them all before, and know what to expect from them. For his biggest dread to be a history test on Monday, and not the inevitable awkwardness that would elapse in the next few hours.

He'd just fastened his bowtie when the doorbell rang. His empty stomach resumed its feeling of being knotted to the point of not even being hungry anymore. But you wouldn't know that from looking at him, as he practiced a boyishly clumsy smile in the mirror. "Showtime."

Since I don't have a confirmed family tree, for the sake of my fics, both Aunts from the first movie are Mrs. Little's sisters. I don't know why I leaned that way, it just kinda manifested in my head that that's what they were. Specifically Aunt Beatrice: I'm stuck on her, I wanted her to be a progressive, very down to earth kinda lady who's rebelled against their mother in her own way. Someone with more of a flair for writing different personalities could do the kind of character I'm going for justice, but I tried my best.