he stiffly said, “As much as it pains me to say this, I formally rescind my warning. You may enter.”
Jacques stepped out of the hole holding his silver flute. He held the flute at one end, like a rapier, and pressed the other end to the tip of Gus’s nose. “I formally accept your rescinding,” the little mouse said, “on the condition that you never tell any of my relatives how foolishly I am acting by entering this suite again.”
“I won’t tell yours if you won’t tell mine,” Gus murmured. The two creatures looked each other in the eye, then the mouse nodded and lowered his flute. The cat extended one of his claws and presented it to Jacques, who grasped the claw with both of his paws and shook it up and down once.
“Great,” said Rose, tapping on her watch. “Now, where’s that ghost friend of yours, Jacques?”
“I will take you to him. We will need to bring a cake, and candles.”
Ty shined a flashlight down the dank, narrow staircase of the Catacombs of Paris.
“Be careful,” said Jacques. He was nestled comfortably in the pocket of Rose’s hooded sweatshirt, which was just big enough to fit the body of a tiny mouse. “The stones in these steps are very old and very slick, from the countless hordes of people who have trod upon them over the centuries.”
Rose kept one hand on her brother’s shoulder and followed Ty to the bottom of the dark stairs. Rose was carrying a mini chocolate cake and a carton of birthday candles and a box of matches. Sage was right behind her, carrying Gus.
Rose shivered. The hallway before them was narrow and the ceilings were low. Water dribbled down the walls and puddled on the floor. The Catacombs were about as warm as the walk-in refrigerator at the Bliss Bakery. Rose pulled her sweatshirt tighter against her. She had never even liked above ground graveyards, so she had been less than thrilled to hear that Jacques’s ghost friend lived in a graveyard beneath the streets.
Ty, on the other hand, counted Pet Sematary as his favorite film and was thrilled to be venturing into a catacomb. As they walked single-file down the hall, he said, “Oh man, Jacques. This is like, the casa de los muertos. Too radical, mouse-man. But where are all the graves?”
Rose and Jacques squeezed through a narrow opening at the end of the stone hallway. “There are no graves,” Jacques said quietly. “Just bones.”
Through the narrow entrance was a small room where the walls were made entirely of bones. Long, musty thigh bones stacked on top of one another formed a honeycomb pattern, with countless human skulls dotted throughout. On the other side of the room, another corridor, also lined with human bones, led deeper into the Catacombs.
Ty stood frozen in the middle of the room. “Where did they get all these bones?” he whispered in horror.
Sage put Gus down, then pulled his tape recorder from his back pocket and whispered nervously into the microphone. “I guess this is what happens when you hire a coroner as a decorator.”
Rose looked at him and rolled her eyes.
“What?” he replied. “I’m using humor to diffuse the tension in here.”
Gus seemed unimpressed by the bones. He was more concerned with keeping his paws out of the puddles of water, and he snarled as he shook a stray drop off the tip of his tail. He glared at the mouse, who was still huddled inside the pocket of Rose’s sweatshirt. “Were you born here, Jacques?”
“ Zut alors, non !” Jacques blustered. “I was born in a beautiful village in Aix-en-Provence. I lived here in the Catacombs just after I graduated from music school.”
“Why ever would you move away from such a sunny place?” Gus said drily.
Jacques went on, ignoring the feline sarcasm. “My neighbor was a ghost named Ourson. He was a good man, but be warned: When he shows himself, do not mention the French Revolution. He’s still a bit touchy about that.”
They all nodded. Jacques pulled out his tiny flute and
Jacques stepped out of the hole holding his silver flute. He held the flute at one end, like a rapier, and pressed the other end to the tip of Gus’s nose. “I formally accept your rescinding,” the little mouse said, “on the condition that you never tell any of my relatives how foolishly I am acting by entering this suite again.”
“I won’t tell yours if you won’t tell mine,” Gus murmured. The two creatures looked each other in the eye, then the mouse nodded and lowered his flute. The cat extended one of his claws and presented it to Jacques, who grasped the claw with both of his paws and shook it up and down once.
“Great,” said Rose, tapping on her watch. “Now, where’s that ghost friend of yours, Jacques?”
“I will take you to him. We will need to bring a cake, and candles.”
Ty shined a flashlight down the dank, narrow staircase of the Catacombs of Paris.
“Be careful,” said Jacques. He was nestled comfortably in the pocket of Rose’s hooded sweatshirt, which was just big enough to fit the body of a tiny mouse. “The stones in these steps are very old and very slick, from the countless hordes of people who have trod upon them over the centuries.”
Rose kept one hand on her brother’s shoulder and followed Ty to the bottom of the dark stairs. Rose was carrying a mini chocolate cake and a carton of birthday candles and a box of matches. Sage was right behind her, carrying Gus.
Rose shivered. The hallway before them was narrow and the ceilings were low. Water dribbled down the walls and puddled on the floor. The Catacombs were about as warm as the walk-in refrigerator at the Bliss Bakery. Rose pulled her sweatshirt tighter against her. She had never even liked above ground graveyards, so she had been less than thrilled to hear that Jacques’s ghost friend lived in a graveyard beneath the streets.
Ty, on the other hand, counted Pet Sematary as his favorite film and was thrilled to be venturing into a catacomb. As they walked single-file down the hall, he said, “Oh man, Jacques. This is like, the casa de los muertos. Too radical, mouse-man. But where are all the graves?”
Rose and Jacques squeezed through a narrow opening at the end of the stone hallway. “There are no graves,” Jacques said quietly. “Just bones.”
Through the narrow entrance was a small room where the walls were made entirely of bones. Long, musty thigh bones stacked on top of one another formed a honeycomb pattern, with countless human skulls dotted throughout. On the other side of the room, another corridor, also lined with human bones, led deeper into the Catacombs.
Ty stood frozen in the middle of the room. “Where did they get all these bones?” he whispered in horror.
Sage put Gus down, then pulled his tape recorder from his back pocket and whispered nervously into the microphone. “I guess this is what happens when you hire a coroner as a decorator.”
Rose looked at him and rolled her eyes.
“What?” he replied. “I’m using humor to diffuse the tension in here.”
Gus seemed unimpressed by the bones. He was more concerned with keeping his paws out of the puddles of water, and he snarled as he shook a stray drop off the tip of his tail. He glared at the mouse, who was still huddled inside the pocket of Rose’s sweatshirt. “Were you born here, Jacques?”
“ Zut alors, non !” Jacques blustered. “I was born in a beautiful village in Aix-en-Provence. I lived here in the Catacombs just after I graduated from music school.”
“Why ever would you move away from such a sunny place?” Gus said drily.
Jacques went on, ignoring the feline sarcasm. “My neighbor was a ghost named Ourson. He was a good man, but be warned: When he shows himself, do not mention the French Revolution. He’s still a bit touchy about that.”
They all nodded. Jacques pulled out his tiny flute and
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