The Tale of Holly How by Susan Wittig Albert

badger in a long line of well-known Holly How badgers. He had not been inclined to marry and establish his own sett when he was a youth, for he had been a reckless and wandering sort of badger, anxious to go as far afield and enjoy as many adventures as any young badger possibly could. He had returned to Holly How only when his father had written that he was dying and ready to pass on to him the Badger Badge of Authority.
    By this time in his life, even if Bosworth had wanted to look for a wife and begin a family, it was entirely too late. He was getting on in years and, whilst he was still an active and energetic badger, his muzzle was turning gray and he knew that there would come a time when he would no longer be able to do all he was doing now. Bosworth did not regret his failure to sire offspring, for he was thought of as a pater familias by the animals who called The Brockery home and he considered all of them to be his true family. But he did regret it where the Genealogy and the History were concerned, for it was unthinkable that these should come to an end for lack of an authorized badger to maintain them. However, there it was. He had to face it. When he was gone from Holly How—and that might not be such a far distant event—there would be no one to continue the great work.
    With a heavy sigh, Bosworth got up from the desk and went to add another stick of wood to the fire. It might be a very warm July afternoon out-of-doors, but down here, in the endless burrows and tunnels and chambers of the sett, it was always cool enough for a fire. He paused to look up at the portrait of one of his ancestors, who looked down at him with what seemed to be a frown of reproach. Bosworth knew why. He had failed in one of his most important duties: to identify a young male badger worthy of wearing the Badge of Authority and carrying on the great work of the History and the Genealogy. He sighed again, a guilty sigh. He had not done all he could, and he knew it. He—
    His thoughts were interrupted by a light rapping at the library door, and the badger frowned. This was the third time in an hour that Flotsam, or perhaps it was Jetsam (there was no telling those two rabbits apart) had come in with an inconsequential question. One hadn’t been able to find the lemon polish, and the other had noticed that the hedgehog hadn’t slept in his bed for the last two nights and wondered if he had gone off without signing the register. Really, was it too much to hope for a few hours of uninterrupted privacy so that a badger could carry out his important work?
    “Yes?” he growled. “Which of you is it this time? And what the devil do you want?”
    But the animal who had knocked on the door was neither Flotsam nor Jetsam, but Parsley, the talented young badger who did all of The Brockery’s cooking. She was still wearing her bonnet and shawl, suggesting that she had just come back from above ground. Her paws were shaking and she was visibly upset.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Badger, sir,” she cried, pulling off her bonnet, “but a terrible thing has happened, and I think you should know about it.”
    “A terrible thing?” Bosworth asked in alarm, thinking at once of the old tunnel that led to the far side of Holly How, which was in need of shoring up and which had been threatening to collapse. Or perhaps one of his lodgers had suffered an accident, or run afoul of a dog, or—
    “Oh, yes, sir,” Parsley said, her large bright eyes brimming with tears. “I went out, you see, to get some mushrooms for our dinner tonight.” She took a deep breath and seemed to steady herself. “I was thinking of a veal and ham pie, you know, made with puff pastry, which I thought would be very good. There’s a recipe in Mrs. Beeton’s Cookery Book, a fine recipe, except that it doesn’t include mushrooms, and the idea came to me that Mrs. Beeton’s pie would be much improved if I added a few mushrooms.” She paused, took a lace hanky out of her apron