Miu was a small, round-bellied tabby cat with dramatic stripes she considered extremely important. She had decided — long ago, and firmly — that her markings meant she was descended from royalty. She took this very seriously. She had a very serious face to prove it. Every night, Miu made her rounds. She checked the armchair. She checked the hallway rug. She checked the mantelpiece, where the golden coin with the funny cat face always sat.
But tonight — she stopped. She narrowed her eyes. The coin was *gone*. Miu pressed her nose close to the empty space. A faint smell lingered — dry and dusty, like the inside of a very old book. Something had been here. Something small. She lowered her nose to the floorboard and began to follow. *Sniff, sniff, sniff.* The smell led her along the skirting board, past the umbrella stand, past the bookshelf where three encyclopedias leaned against each other like tired friends.
A thin grey smudge marked the floor near the bottom shelf — a tiny trail, no wider than a pencil. Miu examined it without touching. Very suspicious. She padded into the hallway. The floorboards were cold under her paws, and one of them gave a quiet creak that she filed away as useful information. A small scratch in the wood caught the moonlight. Something had been dragged. Something round. Something — coin-shaped. *Sniff, sniff, sniff.*
At the kitchen door, Miu stopped again. There, on the wooden doorframe, at about the height of a very small, very determined creature, was a smear of something yellow. She raised one careful paw and pressed it, once. Dusty. Dry. Pollen, perhaps, from the pot of marigolds on the windowsill. Someone had brushed past those flowers tonight. Miu's whiskers twitched. She turned. She looked at the pantry door. It was open, just a crack — just enough for something small to squeeze through.
There, in the middle of the pantry floor, sitting bolt upright on the golden coin, was a mouse named Pip. He was very small. He had very large ears. He was doing his absolute best to look as though he had always been there and had no idea what a coin was. Miu stared at Pip. Pip stared at Miu. A jar of marmalade reflected both of them in its curved orange side. Miu sat down. She curled her tail around her paws. She regarded the situation with the full weight of her royal dignity.
Then, with great ceremony, she made her judgment: the coin was large enough for two royal portraits. Miu leaped, lightly, onto the pantry shelf just above Pip. She settled herself. She arranged her tail. She faced forward, chin lifted, stripes displayed to maximum effect. The pantry door drifted half-shut. The house went quiet around them. Two small, extremely important creatures sat in the dark — eyes half-closed, whiskers still — each entirely certain they were the most significant being in the house.
