Princess Tavi reached up to straighten her crown and found — nothing. Just her own hair, slightly messy from breakfast.
On the stone floor, one glowing paw print shimmered gold, then another, then another, leading away down the corridor. Tavi planted her fists on her hips. *Stomp, stomp, stomp.* She was going to find that crown.
The trail led into the portrait gallery, where the painted kings lined the walls in their heavy golden frames. Every single one of them looked baffled — eyebrows raised, mouths slightly open, as if they'd seen something they could not explain. Tavi knew the feeling.
She followed the glowing prints past a suit of armor that smelled of old metal and polish, around a corner, and straight into the kitchen.
The cook stood in the middle of the flagstones, red-faced, waving her arms at nothing in particular.
"My ladle!" said the cook. "My best silver ladle, gone!" A pot of porridge bubbled behind her, untended, sending up little puffs of steam. Tavi patted her arm. "I'm working on it," she said, and kept going. *Stomp, stomp, stomp.*
The glowing paw prints led her through the grand hall, where morning light poured through the stained glass windows — squares of ruby red and deep blue sliding across the stone floor like a quiet, colorful tide. And there, on the golden throne, sat Rook.
Rook was a raccoon. He was wearing four crowns stacked unevenly on his head, two pearl necklaces around his neck, one very important royal brooch clipped to his ear, and one silver ladle tucked under his arm like a scepter. He looked extremely smug.
Tavi stopped in front of him and tried to look stern. This was difficult because she was slightly too short to be properly stern at a seated raccoon. She crossed her arms anyway.
But then she noticed something. Rook kept reaching up with one paw — tap, tap, tap — touching the smallest crown nervously, over and over. His eyes kept darting toward the courtyard window. That wasn't greed. That was worry.
Tavi walked to the window and looked out. In the courtyard sat Rook's favorite rock — a big flat one he slept under every evening. And she could see it: one side had shifted, leaving a dark, wobbling gap underneath. *Oh,* she thought. *Oh, he was trying to fix it.*
She left Rook on his throne — still wearing everything — and marched herself down two flights of stairs, through the smell of sawdust and fresh wood shavings, to the carpenter's workshop. "I need a door wedge," she said. "The sturdy kind." The carpenter handed her one without a word. *Stomp, stomp, stomp,* back up the stairs she went.
She held the wedge out to Rook. He looked at it. He looked at her. He stepped down from the throne very carefully, so the crowns didn't topple, and placed each item — one by one — back into her hands. The ladle. The brooch. The necklaces. The crowns, smallest last. He was surprisingly gentle about it.
Tavi settled her own crown back on her head. Then she followed Rook out to the courtyard, crouched down in the cold morning air, and pressed the wedge firmly into the gap beneath his rock. It held. Rook pressed his nose against it once, twice, then curled himself underneath with a satisfied huff.
Behind her, the glowing paw prints faded — one, then the next, then the next — until the last one winked out near the grand hall door. The castle went quiet. The cook had her ladle back. The painted kings had stopped looking baffled. And Tavi walked back through the colored light, crown straight, hands in her pockets, the stone floor cool and solid under her feet.
