Princess Ivy pressed her nose to the cold castle window and watched the rain come down in great silver curtains across the courtyard. Puddles were forming — big ones, small ones, one enormous one near the mossy stone. Perfect. She spun around to grab her boots. Her favourite red rain boots. The ones she kept right by the door. They were gone.
Ivy crouched down and looked under the bench. She checked behind the umbrella stand. She even lifted the doormat, which was extremely dusty and sneeze-worthy. No boots. But there, on the stone floor, was something else: a trail of small muddy prints, no bigger than a thumbprint, leading away down the corridor. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Something had been in her boots.
She followed the prints into the kitchen first. Cook was stirring a pot of porridge that smelled of cinnamon and burnt edges. "Boots?" said Cook. "No boots in here, Your Highness, only a missing ladle." The prints curved right back out the door. Wrong room. Sniff, sniff, sniff. The trail wound on. Down to the laundry room next, where sheets hung damp and enormous, slapping Ivy in the face one after another as she pushed through. The prints crossed the flagstones and looped around the big copper tub. No boots. Just a frog sitting on a washboard, looking deeply unimpressed. Wrong room again.
The prints led on through the great hall, past the enormous painted portrait of Great-Uncle Reginald who always looked like he'd swallowed something unpleasant. They curved left, then right, then toward a low wooden bench tucked under the back staircase. And there — one red boot on its side, one red boot standing up — were her boots. Ivy knelt down and peered into the standing boot. Two small black eyes blinked back at her. A hedgehog. Round and brown and absolutely wedged in, with his prickles pressed against the sides and his little nose twitching. He had clearly climbed in last night, found it wonderfully warm, and was now entirely, completely stuck.
Ivy did not pull. She did not shake the boot. She sat down cross-legged on the cold stone floor, rested her chin on her knee, and thought. Then she began to sing — slowly, and very, very sillily. "Oh, a hedgehog in a boot, in a boot, in a boot, is the soggiest, squishiest, snuggliest — TOOT." She made the last part a honking sound, which surprised even herself. The hedgehog's prickles relaxed, just slightly. She sang it again, wobbling on the "toot." One small paw appeared. Then another. Then, with a tremendous sneeze that echoed off the stone walls, the hedgehog uncurled, tumbled out, and toddled three unsteady steps across the floor before stopping to sneeze again. "Bless you," said Ivy, and pulled her boot on triumphantly.
She ran. Down the corridor, through the great hall, past Cook, out the big door and into the rain-soaked courtyard where twelve children in coloured raincoats were already lined up at the mossy stone, jumping on the spot to keep warm. "READY!" Ivy shouted, crown slightly crooked, red boots on, rain already dripping off her nose. They ran the whole loop — SPLASH through the big puddle, CRASH through the long one, STOMP through every single small one in between. Water flew. Children shrieked. Ivy's crown tipped further sideways and she did not fix it once. When the loop was done, everyone collapsed under the wide castle archway, twelve children in raincoats curled together like a pile of sleepy caterpillars, puffing small clouds of breath into the cool air. Ivy sat down right in the middle of them, pulled her muddy red boots up to her chest, and listened as the rain slowed to a tap, tap, tap on the stone above their heads.
