Sniff, sniff, sniff.
Zuki's nose was already working before the rest of her was fully awake. It twitched left. It twitched right. Something was wrong in the house, and her nose knew it before Grandpa Otto even said a word.
"Zuki," said Grandpa Otto, patting the arms of his big chair, patting his cardigan pockets, patting the side table twice. "I've gone and lost my glasses again." He held up his book — Zuki's favourite, the one with the rabbit on the cover — and squinted at it helplessly. The words had gone all blurry. No glasses, no story. No story, no sleep.
Zuki stood up very straight. Her fringe flopped right over her eyes, same as always. She didn't need eyes for this job.
Sniff, sniff, sniff.
She put her flat little nose to the hallway skirting board and set off. The hallway smelled of muddy boots and last Tuesday's umbrella and something faintly biscuity behind the radiator. No glasses there. She pressed on, her silky ears swinging, her small paws clicking a quick, determined rhythm on the floorboards.
Past the hat stand — smelled of wool. Past the bathroom — smelled of soap and slightly of rubber duck. Down the step into the back corridor, where the air was cooler and the tiles were smooth under her paws. Still no glasses.
Then — toast. Warm, golden, slightly-burnt-around-the-edges toast.
The kitchen door was shut. Zuki pressed her nose against it, then her whole flat face, then gave it one firm push with her forehead and trotted inside.
The smell was enormous. But something else was in it — something small and papery and very pleased with itself.
Up on the counter, next to the toaster, sat a mouse. A small brown mouse with very round ears. He was wearing Grandpa Otto's glasses like an enormous pair of pilot's goggles, the frames sliding halfway down his nose, and he was peering through them at a book no bigger than a postage stamp, one paw pressed to the page, reading with great concentration.
Zuki sat down. She tilted her head to the left. She tilted it to the right.
The mouse did not look up.
Zuki's nose twitched. There was crumbs in the air, and dust from the little book, and something tickling, tickling, tickling right at the very top of her nose —
SNEEEZE.
Her fringe flew straight up. The mouse leapt two inches off the counter. The glasses shot sideways with a magnificent clatter and skidded across the tiles and stopped right in front of Zuki's left paw.
Sniff, sniff, sniff.
She picked them up very carefully in her mouth — they tasted of cold metal and mouse — and trotted back down the corridor, tail spinning in fast, happy circles, fringe flopping straight back down over her eyes.
Grandpa Otto heard the clicking paws before he saw her. He reached down, and Zuki set the glasses into his hand as gently as if they were made of biscuit.
"Well," said Grandpa Otto. He put them on. He blinked. And then he noticed the tiny square of folded paper tucked into the frame. He unfolded it carefully with one large finger. Written in very small, very neat handwriting was a recipe. Toast-crumb cake with sunflower seed icing. From Fen.
Grandpa Otto began to read it aloud, slowly, in his low evening voice.
By the time he reached the part about the icing, Zuki's eyes had gone to half-mast. By the time he read the final instruction — leave to cool on the windowsill until morning — one small, silky dog was curled against his knee, her nose tucked under her own tail, her fringe fanned out across the carpet like a tiny, sleeping curtain.
