Spotlight on The Rat Prince by Bridget Hodder, Plus Excerpt & Giveaway!

The Rat Prince Excerpt

Prologue

When you hear the tale of Cinderella, do you ever wonder about the rats who were turned into coachmen by her fairy godmother?

No?
Then do take a moment to consider.
As the story goes, they were captured, twisted into human form by powerful

magic and tossed onto a coach which had, only seconds before, been a pumpkin.
Few pause to ask themselves how the rat­coachmen felt about all this. And no one

seems to know what became of them afterwards.
Were they frightened? In pain? Did they survive the experience? Upon reflection,

you may even pity the poor creatures. Don’t.

We’re faring quite well, I assure you.

Better than well, in my case. For there’s more to the tale of Cinderella than has yet been revealed.

Now settle yourselves in comfort, dear Readers, and be sure you’ve plenty of provisions upon which to nibble, for you are about to hear the true story from Cinderella herself…and from me.

My name is Char. In former days, they called me The Rat Prince.

PRINCE CHAR

Chapter One

You know her as Cinderella.

But before her stepmother came to Lancastyr Manor, the humans called her Rose de Lancastyr.

They also called her beautiful.

This confused me and my rat­subjects, since we found her quite painfully plain, with her huge salad­green eyes, skin like cream, and long waves of shiny yellow hair. Yet regardless of her looks and the fuss people made of them, Lady Rose was both gentle and kind. So after her mother died­­and was replaced three months later by a wicked stepmother, Wilhemina­­we felt pity for the girl. We comforted her and came to consider her a rat­friend.

Though we believed her to be a lack­wit.
For what kind of human makes friends with rats?
Apparently, the same kind who lets a stepmother turn her into a kitchen maid and

give her the new, insulting name of Cinderella. A lack­wit.

However, one hot morning in early September, made hotter by the fragrant, ever­ burning cedar fire in the flagstone kitchen of Lancastyr Manor, I discovered we were mistaken.

“Ahhhh…baking day,” I murmured to my trusty Royal Councillor and best friend, Swiss. “Quite my favorite time of the week.” A rich, yeasty aroma filled the kitchen and made my whiskers quiver, as he and I peered through a crack in the door of a cupboard.

Swiss whispered back, “Oh, Your Highness, just look at that bread. I’ll wager it’s crisp at the top and chewy in the center. Cook may be a spiteful rat­killer, but she certainly has a way with a loaf.”

We watched from our hiding­place while Cook and the kitchen boy, Pye, pulled the last loaves from the brick oven. They set them to cool on a large rack against the wall, where Swiss and I had long ago loosened a board behind it to provide easy rat­access to this marvelous treat.

Perfect.
“We’ll come back tonight to thieve more,” I said. “But let’s try for a bit right away.

If we move fast enough, we can bite some off, taunt Cook and make our escape.” “Yes!” Swiss replied with enthusiasm, rather than trying to stop me as a truly

prudent royal councillor should have done.
I smiled to myself. “Watch and wait, then move upon my command.”
Cook picked up a corner of her stained apron, wiped it across her sweaty pink

forehead, and shouted “Cinderella!”

That name distracted me from my designs upon the bread. I pressed my eye closerer to the crack in the door, seeing Cook frown as she batted at her wiry gray hair, which stood out in frizzy corkscrews around her face.

She shouted for Cinderella again, then grumbled to Pye, “Drat her lazy bones! She’s supposed to mix up a lemon potion to get rid of Miss Eustacia’s freckles in time for the royal ball at Castle Wendyn on Saturday. Prince Geoffrey will choose a wife that nightm and we’ve got to help our Miss Eustacia catch his attention!”

I stifled a laugh. If I knew anything about humans­­and I did­­Lady Rose’s older stepsister, Eustacia, would need a great deal more help than bleached freckles to attract the attention of a human prince. Nonetheless, the entire household had been in a fever of anticipation for the past month, ever since the invitations had been sent by the King of Angland to the families of every eligible young lady in the capital city of Glassvale.

Pye remarked, “Poor Cinderella. She’s had no rest, what with all the preparations for that fancy party.” He was grimy and his homespun breeches were patched at the knees, but he had an intelligent look.

Cook gave a harsh laugh. “Ha! Are you in love with the wench, too? Menfolk are fools, from youngest to oldest, turned to corn mush by a smile and saucy cheeks.”

“I’m not in love! You worked for Lady Wilhemina when she was married before­­ it’s right strange you haven’t noticed yet how hard she is on her servants.” Missing the expression on Cook’s face, the boy went on to mention Cook’s rival, the housekeeper: “Mrs. Grigson says no servant ever left Lancastyr Manor willingly in the old days. The only one who left was my mam­­and that’s because she died! Now, since Lady Wilhemina came, Mrs. Grigson says it’s impossible to keep staff.”

Alas. Pye was not as smart as he looked.

“Why, you lout! Never you mind what that hoity­toity Mrs. Grigson says! You pay my Lady Wilhemina respect, or I’ll box your ears!” Cook raised her big, gnarled hands in the air as if to follow through on her threat.

Pye ducked and ran to the other end of the cavernous room, huddling behind some sacks of corn meal and dried beans. “Please don’t,” he begged. “I’m sorry.”

The cook grunted and dropped her hands. “Then keep your trap shut. God’s Bones, I’m worn out. Up since four o’clock of the morning mixing and kneading those loaves, and then having to send up breakfast in bed to everyone at the same time as the batches were ready for baking.”

“Well, Cinderella and I helped,” Pye said.

Poor lad. She would surely box his ears now, if her attention were not diverted to something else. I switched Swiss with my tail. “The bread. Now!”

We darted out from the cabinet, deliberately running across Cook’s toes and leaping up to the lowest shelf of the rack. We each bit off a mouthful of crust before jumping down and disappearing into a convenient hole under a baseboard in the hall. It opened onto a rat­passage through the walls, which we followed up and around and back into the same kitchen cupboard we’d been in before. And there we sat, crunching our heavenly crusts in high glee as we watched Cook shriek, grab a broom, and beat about the floor as if we were still underfoot and available for thwacking. “Nasty, dirty, vile brutes! Lady Wilhemina was right! We must kill them all!”

After a moment’s hysterics, she calmed somewhat and barked at Pye. “You boy, stop gaping like a looby and go find Cinderella. Get her back to work. For the Lord’s sake, what a to­do! I think I’d best go snatch a quick nap. ”

We knew from past experience that Cook’s “snatch a quick nap” meant “guzzle the cooking sherry in the privacy of my room.” She had never before taken one of these naps so early in the day, but Swiss and I had given her something to recover from just now. Which meant we could make further incursions upon the bread if we waited until she left.

Cook’s footsteps shuffled away, fading from our hearing. Pye sighed, emerged from behind the sacks, and made off in the other direction.

At last. Swiss and I let loose the laughter we’d been holding back, making such a noise that we didn’t hear another set of footsteps as they approached. Suddenly, the cupboard door flew open to reveal Rose de Lancastyr.

My laughter halted abruptly; Swiss squeaked like a mouse.

It was Rose’s turn to laugh. “You rascals, I wondered who was causing such a rumpus! I should have realized­­ it’s baking day, so where else would you be but the kitchen?”

I answered her seriously, though I knew she was ignorant of rat­speech, like the rest of her kind. “The kitchen is where smart rats belong. But you are the rightful lady of Lancastyr Manor. What are you doing here?”

The kitchen was where Rose spent most of her days. Although she was no longer allowed to eat much food, she seemed to be constantly in the process of preparing it­­ chopping, stirring, kneading, peeling. And in her rare moments of leisure, she would sit

near the fireplace upon her three­legged stool, warming her toes and watching Cook with unusual care.

We never thought much about why she did so. If you had asked me at the time, I might have said she was keeping an eye on the ill­tempered woman in order to avoid being hit with a ladle or a wooden spoon.

“You naughty Blackie,” Rose said to me, still smiling. “Always the leader of the rats’ kitchen raids!”

I had no way of telling her my true name wasn’t Blackie, but Char, in honor of the way I like my meats­­grilled over an open fire, with fat crackling, black as my royal fur. There was also no means of letting her know I was not just a leader of the rats of Lancastyr Manor; I was their one and only ruler, the prince of the Northern Rat Realm. My realm encompassed the entire northern half of the human city of Glassevale. The other half of the human city, including Castle Wendyn and its surrounding estates, made up the Southern Rat Realm, ruled by the Rat Princess Mozzarella. It had been established by an offshoot of the original rats of Lancastyr Manor long ago.

Lady Rose reached out and stroked the top of my head. “I need those lemons in that bowl behind you to whip up something for Eustacia. I think you’d better run along, now.”

Ignoring her patronizing tone, I leaned into her touch. I should have been far too conscious of my royal dignity to allow her to pet me thus. It almost placed me at the level of­­dare I say it­­a loathsome, purring cat. And yet I could not bring myself to put a stop to it.

“Your Highness,” Swiss cautioned. “Let’s go!”

I paid him no heed. This joyful petting might have continued for some time, had not Wilhemina suddenly burst through the arched stone doorway.

We all froze.

Rose’s skin suddenly became less the color of cream and more like the greenish tinge of skimmed milk. The only things moving on Swiss were his shivering whiskers.

I imagined I probably looked just as frightened as Swiss, though in reality what I felt was fury. For Wilhemina was our sworn rat­enemy; since her arrival the year before, she had been waging a harrowing campaign against me and my people. We had lost several of our number­­good rats and true­­ to her sly poisoning tactics.

“Cinderella!” she yelled.

The girl jerked her hand back and slammed the cabinet shut, plunging us into safe darkness.

“Time to flee!” Swiss whispered. “Your Highness, what are you doing?”

“Peeking through the crack, of course. What does it look like I’m doing? Dancing the minuet?”

“But, my Prince, if that woman finds us here we are surely doomed.”
“Ha. If she dares lay a finger on me, I shall bite it off,” I answered.
He jostled me a bit with his shoulder. “It is my responsibility to warn you when I

think you’re in danger.”
“Be easy, Swiss. Wilhemina is not aware of our presence.”
“And you call me your royal councilor,” he grumbled. “When have you ever taken

my advice?”
I ignored Swiss in favor of witnessing the scene unfolding in the kitchen.

Wilhemina towered over her stepdaughter. Her gown of robin’s­egg­blue silk rustled like the stealthy stir of a predator in the bushes. The elegance of her dress made Rose’s tattered brown garment look even more shapeless than it had a moment before. The woman was doused in some sort of exotic perfume, drowning out the more pleasant scents in the room.

Swiss commented, “You must admit the stepmother’s eyes are most alluring. Small, set close together…if you consider them along with her prominent snout, she’s almost ratlike.”

“Very well, I admit it,” I said with reluctance. “She’s somewhat attractive. But her character is base.”

“Lazy wench!” Wilhemina snarled at Rose. “Why is Eustacia still awaiting her bleaching potion? I told you to make it almost half an hour ago!”

Lady Rose replied, “Do you not recall that you asked me to tend to the needs of my other sister, Jessamyn, first? I have only now come from her chambers.”

Ah yes, Jessamyn­­the younger, nicer stepsister.

“She is Miss Jessamyn to you, and no sister of yours!” Wilhemina shrieked and slapped her.

My tail stiffened, then slashed once behind me, like a whip.

One of the first things my mother had taught me in the days before I rose to rulership was how to control my temper. To plan my deeds, rather than react in the heat of the moment. So I did not spring into foolhardy action. I merely added the incident to the long list of things Wilhemina would someday regret.

“She will pay for that slap,” I vowed. “When she least expects it, the woman will pay. I shall crunch her bones and suck out their marrow.”

“Er, perhaps you should calm yourself, Prince Char,” Swiss sidled away from me.

Rose raised her hand to her cheek but kept her gaze toward the floor. Her tone was careful when she said, “There was no need to strike me. I’ve always done your bidding.”

“Don’t dare to argue with me, Cin­der­el­la!” Wilhemina snapped. The woman pronounced the syllables of the nickname slowly, insultingly.

“I apologize, ma’am,” Rose said. There was no resentment in her voice, only the clear, harmonious tones of a well­bred young lady.

I was disappointed, as usual, in her response. No rat would have humbled herself thus before such a shrew.

But the girl’s humility did not satisfy Wilhemina, who gave Rose a cold once­over with her eyes narrowed to slits. “Cinders in your hair, bare feet, dirty hands… who would think that folk once compared your beauty to your mother’s? Though of course I never met the woman. Perhaps they called her ‘Lady Jane the Lovely’ out of mockery, rather than admiration.”

Rose’s fingers clutched a handful of her own skirt till her knuckles whitened. “Your concern for my mother’s reputation is most kind,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve seen the portrait of her in the Long Gallery in the east wing. It is a good likeness.” Then slowly, gracefully, Rose sank into a curtsy. She arched her long neck and stretched her arms behind her like a swan holds its wings. I’d never seen a human female ever look quite so magnificently animal.

A curtsy so deep was meant to be performed only before royalty. Girls of the noble houses learned it before being presented for their debut at Castle Wendyn when they turned fifteen. We rats knew—in fact, the whole of Lancastyr Manor knew­­that unlike Rose and her parents, Wilhemina and her daughters were not of noble blood and had never met the king or queen. This chewed away at Wilhemina’s gut in much the way we rats would like to have done.

“My, my,” said Swiss. “Now that is a curtsy.”

Wilhemina’s furious intake of breath betrayed that she, too, understood how her stepdaughter’s move had shifted the balance of power between them back to Rose. She loomed up as if to strike the girl once more but halted when Rose finally raised her eyes, revealing a blaze of contempt so searing that even I was shocked by it.

Wilhemina sputtered briefly in the face of such intensity. Then she seemed to recover herself. “Carry out my orders, wench. And in case you were stupid enough to be wondering, you will certainly not be going to the ball day after tomorrow.” She turned to quit the room and spat over her shoulder as she went: “You shall regret your disrespect. I swear it.”

Rose held the curtsy and waited until Wilhemina was gone before she whispered, “Not as much as you shall regret yours.”

Then at last, I understood.
Lady Rose de Lancastyr was not a lack­wit at all. Like me, she was biding her time.

CINDERELLA

Chapter Two

When my stepmother left the kitchen, I rose from my curtsy and counted to ten before allowing my wobbly knees to give way. I kept myself from falling by catching onto the smooth warm wood of a table behind me with the heels of my hands. Then I felt a surge of rage in my breast. For a moment I let myself imagine revenge upon Wilhemina, picturing ways of making her suffer for the things she’d done to me, my father, and the pride of my family lineage.

Suddenly Pye appeared, panting as if he’d been running up and down stairs. “My lady Cinderella, I was looking for you all over the manor. You seem overset ­­is something wrong?”

After taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, I was able to reply. “Thank you for your concern, dear Pye. I am quite well.”

“But your cheek­­” he reached out a hand.

“Never mind me, Pye. I will be fine. You should return to your duties, or Cook will scold.” I stood taller, placed a hand lightly upon his shoulder and steered him toward the scullery.

I felt sympathy and shame that this boy­­the orphan of our former kitchen maid, who had been supported by my parents until my mother’s death­­was now forced to work

so hard at such a young age. If I ever succeeded in getting my stepmother out of Lancastyr Manor, I would see that Pye was allowed to enjoy a true childhood.

Yet at the moment I could do nothing but watch his bent head and dragging steps as he walked away.

I turned toward the table and leaned upon it, still trying to quiet the shaking of my limbs which I always felt after Wilhemina struck me. I could not dwell in this moment any longer without giving rein to destructive anger, so I closed my eyes and forced myself to think of the happy days before Wilhemina came.

Seventeen years had passed since my birth, and almost sixteen of them had been spent with a young mother who adored me, and with a father­­twenty years older than my mother­­who loved us both. In those days Lancastyr Manor had rung with laughter and music and witty conversation at Mother’s balls and soirées and garden­parties.

With a sigh, I recalled curling up in the charmed circle of Mother’s arms to share secrets in the rumpled luxury of her bedchamber. The memory gave me comfort, so I sought more comfort by remembering how safe I’d once felt while learning to read and write at the knee of my father, Barnaby de Lancastyr. Oh, the cries of pride and delight Papa had given when I wrote my first letters on parchment, in great swirls of violet ink! My parents had taught me how to love and to learn.

But they had left out an important part of my schooling: what to do when your sweet mother dies in childbirth along with your baby brother. Nor had I been told how to cope when your father then loses his reason and, three months later, weds a wicked woman who threatens the Lancastyrs with ruin.

I tensed again.

Despite these gaps in my education, I was learning fast.

The Rose of those idyllic days had been thrust aside to make way for a new girl named Cinderella.

She was stubborn, watchful, desperate.
But she was not yet defeated.
I decided to look for my father and try once more to rouse him to action. He had a

meandering, muddled mind, but upon occasion he took a brief turn for the better. Perhaps today would be one of his good days.

I meant to find out.
Just as soon as I mixed up the lemon concoction for my stepsister, Eustacia.

*** 

 

 

 

The Rat Prince

By: Bridget Hodder

Release Date: August 23, 2016 

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