I woke to sunshine and birdsong.

That was still a novel experience, and I lingered to savor it, lying flat on
my stomach with the pillows cradling my chin. Soft mattress, clean sheets, warm
blankets...a girl could get used to this.

But time--and breakfast--wait for no rat, and finally I kicked aside the
covers and rose, stoically ignoring a twinge from my splinted right arm.
Crossing the room, I opened the curtains, and threw wide a window that had
previously been merely ajar. Another brilliant, cloudless day: the new-risen
sun glinted from the lake at the base of the long grassy slope, and the dark
hills to the west seemed close enough to touch. As yet the air felt slightly
cool, but not for long: by midday it would be hot, and the swimming hole would
be seething, full of kids and adults both. I might have considered joining
them--if not for the small matter of a fractured wrist. There are any number of
ways to disembark from a helicopter, I suppose--but "head first" is
not one of the best.

I drew in several deep breaths of fresh, flower-scented air--a girl could
definitely get used to this--then turned to the wardrobe cabinet. The
clothes therein were brand-new, the ones I'd been wearing when I arrived in the
valley, exactly a week ago, having hopefully been taken out and burned. My
choices were therefore somewhat limited. Mindful of the weather forecast, I selected
a light cotton skirt, mustard-yellow, and a sleeveless, yellow-and-white
striped blouse. They hung loose on me, having been made to my previous measure.
Though I'd been eating like a plague of locust, I still wasn't back to my ideal
weight, and I was painfully aware how bony my arms, legs and tail remained.
Time--and calories--would cure.

I brushed my sort-of-beige fur as best I could, one-handed; dressed, and
settled my arm in its sling. Then I left my apartment, those two pitifully-bare
rooms that still contained nothing more than the bare essentials. Time to
mingle with the crowd: friends, family--and other strangers.

At the end of the service line I paused, confronted yet again with the
exasperating reality of a heavily-laden tray and only one working arm. I
glanced around, seeking succor--and it wasn't long in arriving. He rose smiling
from a table near the windows, and threaded his way quickly through the crowd
to where I was rapidly becoming a hazard to navigation. "May I help you,
lovely lady?" he asked, with a deep, courtly bow.

I flashed a lopsided grin. "You may," I said, "but only if
you cut the knight-errant bit."

"Fair enough," he replied, and hefted the tray. I followed him
across the dining hall, a flush of self-consciousness burning my ears and tail.
Had I actually been wearing a sandwich board that read "Make Fun of the
Cripple," I could not have felt much more conspicuous--though in point of
fact, I doubt anyone was paying that much attention.

"Care to join me?" Philip asked, already angling toward the table
he'd just quitted.

As if you're giving me a choice, I thought. But as it happened, I
did. "Please."

He deposited my tray opposite his, and I dropped into the table's only other
chair. Settling in across from me, he reapplied himself immediately to the
remains of a huge meal. I did the same, before the food could get cold--and
because I suddenly, uncharacteristically found myself at a loss for words. As
usual, the meal was good enough to bring tears to my eyes. Oatmeal, thick and
steaming; fresh bread with preserves; grains for the teeth; tea with honey...if I
kept eating like this, very soon I'd be worried about taking weight off, not
putting it on. I stirred my cereal, tossed in a spoonful of brown sugar, and
for a few minutes gave myself unashamedly to the manifold pleasures of pure
gluttony. And as I did, I studied my dining companion through half-lidded eyes.

Tall, brown-furred and dark-eyed, broad-shouldered and muscular, Philip was
good-looking by anyone's standards, in spite of a long ragged scar that ran
from his right temple down the side of his face to vanish beneath his
shirt-collar. The injury that caused it occurred early in our
recently-concluded expedition, when one of our makeshift ladders through the
air-conditioning ducts collapsed, leading him to a close encounter with the
business end of a sheet-metal screw. He'd been lucky not to lose an eye. The
scar was already fading, and would soon be gone; that's one of the better (or
worse, depending on your point of view) things about our much-modified genes.

That morning, as always, he wore a white long-sleeved shirt and a dark-blue
tunic; both clean, but somewhat less than crisp. Seeing that, and the tiredness
in his eyes, I realized that for him this meal wasn't breakfast--not exactly,
anyway. "Been standing the night-watch again?" I asked, and he nodded
glumly.

"Yes," he said, taking a sip of tea. "I'm off to bed
now." He shook his head. "Those months at NIMH put me in the
nocturnal mode, and I can't seem to shift back. Mark and David can't
either--but they don't seem to care. They prefer the graveyard
shift."

"They would," I observed. I shook my head. "That hasn't been
a problem for me," I went on. "I was plenty tired that first night,
after we arrived home--and the dose of painkiller Alice gave me put me out like
a light. That seems to have reset my clock, so to speak."

Philip smiled. "You're lucky." His eyes shifted, and he lowered
his voice. "I think even he's been having trouble."

He pointed, and I glanced back over my shoulder, already knowing full well
who he was. The Brisby family had arrived. Their meals were served on
specially-sized dishware, and were carried on specially-sized trays to their
specially-sized table, a little removed from the others. Chatting with his
wife, riding herd over their children, Jonathan--our commando squad's fearful
leader--managed to appear simultaneously wonderful and awful. He looked like
someone deeply in love--which, of course, he was--and also like someone from
whose shoulders an enormous weight had been lifted. But at the same time he was
still thin and wan, and his sagging whiskers, drooping eyes and dragging tail
proved that he too had been having difficulty sleeping.

"Will he be all right, do you think?" Philip asked anxiously.

"I'd like to believe so," I replied, peering sidelong at the
familiar small grey-furred form, shoveling down oatmeal now as if stoking a
boiler. He was far older than either Philip or me, and at the moment he looked
it--but the spark of vitality had returned to his soulful brown eyes, and that
made all the difference in the world. During those terrible months I'd seen it
nearly flicker out, many times, as he simply lost interest in living.
"Jonathan will always be Jonathan," I went on. "He'll always wear
his emotions on his sleeve..."

Philip grinned. "How well we know that."

"...And he and his family have a lot to work out. He's made some really
dumb choices, and now he has to deal with the consequences." As I spoke I
nodded at Martin, Jonathan's elder son, who--not coincidentally--was
seated on the opposite side of the table, as far from his father as he could
get. "But given time, yes, I think he'll be fine."

"Depending, of course," Philip pointed out, "on what happens
to her."

"Her" was Mrs. Brisby--no, Elizabeth, I corrected myself
sharply. These days she insisted on being on a first-name basis with everyone.
She was that rarest of things, a genuine, untarnished hero--and if she'd
declared herself Queen of Thorn Valley, I really think my fellow rats would
have gone ahead and crowned her. We owed her literally everything: our homes,
our freedom, our very lives. "She says she wants the treatment," I
said. "And Ages should be here any day. If we did our job right..."

"We'd better have," Philip said softly.

I slathered a slab of bread with raspberry preserves, and took a bite. "Speaking
of 'jobs...'" I said wickedly.

Philip shook his head. "Please, don't remind me." He sighed.
"Thomas still insists he wants to step down in my favor. And the other
members of the Guard seem to think it's a good idea."

"But you don't?"

"I'm...conflicted," he said with a faint smile. "On the one
hand, I'm reasonably sure I can do the job. I've had enough training. And maybe
it would be a good thing. I won't say Thomas is 'fussy'..."

"How about 'details-oriented'?" I supplied blandly, and he nodded.

"That'll do," he said. "Anyway, the Captain of the Guard
can't afford that; he has to keep his mind on the proverbial Big Picture. So
maybe Thomas would be more effective as First Lieutenant--the one who
handles the minutiae."

"But--?" I prompted.

"But," he said heavily, "I can't say I feel good about
waltzing in and taking someone's job away--even if it is what everyone
wants." He paused. "Anyway, the final decision rests with Justin--and
he, apparently, is leaning toward accepting Thomas' resignation."

"So when--?"

"Not for another few weeks, at very least," Philip said. "I
still have a lot to learn about the way things are done here. This ain't the
rosebush, that's for sure."

"True enough."

He quirked an eyebrow. "And what about you?" he asked.
"Technically speaking, you're still a member of the Guard..."

I nodded. "I know," I said. "But I've pretty well decided
that part of my life is over." I shifted my damaged arm. "Even before
this happened, I knew. Our mission changed all of us, in many ways. I know I
want something different--I just don't know what it is yet."

He grinned. "Too bad," he said. "You were always pretty good
with a sword."

I matched his smile. "Good enough to whip your sorry butt a time or
two, as I recall," I said. "That's over too. I imagine the boss-man
will have some ideas..."

"...But he won't be pressuring you to choose anytime soon." He
leaned back, his hands behind his head. "I don't suppose Arthur could
invent a steam-powered microprocessor..."

I grimaced. "By the time I get my hands on another computer," I
said, "I won't even know how to operate it." I shook my head sadly.
"Just my luck to have a 21st-Century mind in a 19th-Century
community."

"Be thankful you had a community to come back to," he said
seriously.

"Oh, I am," I assured him. "Doesn't stop me from complaining,
though."

"Few things do, I've noticed."

For a time then we sat silent, finishing our meals, watching the comings and
goings and listening to the soft buzz of conversation and the clink of cups and
dishes. Then Philip said softly, "Eileen--I'm sorry we haven't been able
to spend more time together since we got back..."

A sinking feeling occurred in the pit of my stomach. I'd been afraid the
conversation would turn in that direction, while hoping fervently it wouldn't.
"That...might not have been entirely a bad thing."

His eyes widened, and I cursed myself for my reflexive directness,
which--not for the first time--had crossed the line into tactlessness. His
whiskers drooping, he turned away. "I see--" he began, but I
interrupted.

"No," I said firmly. "You don't. I do care for you,
Philip. Very much. But things are different now. We got to know each other--if
that's the right way to put it--under stressful circumstances. I honestly don't
know how much of what I felt for you was based on the fact that I was scared
out of my wits twenty-four hours a day. Maybe none at all; maybe a lot. And now
we're under stress again. We have to learn how to live in this valley, and how
to relate to people who've spent months believing us dead. Do you understand? I
need to find out where I'm headed before I make any commitments."

He nodded sadly. "Yes," he said. "I understand." He
smiled. "But that doesn't rule out the occasional walk under the stars,
does it?"

I reached across to stroke his cheek. "Call me," I told him,
"at the next new moon."

The Thorn Valley community might actually start feeling like home--if I
could stop getting lost in it.

Four levels, endless meandering corridors, dozens if not hundreds of rooms,
public and otherwise... Arthur designed the place well, I had to admit, and the
execution was little short of incredible, especially considering the time
factor. But while most of the inhabitants had had several months to get used to
the place, I'd been thrust into it suddenly, like it or not, for better or
worse, sink or swim, do or die--choose your favorite cliché. It was a
utilitarian dwelling, plain but comfortable, and had none of the ostentatious
opulence--decadence, even--of our old home. That, I could respect, even like.
But at the moment its complexity was frustratingly confusing.

I'd learned the way to the lounge, though, and that was where I headed after
breakfast, feeling not a little guilty as I passed my fellow citizens hurrying
toward their various jobs. Philip was right: no one, least of all Justin, was
in the mood to pressure my former companions and me to go back to work. Not
after what we'd been through. But as it happened, three of the five of us had
anyway. Mark and David had gravitated to the night-shift at the main entrance,
more or less automatically, and the insomnia-stricken Philip had joined them,
while waiting for his promotion to become official. Jonathan was still immersed
in family matters--but he'd also been seen engaged in long discussions with
Justin, presumably on weighty matters of policy and governance. Which left only
lil' ol' me at loose ends, utterly bereft of anything constructive to do.
Perhaps "temporarily disabled" might be the most charitable way to
describe my current condition--much nicer than "worthless parasite,"
certainly.

I found the lounge nearly deserted, as I'd expected. A few rats were
scattered around the sofas and easy chairs, talking, playing board or card
games, or simply relaxing. Off to the right, a pair of Arthur's workers were
assembling a small stage for a musical performance the next evening--the first,
in fact, since the invasion. They worked quietly, but nevertheless made a
certain amount of noise, and I took a seat as far from them as possible, in the
front left corner near the windows. I curled myself up on a small couch with my
legs tucked beneath me, and settled my arm in a semi-comfortable position
across my stomach. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back against the cushions.
Not for the first time, I had some serious thinking to do.

It would be neither accurate nor fair to say that I'd been avoiding Philip
since our return from NIMH. Our paths had simply failed to intersect, for
reasons that had more to do with him and his sleeping disorder than me. But at
the same time, I'd made no special effort to seek him out--and that, most
definitely, was my fault.

We'd grown close during the expedition, he and I, in a way very different
from the just-one-of-the-guys camaraderie I felt for Mark and David, or the
strangely maternal relationship that had sprung up between me and Jonathan.
Under the circumstances, certainly we hadn't taken it very far--no farther, in
fact, than the occasional snuggle and kiss when our companions weren't around.
We'd had a job to do; anything else was extraneous, foolish even--especially
when any of us could have ended up dead, or worse, at any time. Neither he nor
I had ever said anything about "love." And yet I couldn't help
recalling the words we'd exchanged, after I did my one-and-a-half gainer out of
the helicopter...

He's handsome, I reminded myself. And strong, and healthy--and
apparently willing to put up with your many eccentricities. Better yet, he
was available--but for how long? Thorn Valley was loaded with unattached
females, any one of whom would be more than happy to take him off my hands. And
might, should he decide to construe wait as stop...

"Eileen?"

I sat up quickly, my eyes snapping open. The voice was quiet, hesitant--and
less familiar than it should have been, considering that it belonged to my
little sister.

Kimberly--Kim--was the youngest of my six siblings, and probably the last
child Henry and Margaret would choose to have. Such was the difference in our
ages, I'd always felt more like her aunt--and in many ways that's how I'd
treated her. When I departed for NIMH, she was little more than a toddler; now
she stood at the cusp of adolescence, and would soon have to start carrying a
stick to fend off the young males who'd be clustering around her. She resembled
Father more than Mother, having medium-brown fur, a narrow face apt to smiling,
and large, dark, expressive eyes that gazed upon me now with an expression of
diffidence. She wore a dark-blue skirt and a sleeveless white blouse, knotted
to leave her midriff bare, and to her chest she clutched a much-used, dog-eared
notebook. A pencil was parked behind her right ear. I smiled--but deep inside I
was cursing myself for missing so much of her childhood. We were virtual
strangers, she and I--and that was a shame.

"Hey, kiddo," I said, with forced breeziness. "What's up? And
why aren't you in school?"

Her answering smile was a little shy. "I'm on independent study,"
she said--which surprised me not at all. "And I need your help. If you
have time, that is," she added quickly.

"Nothing but," I assured her. I scooted over, and she rather
stiffly settled in next to me. Briefly I debated draping my arm around her
shoulders, but decided against it--and not only because she was sitting to my
right. "What can I do for you?"

Sighing tragically, she opened the notebook into her lap. "Help me
figure out geometry, before I kill myself."

"That sounds doable," I said dryly. I glanced down at the rows of
neatly-copied problems. Her handwriting was excellent--Spencerian, even--one
thing we had in common, anyway. "Doesn't look too bad," I went on.
"With my help, you'll be lucid as Euclid in less than an hour."

She stifled a giggle. "Thanks," she said. "I guess."

In fact I always had been rather good at math, which helped immeasurably
during my recently-concluded career as a mild-mannered cyber-criminal--by
fostering a logical and methodical turn of mind, if for no other reason. And
though it had been some time since matters Pythagorean had occupied my
thoughts, I should indeed be able to dispense a few pearls of wisdom. "Let's
see here..."

...I very soon began to suspect, however, that polygons and oblique angles weren't
uppermost in the my baby sister's mind. She was attentive enough, certainly,
and the depth of her questions proved that she had a better grasp of the
material than she'd led me to believe--better, maybe, than she herself knew.
But at the same time she seemed distracted, and as we worked she kept glancing
at me sidelong, as if either sizing me up or nerving herself to speak. Finally,
just as we'd finished the last problems, she seemed to reach a decision.
"Eileen?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

My use of what is commonly known as a "term of endearment" seemed
to surprise her--no less than it did me. Such words were seldom part of my
vocabulary. "I've been wondering," she said. Grinding to a halt, she
turned away, her ears reddening. I waited patiently, and finally she cleared
her throat and went on, "Can you tell me--would you tell me--why
you had to leave?"

For the second time in less than an hour, my heart sank. "That's
complicated--" I began, and she chuckled bitterly.

"That's just what Mom and Dad keep telling me," she observed. She
peered up at me, and in her eyes was an intensity that I found a little
unsettling. "But I think I deserve a better answer. Don't I?"

Inwardly I smiled. Yes, she's my sister! "You're right," I
said. "You do. And I'm sorry I haven't given you one before now." I
paused, gathering my thoughts, and went on, "First you have to understand:
there was an important job to be done..."

Kim nodded. "I know," she said. "And it had to be kept
secret, because Jenner might have tried to sabotage it if he'd known." She
sighed, and that tragic exhalation contained a world of sadness. She really had
missed me, it seemed--far more than I would have believed possible. I couldn't
decide whether that made me feel guilty or gratified, so I settled for both, simultaneously.

"But," she went on, "did it have to be you who did
it?"

"At the time, I thought it did," I said. "And Nicodemus
agreed." I shook my head. "Would I have been so eager, if I'd known
how long it would take or how difficult and dangerous it would be? Probably
not--but I would have gone anyway. All of us would have. We had a...duty. I know
how corny that sounds, but it's exactly how we felt. We honestly, absolutely
believed in what we were doing. I still do, despite everything. Especially now
that I know who the main beneficiary will be."

She looked up at me quickly, and then--catching my meaning--she nodded and
smiled faintly. "I can't argue with that."

"...And anyway," I went on, "that's all water under the bridge
now, isn't it? I went, for whatever reason; I lived through it; and now I'm
back." I held up my injured arm. "And only a little the worse for
wear."

Kim gazed for a time at the bright, rapidly-warming midmorning, her eyes
following the slow movements of a group of farm-workers across a fresh-plowed
field. Finally she said, very softly, "Mother isn't sure you are
back."

"And what does that mean?" I demanded. I'd spoken rather
more harshly than I meant to, and Kim's eyes widened in alarm.

"I heard her talking to Father a few days ago," she said.
"She told him she doesn't know who you are any more."

I stiffened as if shot, and Kim drew back. "I'm sorry--" she
began, but I waved that off, and forced a smile.

"That's all right," I assured her. I paused. "In fact I'm
glad you told me." I chuckled bitterly. "And as it happens, she has a
point. I don't suppose anyone else could be expected to know who I am--since I
don't know myself."

"I think she's upset that you haven't spent much time with the family since
you got back..."

I sighed. That, I could never explain to my little sister's
satisfaction--because I couldn't even explain it to my own. I'd told myself I
needed to re-inject myself into society slowly--but was that just a
rationalization? Was it possible that the Eileen who existed now had somehow
outgrown her own parents and siblings? And if so, was the rift a permanent one?
No. Unthinkable.

And so I merely nodded and said, "I know"--and those two syllables
would have to suffice, because I honestly don't know what I could have added to
them.

Kim gazed at me quizzically, but--fortunately for both of us--decided
against voicing the questions that whirled behind her eyes. "One thing for
certain," she said. "You're nothing like what I expected."

I smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "And that was?" I asked, dead-pan.

Once again her ears and nose turned bright crimson. "I guess...I was
afraid you'd be like Judith."

I nodded ruefully. "I understand," I said--and to my sorrow, I did.
As with the rest of my family, my dealings with my identical twin had been
practically nil since my return. I'd heard stories, though, plenty of them, and
I knew that--for some bizarre reason--Judith had chosen to cut herself off from
almost all social contact. Even her professional manner was terse to the point
of rudeness. Rumor had it there was just one person in all of Thorn Valley that
she liked, even respected: Elizabeth Brisby. Which, to be honest, was hardly
strange. My erstwhile commandant's formidable wife did have that effect on
people.

"She doesn't treat you badly, does she?" I asked darkly, and Kim
shook her head.

"Not really, no," she admitted. She flashed an impish grin.
"Actually, she hardly pays attention to me at all. She doesn't seem to
have much time for anyone, family or otherwise."

Poor kid, I thought, with sudden understanding. No wonder she was
so hesitant to approach me. I reached across to tousle her hair playfully.
"I don't know what's gotten into her," I said. "But I sincerely
hope I'm nothing like what she's become."

"No," Kim agreed, once again peering intently into my eyes.
"I don't think you are."

"Thanks," I said wryly, but my mind was elsewhere, drifting
through the faraway days of my childhood, long before Kim was even a gleam in
our father's eye. We were inseparable, Judith and I; and we shared literally
everything, from our clothing to our bed. Born during the rats' stressful
Wandering Days, we nonetheless managed to be carefree and mischievous, in a way
that drove our elders crazy. We played every trick, pulled every prank, that a
set of identical twins can, sometimes exchanging identities for hours, even
days, at a time. More than one person had been heard to comment that it was
almost impossible to know where Eileen left off and Judith began. Perhaps
that's normal for twins; I can't say. So far we were the only pair among the
Rats of NIMH.

But eventually we grew up, and in doing so developed our own identities, our
own interests. I can't judge my own personality, despite Socrates' dictum nosce
te ipsum--but the Judith I remembered was neither rude nor antisocial. What
had caused her to change so radically? Was it merely the pressure of her job,
one of the most demanding in the community? Or...could it possibly have been my
departure? I hadn't been able to tell her where I was going; almost certainly
she'd believed me dead, along with everyone else. Was that the genesis of the
emotional armor she'd so firmly strapped on? If so, then I owed her an
explanation--and an apology too. But getting her to listen...that could be
the tricky part.

"I've been wondering too," Kim was saying, "what it's
like--being at NIMH." She gazed up at me, a half-pleading, half-fearful
look in her eyes. "Can you...talk about it? Are you able to?"

I thought about that for a moment...and then nodded. "Yes," I said
quietly. "I think I am."