Alfred A. Brussel passed a snug and agreeable winter in the city of the cats. Indeed, there was no possibility of leaving. The snow lay thick all around. There were frightful blizzards. His house was cozy, however, and the fires were banked high. He had Nayel for company and amusement. They were invited to many soirées, for it was with parties, games and dances, and hearty eating and much guzzling of hot cider, that the nobility of Kitania passed the season. On fine winter afternoons there was sledding and skating. The short days closed with bumpers of spiced wine and singing round bonfires. Brussel was welcomed everywhere. As for Nayel, it was almost overlooked that he was a rat. Brussel himself hosted many fêtes, hiring musicians, jugglers, dancers and clowns for these gay revels lasting all night and into morning. In March, however, Old Man Winter was losing his vigour, the thaw was on its way, and the mountain passes soon would re-open. It was time to think of leaving.
  The Architect had not, however, seen the Queen in a while. Indeed, he felt that she had been neglecting him of late and he was a little miffed. With the social season drawing to a close, he was growing bored and restless, but he expected a send-off as spectacular as he had enjoyed from Orthon. Then, too, he still hadn’t received the treasure she had promised.
  Taking the bull by the horns, the Architect penned a short, rather brusque letter, stating his intended departure. He handed it to Nayel. ‘See that gets delivered to her nibs. Also, be sure we’re ready to leave next Tuesday morning.’
  Promptly he received answer from the Queen, summoning him to her Bed-room of State. She apologized for neglecting him and explained, ‘We and our generals have been much preoccupied planning our campaign ‘gainst the rats. We wish to strike come Autumn. Indeed, I had expected thou wouldst be here to celebrate with us our victory and to slurp with us the fat of the Rat King’s thighs in our grand temple. ‘Tis an occasion I wait on eagerly and did hope it a triumph in which thou too wouldst wish to delight.’
  ‘Truly, Your Grace, I cannot imagine anything gayer. Pressing business affairs call, however. The Holy Roman Pontiff needs an extension to Saint Peter’s and the Emperor of Saturn desires me to lay out a zoological garden.’
  ‘Oh, that is a pity. Thou must stay, natheless, long enough to meet the Duke of Castor. He cometh early in April, and I have told him much of thee in letters already. He hath expressed the greatest eagerness to meet thee.’
  ‘And who is the Duke of Castor, Your Grace?’
  ‘Oh, a great personage among the beavers.’
  ‘Beavers?’
  ‘They are an aquatic folk,’ explained the Queen, ‘rather like big rats, I regret to say. Natheless, we are in want of their services.’
  ‘Yes, I know what beavers are, Ma’am. And you are right, they are rodents, just like rats. For reason that their teeth do not stop growing and must continually be filed down.’
  ‘Yes, well, rodents or no, they are fanatic builders. Indeed, the Earl of Castor is avid to see thy temple with his own eyes. Thou must be on hand to show it to him. He and his engineers will have many questions concerning its structure only thou canst answer.’
  As an American, accustomed to his liberty, Brussel did not particularly like the Queen’s rather imperious tone. He thought it showed a want of gratitude for all that he had done for her. He gave a curt bow. ‘I shall consider Your Majesty’s proposal and see whether I may be able to postpone my departure.’
  ‘Prithee do so.’
  He thought of making a rejoinder to this, but could not think what, so he turned abruptly and strode out.
  Thus, Alfred A. Brussel was present when the whole city, with much to-do that somehow grated on him, greeted the Earl of Castor upon his coming. The Architect, indeed, was party to the Queen’s reception. The Earl’s eyes, normally beady and small, enlarged noticeably on seeing Brussel, but he recovered his decorum rapidly and extended a courteous paw. After that, the Architect was required to shake paws with all the Earl’s civil engineers. As soon as he could politely do so, Brussel stepped aside, drew out his handkerchief and put it to his nose. To Nayel that evening he confided, ‘Nothing more odoriferous outside of a Persian bazaar could be conceived. The Earl must bathe in perfume.’
  Next afternoon, Brussel was to give the Earl a tour of the temple. At the appointed hour, however, only the engineers were on hand. One of them in an apologetic tone explained that, much too the Earl’s disappointment, he had been forced to pass on the tour, owing to pressing business with Her Majesty. This Brussel distinctly felt as a slight, that he had been ranked with these civil engineers who were no more than journeymen, not much better than domestic servants, really. He may as well have been appointed tour guide to a gaggle of charwomen and scullery maids! Fortunately, he had thought to bring along Nayel as a kind of lictor, to add lustre to his office. Nayel had the ceremonial job of following three steps behind the Architect, punctuating an appropriate gap between Brussel and the engineers, whilst carrying a symbolic measuring rod, a roll of drawings and a satchel with the Architect’s reading glasses and a few other unneedful implements.
  The beavers did not disappoint Brussel’s expectations. They asked uninspired questions and made banal observations that revealed they missed the point, like a branch manager from Cleveland visiting Rome and, walking away from the Pieta, muttering that Michael Angelo had made the Virgin too big. Also, they all had small, rheumy eyes that they blinked frequently, which made Brussel think they suffered from short-sightedness.