Marcel landed with a thump and sprang sideways with a squeak, for he had arrived directly upon a woodcut of a revolutionary grimacing in murderous hatred. He scrabbled a bit on the smooth placard, and finally managed to hold on just at the very edge. The pale floor below seemed very far, and Marcel’s nose twitched in consternation. His trepidation was short-lived, however, as with a cry of “Vive la France!” his little brother Marius came shooting out of the sky and sledded down the placard on his back, kicking Marcel over the edge. They both rolled to a stop on the cold marble, and Marius leapt up with a toothy smile and an air of derring-do.

“Farewell, MOUSE!” cried Marius, and scampered off towards the main atrium. With less fanfare, the other Souris children landed around Marcel (in the case of Micheline, nearly atop him) and made their way towards London and the world. They mostly avoided his gaze, save Modeste, who gave him a silent clap on the back before trailing away, lost in thought.

Marcel scampered back towards the base of the pedestal and hunkered against it. The sounds of the museum were close and immediate, without the dovecot walls. The air moving as the night cooled, the tick-tick-tick of humidity meters, the display cases in the gift shop creaking with temperature change. He heard the soft patter of insects about their business. He heard the night guard drop his newspaper, and the echoes rushing back and forth like a chorus of paper-winged angels falling to earth. He heard a soft thud behind him.

He whirled, ready to scarper, even into the great unknown, but it was only Martine. She held a tiny breath-mint box and motioned him to quiet. “I cannot budge him, lovie. It’s out of the dovecot for you, and for good.” Marcel sniffed back a sob. “Oh, there, there, it’s not the end of the world.”

“No…no it isn’t the end of the world, it’s the beginning of it! The World, the horrible awful world, full of cats and aristos and tour buses and terrifying dogs!”

“Not necessarily. There’s all this museum to pass before you get to the world, and I’m sure in all this preserve of the old, musty and forgotten there must be another place where a skittish little fuzzy-face can hide himself.” Marcel looked at his mother with love shining in his big dark eyes, and she laughed and thrust the mint box at him. “Away with you then! There’s some food for your journey, and p’raps I’ll find you again someday. Mother loves you, Marcel, remember that.” And she was gone, clawing up the pedestal.

Marcel clutched the tin, from which wafted the delectable smell of day-old crisp-crumbs from the cafe and fallen bits of sandwich cheese. It also smelled like home, and mother. He started out across the pale shadow of a paned skylight, ready to find a new home away from the World.