Maisie Tinfur was a mouse. Not just any mouse, a mouse with a secret. She thought she’d take it to her grave–a grave well earned after a quiet life of baking for the church tucked into the far corner of the Rust Barn. Instead, in what may be her final moments, she looked back on what brought her here. It all started on that Spring morning–she was out gathering fresh thyme for the day’s biscuits, when she heard a voice echoing out from the brush.
“I know what you’ve got, you know, and you shouldn’t keep it hidden away. You could be making a difference out there,” the voice said.
Maisie’s blood ran cold, the fur on the back of her neck standing on end.