It Isn't Easy Being Queen

13. Rats!

At least my eyeballs moved, so I could look around a bit. An analysis of the conditions within the cell was in order, to determine potential escape routes if my limbs were ever ready to cooperate.

My cell was about ten feet by ten feet, stone on three sides, with a wooden ceiling and one wall of iron bars, spaced four inches apart. I was not getting out that way. The cell was empty. No furniture, no toilet, and no five-tier cakes smothered in chocolate icing with convenient nail files hidden inside.

An arched hallway outside of my cell was lit with huge iron bowls of fire hanging by heavy chains from a vaulted ceiling, the orange light flickering and casting shadows on the stone walls. The cells across from mine seemed empty, although it was hard to see much in the gloom.

The cracks between the stones on the walls were lined with black mold and thick spiderwebs that stretched from one side of the room to the other.

Despite my preconceptions about dungeons, it turned out they weren't all that awesome.

I had always thought that they'd be full of mystery and secrets to decode. And cool armor. Possibly with a side of eerie background music. And the smell would be of freshly turned earth and anguish.

But these were only fantasies of the uninformed.

Before I inspected my surroundings any further, I got distracted by a terrible scratching sound, like thousands of tiny claws scurrying across stones.

It had to be ...

... rats!

Swarming from the walls.

This was when I remembered Petronella's threat: "If you call me Nelly, I will send you to the dungeon, where feral rats will feast on your bones."

Fear coiled deep in my belly, or maybe the coiling was from hunger. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. The point is, I was in a dungeon with a legion of hungry rats.

I tried to scream, but my throat was so raw, it came out more like the sound of a punctured tire—a low hiss.

I'm sure you're there, dear reader, urging me to stand up and fend off the rodents, find my dads, make the queen's life a living hell, and get out of this place, but this is where I remind you I could not move, except for my eyeballs, and I didn't think I'd be able to blink the rats to death.

The rats scurried over me, sliding up and down and across my legs as if I was an amusement park ride; a bag of bones inside a tasty meat wrapper.

They squeaked and tittered and chomped like an eerie symphony of impending death. I peered down as best I could without moving my head as more rats came to join the fun, feasting on my favorite sneakers. The newcomer rats squeezed out the original crew, jockeying for position, and I lay helpless. There seemed to be quite a few of them gnawing on the rubber soles of my favorite tennis shoes. I guess rats preferred shoes to human flesh, at least I hoped because I assumed being eaten alive by rats would be quite painful.

I tried again to speak but to no avail.

Why were there always rats?

The worst creatures ever!

Way worse than snakes, thank you very much Indiana Jones!

Panic set in as I imagined tiny teeth chomping away at my flesh.

I couldn't die now! I had parents to rescue. What if Petronella was mistreating them? Not to mention, I had a mangy cat that I left behind.

Stop panicking, Rowen! Why would Petronella go through all the trouble of capturing me if she wanted me to die in her dungeon?