The cottage hummed quietly, and dust motes made an attempt to escape through a beam of sunshine. Tamar's broom caught them an instant later. They swirled and settled as he swept them into a pile, and stragglers drifted off the cheesecloth curtains hanging in front of the windows.

"Tamar, dear, could you please get the kettle?" Merrill's voice came from the other room. "It sounds close to boiling now, and I don't think it needs much more."

"Yes, grandma," Tamar called back. He swept up the remainder of the dust pile and headed for the kitchen.

After they'd gotten back from Redwall, Merrill's hip had given out after a fall, and she was temporarily bedridden. Tamar did all the chores in meantime, including baking, retrieving the firewood, and cleaning the house. Merrill was still insistent on mending their clothes-as much as she could, with her eyesight-shelling beans, and sealing the caps on jam jars. Tamar almost wanted to take the needle from her, for her own good. But as she'd always proven, she was adept, and undefeatable.

Tamar took the kettle off the fire. The smell of mint leaves lingered around it, and he took it and two cups into Merrill's room. He crossed streaks of dustless shadows under the doorway. The curtains in her room sat at half lowered, though sun still shone in and painted bright rectangles on the floor. Her room smelled like mint tea, bean shells, and old shawls.

"Ah, there you are. You look like you've been busy. What a diligent grandson I have. Come, dear, take a seat." Merrill patted the stool next to her. Tamar sat the kettle on the nightstand and sat down.

Merrill herself lay in her bed in the middle of her room. Despite it being summer, she had all of her blankets drawn up to her lap, and a pile of her shawls draped over the headboard like velvet crowning a king's throne. Her body barely made a lump in the bed. She looked small in that sea of blankets and shawls, Tamar thought, even if she'd always been tiny. The rest of the room was tidy and well-swept, and not an item looked out of place or abandoned. It looked lived in.

"I can smell the dust on you," Merrill said. Tamar poured her a cup of mint tea. Steam flowed upwards from the kettle's spout. "You've been sweeping all morning." Tamar passed her a cup, and her trembling, thin paws reached for it before they grabbed it and steadied. As Merrill took a dainty drink of her tea, her whiskers quivering, Tamar poured himself a cup.

"I think the cottage should be clean enough three times over now. Why don't you take a break, grandson? Drink some tea, clear your head, and go outside." After a wavering reach, Merrill patted his paw. "It looks lovely out there."

A soft breeze blew through her open window.

"I'll be going out in a minute, grandma," Tamar said. "There are still berries we need to pick, and kindling to take care of."

"Oh, silly me," Merrill said. "I forgot about them. I don't think the birds would mind having a few more to pick off than usual," she said, chuckling. "Why don't you take a break? A real one? I'm sure Skipper wouldn't mind you paying the holt a visit, or Miss Fieldmouse wouldn't mind you saying hello to Flora and Pivet. They've been asking for you. You need to start thinking of things to do when I'm gone."

"I do plenty when you're gone," Tamar said. "And you're not going anywhere, grandma. You're not supposed to leave the bed."

"I don't mean now," Merrill said. She waved her paw. "When I'm gone later. What about sending a note back to Redwall to that one lovely girl you talked with? Lacey, Bluebell-what was her name? Lacebell! She seemed quite fond of you. I'm sure we could talk one of the sparrows into taking a letter back. They're not as fussy when you pay them, and the beans are crisp this season. You could always go back for the fall harvest feast, too."

"I don't feel like going back to Redwall so soon, grandma," Tamar said, and a rough itch scratched the inside of his chest. "Besides, we don't know if you'll be in good enough health to travel by then. We'll go if you can walk, or if I can carry you."

Merrill patted Tamar's paw and curled her fingers over his.

"Tamar," she said gently, "you're not going to have to worry about me by fall."

"Why not?" Tamar said. "I always do. You're important, grandma."

"I know," Merrill said. She nudged her spectacles back into place and took another drink of tea. Tamar felt he would throw up if he took a drink of his. "All too much, sometimes. You're a wonderful grandson, Tamar. You always have been. But this fall, you'll have to start thinking of yourself. I'm going where worries don't need to. The Dark Forest is a kind place."

"Grandma, we agreed it was too early to talk about this," Tamar said. "That's not something we need to worry about yet," and Merrill smiled.

"That agreement was three seasons ago, grandson. Things have changed. You've grown so much."

She released Tamar's paw to steady her tea cup and took another drink. Translucent steam rolled up her white muzzle. Tamar hated that his paws were trembling.

"Are you alright? You haven't touched your tea. It tastes delicious to me, though my old lady tongue might be losing its sense of taste." Merrill nodded at the kettle.

"It's fine," Tamar said. "It tastes fine, grandma."

"I see." Merrill finished her tea and set her cup down on the nightstand with a clink. "I believe I'm done with mint for now. Those beans aren't going to shell themselves! You have cook to a pot of snap beans with either turnips or onion slices in them, and I'm not sure which to pick. Skipper has very different taste from Mrs. Fieldmouse, but I don't want to drown the whole pot in hotroot…"

As Merrill talked on, Tamar's whole chest slowly, slowly went cold and sunk into a pit of dread. He could hear all the Redwallers whispering and feel Sumin's accusing glare, the holt pups' murmurs and wary glances half behind his back, Skipper's exasperated comments-"Merrill, I know you love him, but for the last time, yore grandson is a rat"-Logalog's raw, concerned anger-"He's not a mouse. Either they're going to kill him, or he's ending up like Veil. You can't keep him" and every squabble that ended with the subject denied and eating itself like a horrible snake.

"If she could see what you are, she'd think differently of you." Skintslip's bitter, truth-laden smile filled his head. "She woulda dumped you seasons ago or never picked you up."

"Grandma," he burst out.

"Hmm?"

"They're right," he said. Words burned the inside of his throat and clawed to escape. She had to know. "All of them. I'm a liar, I'm not a mouse, I'm a-"

"Don't you say it," Merrill said. "I won't have those spiteful words getting to you. Oh, Tamar," she said when she felt the trails of water running down his face. "Come here."

She pulled her grandson's head towards her. Tamar hopped off the stool and knelt by the bed to bury his face in her chest and loop his arms around her. Merrill was so small that he was hugging an ocean of blankets as he much as he was hugging her, and his face took up her whole chest. Her arms could only make it around the back of his neck, but she smoothed his unruly headfur and stroked his ears, and murmured comfortingly.

"I'm sorry," Tamar said. "I'm sorry."

"I've always known exactly what you were: my grandson," Merrill said. Her chest muffled Tamar's sobs. "Nothing will ever change that. But you need more than me. That's why I want you to go to Redwall after I'm gone, or talk to someone else. The world doesn't revolve around one old mousemaid."

"I don't want you to go," Tamar said.

"I know," Merrill said. "But I'll be watching you grow up from the Dark Forest, even if you've grown up so much already. Fourteen seasons! I remember when you were just a babe. I was always with you then, even when you didn't need me, and I'll always be with you now." She stroked his chipped ear. "Promise me you'll leave the house and talk to somebeast else when I'm gone, or find a family."

I don't want anyone else, Tamar wanted to say, I just want you to stay, but he knew futility and finality when he saw it. Arguing with life was useless.

"I promise," Tamar muttered. Merrill used the edge of her shawl to wipe the tears from his eyes.

"That's my boy," she said. "Always meeting life head on." She rubbed a frail thumb over Tamar's jaw and held him back to look at him. Tamar allowed her to, and stood and leaned down to make it easier for her. He loathed pulling away from the weight of the warm blankets against his chest. There, he had something to lean on, and comfort besides. Now, he felt fragile and empty, and the world had shifted under his feet and taken away his balance.

Tamar wasn't sure if Merrill could even see his face. With the tears blurring his eyes, he couldn't see hers, either.

"Now," Merrill said, "some beans won't take care of themselves, unless you want to wait a while before you start." She swept another damp trickle off his face. Tamar pressed his bigger paw on top of hers and shakily squeezed.

"No, grandma," Tamar said. Salt stung in his eyes, and his grip on everything was shaken, but the sun hadn't stopped shining-wouldn't, even for Merrill's passing-and he might've been crying but the wind and birds singing outside hadn't stopped and his grandma still looked at him with love and there were beans to take care of. "I'll start on them now. Did you want to use the onions or turnips?"

"Onions," Merrill said. "They'll taste better this time of year." Her hand slipped out of Tamar's, leaving a final trail of warmth behind it. Tamar let it go. "Use a dash of salt, and fry them first. Be careful and don't let the oil hurt you. Remember to light the candle while you're cutting the onions, dear, if we have one. They'll prick your eyes." Her tone was as gentle and firm.

"I'll remember, grandma," Tamar said.

He was glad they didn't have one.

xxx

All things in life came to end. Harvests finished, seasons past, cheese matured and curdled, the minnows flowed up the stream for winter, and every fire ran out of kindling. And so it was that, two weeks later, when their sweet peas started blooming, the last of Merrill's life ticked away.

Tamar didn't stay inside when he learned she was gone. It took him a minute to realize that her stillness wasn't sleep, and her cracked eyelids weren't awakening to see the morning sun. After that, he slipped out the door and into the garden.

For a minute, the end didn't click, but finally, the rustle of wind through the beans and flowers broke something, and the tears and sobs welled up and heaved free. Tamar sat in the garden and cried. He hunched and buried his face in his paws until streams of tears ran down his arms and he couldn't sob any longer, and then he got up and searched for the shovel. Crying didn't kindle fires or get anything done.

He picked a secluded spot between the sweet peas and snap beans, one where the pansies and ivy would be sure to grow over again, and the quiet gurgle of the river and singing birds sounded clear, and started digging.

xxx

Initially, all was quiet after Merrill's death, but the cottage buzzed with more activity than it had in awhile when Skipper and Logalog's crews showed up. The otters and shrews crowded the small house and bounced noise and motion off every small wall. Tamar took the opportunity to empty out the pantry as much as possible, though with every roll or cheese he gave away, he gained a rough and kind pat on the shoulder and a bowl of hotroot soup for. Nothing was louder than bossy shrew-wives and otters with someone to comfort.

For the most part, Tamar kept the cottage in order and stayed out of their way. He received odd glances for his composure from some, and heard some mutters of "a vermin would…" but nothing took his breath away. Most gifts were sympathy and food.

Logalog exploded when she learned he'd buried Merrill in the garden-"In the garden? The garden, Skipper? Like she's a dead fish scrap or pet beetle that's passed away?"-but since she'd showed up with red eyes and a devastated expression, Tamar let it go.

He didn't reply to any of her prodding, Skipper intervened and snapped at her, and the two disappeared onto the lawn for a few minutes of yelling. After silence settled, only Skipper marched back in. His face was wet and he fumed unhappy triumph, but he stopped beside Tamar.

"Don't pay attention to her," he said. "Yore grandmother would've loved this."

The shrews filtered out soon afterwards, and so did most of the otters. Skipper was the last one leaving. He hesitated before he did, putting a hand on Tamar's shoulder.

"You know," he said, "you don't have t' go to Redwall. There's a place in the holt for you, if you want it. I promised yore grandmother I'd look after you, so I'll be back in a few days to check on you. If you've made up yore mind by then, just… let me know."

Tamar managed an acknowledging nod. Skipper pulled his webbed paw from Tamar's shoulder, gave him one last look, and left. Tamar could hear all the otters sliding into the water and preparing to swim back, their empty pots and pans balanced on their backs, and he watched them disappear through the window. Then, silence.

It was only him and the house.

Tamar worked on sweeping up again, thoughts rattling around in his head.

xxx

A few days crept past sooner than anticipated, and soon, Tamar stood in the middle of the empty cottage with his satchel.

His stomach flipped, and he clutched his bag tighter. He'd packed as much as he could fit into it, though he didn't have much. He would be traveling. He didn't need it. Tamar took inventory of the cottage one last time.

Everything was in place. The cheesecloth curtains drew back in their usual arches over the windows, and the kitchen's pots and pans hung neatly from their usual spots. The fireplace lay empty of anything but the stains of ash. Tamar had swept and cleaned everything a final time, and the cottage sat in peaceful tranquility. It looked as if the residents had only stepped out for a visit, Tamar thought, and they would be back soon.

Leaves rustled in the afternoon breeze, and still, there was no motion in the river. Tamar drummed his fingers on his bag. Skipper and the holt were nice enough, but he'd still barely visited them. He had no clue what the holt camp looked like now. The camp he remembered visiting was noisy and muddy. Active. Nothing at all like his and Merrill's cottage.

Those times, he had been a novelty. Something shiny for the kits to look at and talk about, Tamar thought, and who never got a moment's rest. How much would he fit in, really, if Redwall themselves hadn't wanted him? Redwall might've not lived up to their reputation, but otters were still otters. And, inescapably, they were woodlanders.

But how much of a vermin are you anyway? Something whispered in his head.

A thought struck Tamar, and several pieces fell into place. He pulled his satchel higher on his shoulder, and slipped out the door.

There was something he needed to do.

xxx

Skipper knocked on the door frame of the cottage.

"Hello? Anybeast here?" he said.

No reply came.

Skipper stepped in.

Merrill's cottage looked as clean as it ever had. The fire was doused in the fireplace, and all of the chairs were neatly pushed in. An old shawl draped over one of them with a walking stick leaning against it. Skipper quickly moved his eyes elsewhere.

All of the windows were open, and a breeze played with the curtains. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend nothing had changed. Not a soul was inside.

The back door was propped wide open.

With a heavy, but not entirely unsurprised heart, Skipper backed away. He turned his head and cupped his mouth.

"Alright, messmates, get ready to leave!"

"Are we going now?"

Skipper jumped. Tamar stood in the doorway.

"Gates, Tamar, you almost scared the hide off me rudder. Where were you?"

"In the pantry," Tamar said. Skipper could smell cool air and preserves on him, and the top of his satchel bulged noticeably. "I was getting some jars of jam."

"Alright," Skipper said. He moved to leave, and paused, looking over his shoulder. "Ready to go?"

Tamar felt the weight of the bag on his shoulder, and the emptiness of the cottage around him. His throat squeezed in. He managed a nod.

Skipper headed across the lawn, Tamar following suit. He called a few more things to the other otters waiting by the river, and with a clutter of activity, they started off. Tamar could swim, but they had decided it would be easier to walk back.

The otters immediately began chatting, and Tamar floated in a sea of enthusiastic words and conversation, feeling lost. He stayed closer to the front, behind Skipper, and watched the forest encroach and the river and cottage disappear.

Tamar gripped his satchel strap tighter. Nothing would ever be the same again, and he hadn't a clue where he was going, or what was happening. There was no telling what the holt camp would be like.

Skipper broke out of a laugh and looked behind him. "You doin' okay, Tamar?"

"Yes," Tamar said. "I am."

But there was only one way to find out.

Tamar followed Skipper and the otters down the winding forest trail, and into the unknown.