Delphine and the Silver Needle

by Alyssa Moon

  Delphine quickly realized that she needed a new way to carry the needle, ensuring that it was both out of her way and reachable. Most importantly, it needed to be completely hidden.

  When they happened upon an abandoned human glove by the side of the road, she spent an hour gnawing off long pieces. That evening, she wove the leather strips into a proper sheath by their twigfire as Alexander watched, intrigued.

  “Voila!” She slipped the needle inside, then slung the strap across her chest.

  “Wonderful,” Alexander remarked. “Reminds me of the time I was midbattle with some pesky ants and had to cobble together a sheath for my extra sword.”

  As they walked, Alexander continued to regale her with tales of his derring-do, interspersed with anecdotes of court life. To Delphine, each story seemed more outlandish than the last. It was painfully obvious how little he’d actually experienced of the world outside the castle walls.

  Life on the road was tiring. Luckily, the early-autumn nights were still warm. Nourishment was another story. Delphine was used to gathering snacks from bushes and trees when she, Gus, and Jaq had gone on afternoon picnics, but she’d never had to sustain herself solely on what she found.

  As for Alexander, if it didn’t come on a silver platter or in a cut-crystal bowl, he wouldn’t have known it was even edible. Delphine did her best to teach him about plants as they went, in the hopes that he could help scout for food, but Alexander seemed singularly incapable of identifying anything.

  After this happened for the umpteenth time, Delphine had had enough. “How is it that you can tell whether the lilies on Lord Beetle-whatever’s surcoat were embroidered with silk thread or cotton thread, but you can’t tell the difference between burdock leaves and dandelion leaves?”

  Alexander bristled. “I told you that story in confidence.”

  Delphine let out a deep sigh.

  While they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a single rat on their travels—yet—rain proved a constant threat. If they didn’t scramble onto the nearest rock or branch quickly enough, they could be washed back down the road.

  Delphine kept reassuring herself that soon they would reach the monastery and she would find the answers she needed. But each night stretched into the next. And there was no sign of the elusive Fox Rock that Alexander remembered so clearly from his studies.

  Then one morning brought a dawn bright and chilly. Delphine and Alexander were crossing a field, their fur dampened by the frosty dew. Delphine had been keeping an eye out for any fresh herbs or berries that could make up their breakfast when they were suddenly rewarded by the sight of an eerie pile of rocks up ahead, dark against the sky. Lichen clung in scattered bits to the surfaces of the stone. The air felt oddly quiet.

  “I think that’s it!” Alexander breathed as they approached.

  “Fox Rock?” whispered Delphine. There didn’t seem to be any immediate danger, but there was something about the place that made her fur stand on end.

  Alexander nodded. “It’s the wrong angle, though. In all the illustrations I’ve seen, it looks like a fox. Let’s get closer.”

  With another few steps, Delphine’s perspective shifted. The stones lined up so that she could make out a long, narrow outcropping shaped exactly like the snout of a fox. Two empty holes formed dark eye sockets. Long shards of pale stone hung down, looking like cruel fangs waiting to strike. Delphine shivered, reminded of the fox they had evaded at the pumpkin not so long ago. The wind suddenly rattled through the trees around the rock, then fell silent once more.

  “No wonder it’s called Fox Rock,” she muttered.

  Alexander pointed upward. “And from this angle, it looks exactly like the fox in the crest!”

  She saw what he meant. Following the stone fox’s gaze due north, she noticed cypress trees in the distance.

  “Let’s get going,” Delphine said, picking her way through the dead grass around the base of the rock and heading toward the far trees.

  They left the clearing, but not before Delphine had glanced over her shoulder one last time. Fox Rock stood silent, its empty eyes gazing menacingly at them. She shuddered again, wondering when she would finally be able to return home.

  KING MIDNIGHT PACED IN HIS throne room. His tail lashed, nearly upsetting a side table and spilling the flagon of bloodred berry cordial that rested on it. How many years had he been staring at his wall of needles? The thought was like a thorn in his paw.

  He passed the wall yet again, glancing up out of habit at the eleven needles hanging there. Silent. Dormant. It was pointless. He had tried everything to unlock their mysteries, prise out their magic. And not one glimmer. Not one spark.

  But then, when he had least expected it, that horrible pain. He barely dared to hope. Could it mean the final needle had been found at last?

  He rubbed at the silvery scars that crisscrossed his body, the one across his face like a forked bolt of lightning in an angry storm. “This idiotic, endless war,” he growled, slamming his fist onto the table. The flagon of cordial jumped. That absurd treaty the mice had backed them into accepting. Let them think that they had found peace. He could bide his time until he finally had enough power to eliminate them all.

  Timid knocking came at the doors.

  “Enter!” he roared.

  A rat in a tattered uniform tiptoed in, flanked by King Midnight’s guards.

  Midnight eyed him angrily. “How dare you disrupt my contemplation!”

  “You’ll want to hear what he has to say, m’lord,” ventured one of the guards. “He’s a messenger from the Forbidden Wing of the castle.”

  That explained the ragged uniform with the red braid. Midnight couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a messenger from the castle rats, and with good reason. They had little to do but keep their wing occupied, waiting until the treaty could be broken and the rats finally seized power.

  The messenger coughed nervously. “Commandant Robeaux sent me, King Midnight.”

  Midnight picked up the flagon to pour himself a glass of cordial. “Go on.”

  “He’s sighted another needle, your Midnight-ship, sir,” said the rat, trembling now.

  The flagon slipped from King Midnight’s paw, crashing and spilling onto the wood floor. So it was true. He hunched over and gripped the table, staring at his razor-sharp claws but seeing visions of victory.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” the rat babbled, “but I swear I saw it, too. I was there when—”

  “Enough!” King Midnight thundered. He turned on the castle rat. “You say you saw this needle?” He spoke softly, slowly, like a snake hypnotizing its prey.

  The messenger twisted his paws together. “Y-yes, my king. Carried by a little gray mouse in the company of a noblemouse.”

  King Midnight’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And this little gray mouse . . . you let her get away?”

  The messenger gulped. “Not on purpose—”

  “Castle filth!” King Midnight roared. He dashed at the messenger rat, fangs bared. With a single swipe of his massive head, the messenger was no more.

  He turned back to his guard, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from his mouth. “Clean that up,” he ordered, gesturing where the messenger lay.

  Then he turned back to face the wall of needles.

  A thought began to revive itself from long ago, when he had still held out hope of finding the last one. Perhaps they all needed to be brought together to work. That would explain why he’d never been able to get any of the other needles to perform even the slightest spark of magic.

  “Summon Snurleau!” he roared. He would send his very best spy to confirm the needle’s existence.

  King Midnight’s tail twitched as he imagined row after row of magicked rat troops storming the castle and taking over the kingdom. His silver web of scars writhed as he shrieked with laughter. Then he wiped the tears from his whiskers, still chortling with wicked glee, and tossed his cloak back over his shoulder.

  He had a needle to
find.

  A gray wall of clouds hung low in the late-afternoon sky, making it nearly impossible to see anything from the cypress branch where Delphine was perched.

  She could hear Alexander calling up from below. She ignored him and clambered a few branches higher to get a better angle, trying to peer ahead. Still nothing. If only the autumn fog would lift.

  Then her eyes caught a ghostly shape looming through the gray. A tower? It had to be. She squeaked in excitement. It was so close! They could be there in half a day. Delphine scampered back down the trunk to rejoin Alexander.

  “Did you see the monastery?”

  “Yes!” Delphine felt hope rush over her. “At least, I think so. There’s a tower just ahead. What else could it be?” She grabbed the makeshift sheath that held the needle. “Let’s go!”

  The cloud wall hung so low that it permeated the air with its damp. They strode forward, Delphine keeping an eye on what little she could see of the sun to ensure they were heading in the right direction. “Let’s hope we find answers.”

  “Or at least a safe place to spend the night.”

  “Afraid of sleeping in the woods again?” She ducked under a low-hanging branch.

  Alexander cleared his throat. “Of course not. This is nothing in comparison to the dangers of the hawkworm invasion a few years back.” And he was off again with his tales of heroism in the face of inescapable odds.

  As they walked, Delphine stared through the trees, deep in thought. The needle had come from the Tymbale Monastery and looked exactly like those of the Threaded. So perhaps this place had been their headquarters. That would make sense, given that it was now abandoned. But none of that explained how or why the needle had ended up with her. She sucked on a whisker absentmindedly. Where had the needle been for the last hundred years, before it was stitched through her baby linens?

  Just as dusk gave in to the falling night, the massive fir trees parted before them. Crumbling stone walls rose up out of long-forsaken gardens. A tower sat high atop the main building, all carved plinths and ivy-covered escarpments. Flying buttresses that had once reached for the sky now lay crumbling in various states of decay. Some of the outbuildings had lost their roofing and stood as no more than four empty walls. But a few appeared to still be in habitable condition, more than one would expect from a place long abandoned. And through the stained-glass windows of the main building, light was flickering.

  “There’s someone inside!” squeaked Delphine, nervously wrapping her tail around her ankles.

  They tiptoed across the forlorn gardens as quietly as they could, keeping an eye on their surroundings. The massive wooden doors stood silent and barred, looming up in front of them. Since the monastery had been built by badgers, the doors seemed huge to the mice. They stared at the ancient wood, studded with iron nailheads and scarred by years of wind and snow. Behind these doors lie answers, Delphine thought.

  “I’m going in first,” whispered Alexander. He placed his paw firmly on the door handles.

  “You are not,” argued Delphine, stepping in front of him. “It’s my quest.”

  “I’m here to protect you, remember?” He tried fruitlessly to wedge himself between her and the doors. “It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”

  “Oh, nutmegs to you and your chivalry. It’s not your needle, and you’re not the one the rats want to kill.”

  “Precisely why it’s all the more imperative that I go in first!” Alexander fumbled for his sword.

  Delphine took the opportunity to place herself even more squarely in front of the door handles. Now that she could see them clearly, she realized that there was neither lock nor lever. She shook one, then the other. They seemed frozen.

  Alexander’s smirk returned. “I shall do that for you,” he said, reaching out again.

  “Go. Away!” She shoved him and he stumbled, sword sheath clanging loudly against the metal of the door.

  “You’re on my paw!” he yelped.

  “I’ll stand on both of your paws if you don’t move!” shouted Delphine.

  A deep bang split the air. It had come from behind the door.

  They froze.

  Then a long, low reverberation sounded, like a chain being dragged across a massive block of stone. The doors swung open. Silhouetted in front of them stood a huge badger.

  The mice fell back, struck dumb.

  “My children.” The badger’s deep voice rumbled as he stepped forward and gestured widely, the sleeves of his monk’s robe hanging loose. Gold embroidery edged his cuffs and hem, and Delphine noticed a gilded design woven into the sleeves as well. Was it her imagination, or did it look a little like the crest from the linens?

  “When was the last time I had guests?” His eyes were bright with pleasure. “Come in, child of Desjardins and child of Peltinore Castle.”

  “He knows who we are?” Delphine whispered to Alexander.

  Alexander pointed to the crest that was tooled into his leather sword sheath. Then he bowed low and glided across the threshold with supreme elegance.

  How does he always do that? Delphine simmered. Two seconds earlier he’d been bumbling about and quarreling with her, and now he seemed a prince.

  She pulled herself together and glanced at the badger as she, too, stepped through the open door. “We thought this place was abandoned.”

  The badger laughed good-heartedly. “Not yet, not yet. I am still very much in residence. Father Guillaume is my name.”

  “How do you know I’m from Château Desjardins?”

  “Come, little silver-whiskered mouse.” He gestured again, and smiled at her. His fur was weathered and age-beaten, eyes nearly hidden in crinkles of laughter, the once-black bands across his face now mostly gray. Such a glow of peace emanated from his smile that she found herself smiling back.

  She stepped farther into the monastery, hearing the doors close firmly behind her. Beneath her paws was a design carved long ago into the stone floor. Despite being worn nearly smooth by centuries of paws crossing it, she thought she recognized it, too, as the crest from the linens. She would have stayed to look at it more closely, but the monk was already walking ahead.

  He led them through musty, badger-size corridors and wide-open arched spaces, cavernous and silent. Cobwebs danced across ceilings, moving in breezes she could not feel. The night sky was black through the windows they passed, yet somehow the walls still glowed silver, as if the moon outside were full instead of no bigger than a sliver of cheese.

  Finally, Delphine couldn’t contain herself any longer. “What is this place?” she asked. “Where is that light coming from? The moon is new tonight.” She faltered. “I mean . . . isn’t it?”

  He stopped and stared at her so intently that she squirmed and finally looked away. “Interesting,” he said gently. “So you see the silvery light?”

  “Don’t you?” she responded, suddenly self-conscious.

  “I do.” But he left it at that, and began walking again.

  At last, Delphine and Alexander spied a rectangle of yellow candlelight at the end of the corridor, and smelled the delicious aroma of something simmering over a low flame.

  “Let us sup,” announced Father Guillaume as they entered.

  It was a cunningly designed space with a small stove and oven to heat the room and cook the meals all at once. Bits of garlic paper and parsley stems littered the counter, and a large potato rested in the corner.

  Delphine loved the whole room instantly, and it deepened her fondness for the badger. Taking the needle sheath off her back, she leaned it up against the big table. She noticed Guillaume glancing at the sheath, but he merely placed two chunks of brick on the benches. “Those should be about the right height to help you reach the table, I think,” he said with a chuckle. Then he turned to the stove. “I have a great affection for cooking with the greens from our garden.” The badger pulled three earthen bowls from the cupboard, one large and two small. He filled each with stew from the pot bubbling on the stove. �
�It takes time to tend, but I always appreciate what grows there.”

  He set the bowls onto the rough-hewn table and produced spoons small enough for the mice. “Now sit, eat, and tell me what brings you to the monastery.”

  Between bites, Delphine related all that had happened, and how she had traveled to Tymbale in search of answers. She even took the needle from the sheath and showed it to Father Guillaume, before carefully stowing it away again.

  When the meal was done and the story told, Father Guillaume sat for a long time, staring thoughtfully. “You . . . You prickle a memory somewhere in the corners of my mind,” he said, tapping a curved claw against his temple. “Many, many years ago, so long I can barely remember, I came to this monastery as a young badger seeking training. The abbot was already ancient when I arrived. And in those days, he often told the story of a mouse who had come here long ago seeking shelter from a storm.

  “Not the kind of storm that falls from the sky,” he continued, rising and gathering their bowls to scrub out with clean sand. “The kind of storm with claws and teeth and knives. A storm of rats.”

  Delphine leaned forward, eating up every word.

  “This was just before the War to End All Wars,” Father Guillaume continued. “The abbot always said that was why he recalled it so clearly. It was the first he had heard of the rats’ cruelty, and so when the war began in earnest a few years later, he thought back often to this mouse and wondered just how much she had known.” He seemed to catch the eagerness on Delphine’s face and cleared his throat. “In the abbot’s story, the mouse had shown up one night, bedraggled, terrified, and clutching a human-size needle as if her life depended on it. She had begged for shelter, and they welcomed her. She told a terrifying tale of being pursued by a horde of rats who wanted to take the needle.

  “The needle, she said, was not just any needle,” he continued, eyes half-closed as he thought back. “It was one of the Threaded’s needles. The rats had stolen it from the Threaded, and the mouse in turn had stolen it from the rats. She was determined to return it to its rightful owners. And she wanted to avenge someone. But who? I cannot recall. That was all so long ago. . . .” He wiped at his eyes and Delphine noticed how rheumy and clouded they were. She realized he was far older than she had first thought.