Delphine and the Silver Needle

by Alyssa Moon

  “How did the story end?” she asked gently.

  “The mouse accepted food and shelter but then continued on her way. She knew she would bring the wrath of the rats down upon wherever she stayed, you see. I suppose she would have felt responsible if anything had happened to the monks of the monastery.”

  “I can understand that,” Delphine said quietly. Again, she thought of Maman back at the château, and how much danger could come to her if Delphine were to send word home. And now . . . if she stayed at the monastery for too long, she might put Father Guillaume in danger as well. She was beginning to realize that there was nowhere she could safely stay, not until this quest was finished.

  But Father Guillaume was still talking. “Those linens you carry,” he continued. “The abbot would speak of how he gave her the cloth from the altar to wrap around the needle and hide it from sight. I never understood why he would give her an altar cloth. It is a sacred item. But now that I see the needle with my own eyes, I understand.” He gestured at it in its sheath, still leaning against the table. “It, too, is a sacred item. There is something very special about it, something undeniable. I would do the same.”

  Delphine’s head was reeling. “But is it the same needle?” she stammered. “How can you be sure?”

  He shrugged. “I do not know it is the same one,” he said. “I assume. I theorize. A needle of the Threaded departed this monastery once upon a time, wrapped in cloths from the altar. You were found wrapped in altar cloths of this monastery, an unusual needle alongside you. It seems likely to be the same one, does it not?”

  Delphine felt the need to look at the needle again. She slid it from its sheath and placed it on the table in front of them. Father Guillaume watched. Then he asked gently, “May I hold it?”

  She nodded and passed it to him. He let it rest in his great, thick paws.

  “Then the real question is where the needle went for those hundred years,” Alexander chimed in.

  “Not to mention why it ended up with me.” Delphine clenched her jaw. “And the most urgent question is why the rats want it so badly that they’re willing to kill for it.”

  “They were willing to kill for it a hundred years ago, too,” Alexander pointed out.

  But Guillaume shook his head. “It is not so simple an answer, I think. Different rats. A different time. And why now? Why not during the hundred years between when it left the monastery and when it came to Delphine?” He turned the needle this way and that, examining the runes now visible in the silvery patch of the long, tarnished shaft.

  “Maybe it was hidden somewhere,” offered Alexander.

  They all fell silent.

  Father Guillaume placed the needle back on the table. “There was one other detail to the story,” he said in his thick, husky voice. “A detail that seemed unlikely, even impossible. Until tonight.” The air in the room stood still, as if the whole monastery were listening.

  “Yes?” Delphine said in a small voice.

  “In the abbot’s story, the mouse had silver whiskers.”

  Delphine’s paws flew to her face.

  He nodded solemnly. “The abbot always said he had never seen another mouse with silver whiskers. Nor have I, in all my years.”

  “But I . . . my whiskers just turned silver. They were always gray.”

  “It happened when you held the needle in front of the tapestries!” Alexander broke in. “Maybe it was the same thing for that mouse!”

  “It didn’t happen to you when you touched it that night,” Delphine pointed out.

  “No!” Alexander was getting more and more excited. “That’s not what I mean. Maybe it happened to you because you’re the same as that mouse. Maybe . . . maybe you’re related!”

  “That mouse . . .” Even as she spoke, she knew in her gut that Alexander was right. “She was my ancestor?” Delphine twitched her tail excitedly. “Is that possible?”

  “Anything is possible.” Father Guillaume rose, pouring a round of cordial for all of them. “And that seems likely. I believe that the castle mouse speaks the truth.”

  Delphine lapsed into thought, sipping the cordial. It was raspberry, sweet and tangy at the same time, a taste of summer in the middle of autumn.

  Father Guillaume broke into his slow smile, gesturing at her cup. “I make it every year from the vines that grow wild on the grounds. I drink it on nights like this, when a little sip of sunshine gives promise to the heart that spring will come again.”

  “It’s lovely.” Delphine took another sip, then pondered the topic at hand. “Even if that mouse were my ancestor, it still doesn’t help me figure out what’s happening now. And my ancestor—we don’t know who she was, or where she came

  from.”

  Father Guillaume tapped his claws on the table, musing. “I remember the abbot saying that she had been sent here by a music master.”

  “Then did the abbot send her somewhere in turn?” pressed Delphine eagerly, her hope renewed.

  He shook his head slowly. “No, he had no idea where she was headed. She disappeared back into the forest and he never saw her again. The music master—I remember that detail only because the abbot often spoke of her as well. His old friend . . .” He trailed off, then glanced back down at Delphine, almost tenderly. “I suppose I always felt a kindness toward this poor little mouse in the story. When you appeared on my doorstep, it was as if time was coming back around to start again.”

  It was strange to Delphine as well. “It’s almost like history is repeating itself.” Then she focused on what Father Guillaume had just said. “This music master. Who was she?”

  “Now that bit of information is not relegated solely to my fading memories. Her name will, in all likelihood, reside in the monastery records. Shall we go on a hunt?”

  Delphine leapt up, not needing to be asked twice. Then she remembered her manners. “Thank you for dinner,” she said. “It was the best meal we’ve had in weeks.”

  She looked over to Alexander to find that, against all his castle training, he had put his head down on the table and was snoring softly.

  “Let him sleep. We have a name to find.” Guillaume placed one giant paw on her shoulder. “He has a strong heart and a gentle soul. Take care of him, and he will take care of you.”

  She twitched her nose. “I don’t need taking care of.”

  “Everyone needs taking care of, child.” Father Guillaume turned to pick up a nearby beeswax candle in its holder. After lighting it at the fire under the stewpot, he began to slowly lumber back down the dark hallway. “Come, and we shall search for your answers.”

  They traveled through winding corridors and finally reached a wide oak door that opened with a sigh, revealing a massive shelf-lined library. The badger-size books were stored in rows, with shelves rising up toward the vaulted ceiling. Long, spindly ladders leaned here and there to allow access to the upper shelves. Clearly, Father Guillaume visited this room regularly, given how dust-free and organized the books remained.

  Guillaume used the beeswax candle to light a row of tapers, illuminating the library in a soft yellow glow. Delphine tiptoed down the rows, touching tome after tome of ancient history. She noticed they were mostly made of delicate vellum or onion-paper, bound together by thread and dried snail slime. The spines were worn, handled by centuries of paws, but still legible. Painted gold curlicues called out names and dates long gone: Belltower Upkeep 1627–1649; Belltower Upkeep 1650–1673. Bran Petite-Oreille, The Tail Of sat alongside Bran Petite-Oreille, The Teachings Of. Farther down, a whole series of Grain & Legume Crops took up three entire rows, each labeled with the moon and year. There was a world of information here, and no time to even begin to absorb it.

  The sound of the badger clearing his throat brought her attention to the front of the hall. He was holding a fragile folio bound in scarlet leather faded by the years to dusky brown. She scurried back to him and stood on tiptoe to read the cover. His age-scarred claws obscured some of the lettering, but she
could still make out the title: Concerts & Musical Performances: Main Abbey: 1672–1714.

  Delphine followed Father Guillaume to a nearby wooden stand, which had clearly been hand carved, and polished many times over the years. He placed the folio upon it. “Record keeping has always been one of the prides of Tymbale.” He turned the loose-leaf pages carefully. Then he paused. “Look here,” he said, and tapped the copperplate writing with one of his massive claws.

  Delphine peered at the page. It seemed just the same as the others. The handwriting was so crabbed that she could barely make out a single word. Then she noticed a name written several times in swooping flourishes. A different paw altogether had made that notation, almost like an incantation.

  “Speranta del Allegretti Fortencio,” she read slowly, sounding out the name.

  “The very same. Signed in her own hand, as was the habit of the time. Accomplished visitors were often asked to sign our ledgers as a special honor.” Guillaume leaned over the book closely, and for a moment it seemed as if Speranta’s signature shimmered silver across the page.

  Delphine rubbed her eyes surreptitiously and stifled a yawn.

  Guillaume, head still bent over the book, said, “We have found the name. And so now I think it is time for you to head to bed.”

  “I’m not tired,” she insisted half-heartedly.

  “Nor is the moon when it is her turn to rest,” Guillaume responded cryptically. He copied the name down onto a loose scrap of vellum and placed it in her paw. “Take care. The ink is still wet.”

  She stood, looking at his spidery writing while he lumbered down the rows to return the folio to its proper place. “This music master, Speranta del Allegretti Fortencio . . .” she started when he had returned. “Where was her school?” As tired as she was, her mind was already planning ahead. They could leave immediately—uncover who that visiting mouse was, and why she’d had that needle. It might not answer her larger questions about her own past, but it would be another step in the right direction.

  “We shall discuss it in the morning,” he replied. He blew out the tapers and headed back down the hallway.

  Delphine trotted after him, gripping the vellum scrap. “But we have the name! This is half the puzzle!” As exhausted as she was, she couldn’t imagine doing anything but pushing forward to unravel the secrets of the needle.

  “My child,” came the badger’s low voice in front of her. “Do you plan to continue your journey at this very moment, while night still hangs above us?”

  “Well . . .” Delphine hadn’t really thought about it that way. Granted, the new moon was rising, but so were the owls and ferrets and bats and all the other denizens of the night world. She had to admit, it felt nice to be somewhere cozy after so much time sleeping on dirt and under leaves. “I suppose not.”

  As he showed her into a clever little room made up with a walnut-shell bed and a woven rope rug, she still had one burning question. “You never told me why the walls glow.”

  Guillaume gave her the same curious look he had laid upon her earlier. She winced, wondering if she should have held her tongue.

  Then he smiled widely. “You mentioned the moonlight earlier. But not the walls. I was wondering how long you would wait to ask.”

  What?

  “The moon does not shine solely from the sky.” With that, Guillaume closed the door gently, leaving her alone. His heavy tread receded down the corridor, and then all was quiet.

  Delphine glanced around at the simple wooden table and stool, the little vase made of a human thimble, the neatly drawn damask curtain. Her head was spinning. What had he meant? How had he known she would ask? And this music master, this Speranta . . .

  She fumbled in her apron and pulled out the scrap of vellum. As soon as day broke, she would set back out on the road to follow this next clue, to see if she could find any more information about the old music school connected to her ancestor. She wouldn’t rest until she had discovered why the mouse had stolen the needle from the rats, and why the rats had had a needle of the Threaded in the first place. But for now, she needed something to distract her thoughts. Her eye fell on a frayed rip in the corner of the comforter. She could stitch that up for Father Guillaume as a little merci for his kindness.

  Clambering into bed, Delphine pulled the comforter toward her, drawing out the loose threads. It would be easy enough to weave them back together. But the dandelion fluff was soft as a cloud. Her eyelids were drooping against her will. She could feel herself drifting.

  Between one breath and the next, sleep took her.

  “You witless fool! Curse the day you came to work in my kitchen!” Another pot came flying at Rien’s head. He ducked and the pot crashed into a stack of clean plates being dried by one of the other kitchen rats.

  “Idiot!” The rat with the drying rag came barreling across the kitchen—at Rien, instead of his attacker. Rien was always the target, whether or not it was his fault. He cried out, wrapping his paws around his head to protect his ears, and the rat cracked him on the snout. The mice working on the prep line snickered as they chopped vegetables, not bothering to intervene. Rien ducked under the table and dashed out the back door into the yard. He knew he’d be punished later for running, but he didn’t care.

  When he was certain nobody had followed him, he climbed up into his favorite hiding place, a dusty little hole above the stables. He hugged himself tightly to keep from crying. He could hear the stablehands outside, driving a herd of beetles out to pasture.

  When he felt a little better, Rien unwrapped his arms and examined his wounds. He licked his paw and touched it to his ear, wincing at the pain. Another fresh burn, probably from that pot as it had whizzed past.

  It wasn’t just the other rats who picked on him. Many of the mice who worked in the kitchen or stables would kick him for fun, a way to make themselves feel better. “A rat who’s smaller than we are,” they would joke to one another. “Let’s be sure he stays that way, eh, mates?”

  Rien gazed through a crack in the wall, out at the bright sunshine on the rocks below. Why did everyone have to be so cruel? Even the mice? He sighed, telling himself the same thing he always did: They don’t realize that they’re being cruel. Life is hard for all of us.

  He spotted Elodie crossing the rocks, and his heart soared. She was still the only one in the whole fortress who had ever been kind to him. How had she known that he needed her? She always seemed to know. He pulled out his red handkerchief and stuffed it partway through the crack, their signal that he was in his hiding place. He saw her glance up, then look over at the main buildings. Checking to be sure nobody saw where she was headed, he assumed.

  He went back to carefully cleaning his ear where it had been burned. A few minutes later, he heard a light step on the hidden ladder, and then Elodie’s little head popped in through the cutout in the wood.

  “Rien!” she gasped, catching sight of his wounds.

  He managed a lopsided grin. “Hello, Elodie.”

  She ran to him and pressed her delicate paws against his rough

  snout.

  “I’m all right.”

  Her touch was cool against the still-smarting bruise. “You poor thing,” she murmured. “They’re always picking on you. I wish I could do something about it.”

  “Really, it’s not as bad as it looks. I’m just glad you’re here. Did you bring more pebbles for our game? I saw you out on the rocks.”

  Her face lit up. “I did!” Elodie dug in her basket and produced a handful of smooth, round pebbles from the riverbank. He was already digging out the gameboard he had made from a discarded baking pan. He carefully arranged the pebbles they already had, and she added the new ones.

  “Who moves first?” she asked, and he pointed at her.

  The time passed quickly as it always did when they were together. Too quickly. Before they knew it, they could hear the dinner bell being rung. “I’m late!” Elodie leapt up, spilling pebbles everywhere.

  She
knelt back down to help Rien gather them, but he grinned at her and pushed her paws away. “You’re always late. Go.” Elodie returned the smile and grabbed her basket, disappearing down the ladder.

  Rien carefully piled the stones in a neat little stack. Soon enough, he would have to return to the kitchen, but he decided to stay long enough to watch the sun set. Curling up in a little nest of hay, he stared out through the crack. Just a few minutes more. The hay was warm, and he was so tired. In the blink of an eye, Rien was asleep.

  Delphine was awakened by the sound of fighting. She leapt out of the bed and tripped on the corner of the woven rope rug, nearly falling over. Pulling herself to her feet, she grabbed the needle, rushed from the room, and ran pell-mell down the halls. Had the rats found them?

  She skidded around a corner, frantic and thoroughly lost. Then she caught a waft of fresh-baked bread in the air, along with another defiant shout. She doubled back and raced toward the sounds until she saw the arched doorway of the kitchen ahead. She could hear Alexander shouting “Stand back!” and the ring of his sword against metal.

  Fear mounting, Delphine skidded through the doorway,

  ready to take on the unknown villain and rescue Alexander . . . who, in fact, was standing on the table, mouth full of croissant, enthusiastically dueling with a hanging pot as Guillaume nodded with interest.

  “Hawkworms, everywhere!” Alexander was squeaking. “There I was, with just a penknife, and wearing my finest ruby-encrusted justeaucorps and breeches. That whole ensemble, by the way”—he made a swoosh in the air with the croissant clutched in his other paw—“had been constructed from the most elaborate brocade ever seen in court. Designed just for me, of course. Did I mention the rubies? Sewn all over the justeaucorps, even on the pocket flaps, quite unlike anything attempted before. What a glorious picture I cut that day.”