Delphine and the Silver Needle

by Alyssa Moon

  Delphine and Alexander trotted after her. They made several quick turns around interlinked doorways and ended in a jewelry box of a sitting room, with rows of bookshelves and a puffed-velvet ceiling.

  “What a lovely room,” Alexander gushed. “You have made it your very own.”

  Rolanta Fortencio gestured at a pair of velvet armchairs that seemed to have been constructed from a human purse, the pearl trim now edging the seat of each chair. “Will you both sit?”

  “Madame Fortencio,” Delphine said as sweetly as she could once they were settled in the overstuffed chairs, “I cannot thank you enough for your generosity in helping with my endeavor.”

  The music master smiled briskly. “I am most happy to assist. What were you hoping to find?”

  “The mouse with the needle. And the silver whiskers.”

  “Yes . . . the story of the mouse’s visit is part of school lore. It is particularly curious that you found your way through the back passages, since that was the main entrance to the school at the time of that mouse’s visit.” Fortencio stroked her whiskers thoughtfully. “Likely a mere coincidence, but still fascinating. One hundred years ago, a mouse with silver whiskers sought shelter here, bearing a strangely emblazoned needle of immense proportions.” She paused, giving Delphine a sharp glance. “One hundred years later, another mouse has appeared with the same silver whiskers, also bearing an oversize needle, now asking after the first mouse.” She fell quiet, musing.

  Delphine’s tail started to twitch, thinking of Father Guillaume’s similar observation. She hooked her paw around her tail to keep it still. “Do you know who the mouse was?” she prompted as lightly as she could when she could bear the silence no more.

  Rolanta Fortencio looked up at her. “Know who she was? Oh no, no. I know nothing more than the tidbit of school history I just related. But I am certain it all exists in the school’s archives.”

  Archives! Now they were getting somewhere. Delphine’s mind flashed to the meticulously organized Tymbale records on the endless shelves, alphabetized and reaching back hundreds of years. “Can you take us there?”

  Rolanta seemed suddenly ill at ease. “They are . . . not easy to access.”

  “Please. I’ve traveled so far.” She paused. “I’ll be extremely careful with your papers. Whatever you need, however they’re stored, I will respect your rules. But it’s truly a matter of life or death that I find more information about that mouse.”

  The music master’s mouth pursed. “I will take you to where they are stored. But I warn you, you may not wish to stay for too long. That part of the school lies within the area you traversed last night. It can be . . .” She looked around the room as if hoping that the word she was casting for might be written on the spine of a book. Finding no such assistance, she was forced to finally look back at them. “. . . off-putting,” she finished, rising.

  But Delphine was already picturing rows of ordered archive ledgers. She practically floated out of the room and down the hall.

  As the music master led them along the passageway, she paused by the entrance to the school kitchens. “One moment, please.” A mouthwatering smell wafted out. She ducked in and returned with a napkin full of fresh cookies that she proffered to the two mice. “A quick midmorning snack.”

  Delphine bit into one. It was warm and buttery, redolent of a flavorful spice. “Is that . . . anise seed?” she asked in delight.

  “It is,” the music master replied, smiling. “These cookies are a specialty of the Fortencio Académie kitchens. They’re prepared every morning—a tradition that goes back before anyone can remember.” She continued down the corridor, the two mice following behind.

  True to Rolanta’s word, they continued to walk for longer than Delphine thought possible. It was a warren of corridors and tunnels, winding farther and farther beneath the church. The air was growing close and musty, a sure sign that these passages were rarely used.

  “Don’t you come back here regularly to update the records?” Delphine asked hesitantly, ducking under another swath of cobwebs.

  “The newer archives are now held in the front area of the school,” Rolanta responded shortly.

  At least there was plenty of light, Delphine observed, even this deep into the corridors. The sheets of metal she had dismissed as vanity mirrors were in fact no such thing. They reflected a thin stream of daylight from one to the next, cantilevering the light down halls and around corners. It was enough to make a candle unnecessary, even this far from a window. Delphine marveled at such a cunning design.

  “Was this all created by the same animals who made the moving calendar we saw last night?” Delphine asked, examining one of the metal discs with new appreciation as they passed.

  “It was indeed,” confirmed Rolanta. “This school was founded by some of the most brilliant minds of their time.”

  Delphine noticed a narrow archway on their left that led into an empty, crumbling passageway. She paused, peering inside.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “The old hallways you were wandering around in last night? Yes.” Rolanta’s voice was tight, warning against further questions, but Delphine continued unheeded.

  “Didn’t you say that this part of the school was in use when the mouse visited here? Can we go in there again and look around? If nothing’s been touched since then, maybe there are clues.” Delphine was still standing in the archway, nose twitching.

  Rolanta Fortencio cleared her throat. “That area has been off-limits for a century due to structural disrepair. If you would be so kind as to follow me . . .”

  Delphine realized that Alexander was swiftly shaking his head, warning her not to push any further. She blushed and dropped back in behind Rolanta. “Of course.”

  The music master continued down several more hallways. Finally she turned a corner and Delphine noticed a little shudder creep across her face. “Here we are.”

  They had stopped in front of a low, arched door with an ugly metal handle, sharp like a branch of thorns. The light in the tunnel had grown dim. “Welcome to the archives.” She stepped backward and gestured at the handle. She seemed unwilling to touch it herself.

  The heavy door swung open slowly beneath Delphine’s paw, and she stepped into a triangular foyer. The air was so thick and still that it pressed heavy on her chest. Corridors stretched away in either direction, filled with teetering, worm-eaten stacks of papers. Folios lay bent and broken everywhere she looked, their pages spilling into bins and boxes that were, in turn, sagging under the weight of endless ledgers. After the organized files of Tymbale, it was a painful sight.

  “Take as long as you like,” the shrew said. She was still standing in the doorway, apparently unwilling to step farther inside. Delphine noticed that her ears had gone pale. “I must go. I shall send someone to collect you when dinner is served.”

  “Thank you,” said Delphine, baffled by the shrew’s nervousness.

  Rolanta turned. “Pay no mind to any odd occurrences,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared back down the hall.

  Delphine looked at Alexander.

  “Well, she’s a curious character,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Almost as if she were scared to stay,” she responded. “What is she afraid of, a pile of ledgers falling on her?”

  Alexander shrugged. “At least there’s plenty of information in here.”

  But Delphine had already stepped back into the hallway.

  “Delfie? Where are you going?”

  “The old area of the school. You really think we’ll be able to find anything in those random piles of papers? I wouldn’t even know where to start.” She shook her head. “I’m going back to where we were last night.”

  “But . . . why?” Alexander looked positively befuddled.

  “I just have a feeling,” Delphine replied. She didn’t know how to explain it, but something was pulling her back to those old hallways.

  The ancient stones were smooth unde
r Delphine’s paws. As she continued down the passageway, Alexander tiptoeing behind her, she could smell the air growing less stale. There was an inexplicable cool breeze wafting by.

  Then the fur on the back of Delphine’s neck stood up. She could feel someone watching her.

  A dry, dusty voice came prickling out of the depths of the hallway. “What do you seek?” The voice was high and sweet, but desiccated as ancient vellum.

  “Who’s there?” Delphine demanded, peering down the dim hall.

  There was no answer.

  Bits of daylight flickered and fluttered ahead, and Delphine’s nostrils filled with the smell of . . . was that anise seed? The flavor of the cookies from the school’s kitchen suddenly filled her mouth. She glanced at Alexander. He had backed up against the nearest wall, eyes wide.

  “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

  “Of course!” he replied, whiskers quivering.

  The voice came again, now closer. “What do you seek?”

  “I . . .” Delphine gulped, wheeling around to try to find who was speaking. “I need to learn about a mouse who came here long ago. She brought a needle—a needle like this one.” She pointed to the sheath on her back. “But the music master, Speranta, sent her away to Tymbale Monastery.” She waited, listening hard to the still air.

  A long silence, and then: “I know.” The voice made Delphine think of the sound of fabric slithering over dry wood.

  “How do you know? What can you tell me?”

  There was a soft sigh, and Delphine suddenly felt ice-cold. She shivered. The smell of anise came again, sweet and pungent.

  Then a pillar of light began to form, beaming so brightly that it nearly blinded them. Delphine watched, transfixed, as the beam slowly coalesced into the figure of a mouse made of light. She was garbed in the armor of days long past, with a sword at her side, and her eyes were filled with a terrible sadness.

  Delphine cried out and stumbled backward, paws flailing. She slammed into Alexander and they both fell to the ground.

  When she looked up, the mouse was gone. The bright light had dissipated, replaced by normal daylight. The air was no longer cold, but she could still smell anise.

  Alexander leapt upright. “A silly prank,” he announced loudly. “One of the students, having fun at our expense.”

  But Delphine wasn’t so sure.

  A faint humming broke the silence. It seemed to be coming from behind her. She twisted this way and that, trying to find it, but the humming spun with her. She hesitated, then reached back to rest her paw on her needle. It was warm to the touch. When she pulled it out, the humming intensified.

  What’s happening? Delphine thought, panicked. The needle’s vibrations ceased suddenly. The humming hiccupped and halted.

  She paused. If the humming was part of the magic . . . She took a deep breath and let all worries drift from her mind, trusting in the needle. Sure enough, the vibration and the humming resumed.

  “Delphine?” Alexander came closer. “You’re starting to worry me.”

  “It’s the needle,” she responded. “It’s trying to tell me something.” Now it sounded as though the humming was moving away from her. She followed it, needle still vibrating gently, the metal warm in her paws. Alexander trailed her as the humming led them down a corridor into an area that seemed familiar. Delphine tiptoed along, then noticed something ahead. That same shrine they had passed near the old entrance the night before. The humming came to a stop.

  Delphine read the plaque again, more slowly, gnawing over each word. Cécile Montroulard. Sword Master. Protecter of Our School. She rubbed her paw against her cheek. Suddenly the air felt clammy. “Cécile,” she said out loud, on a whim.

  The humming shuddered through her bones, and cold air enveloped her from ears to toes.

  Alexander squeaked. “What did you just do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Delphine nearly dropped her needle, but she managed to keep her grasp tight. “Ce-Cécile?” she stuttered. Surely ghosts didn’t exist. She felt like a child, but she carried on. Whatever was happening, she was going to get to the bottom of it. And after magical needles, singing stars, and bloodthirsty rats, was a mouse ghost really so hard to believe?

  Delphine twisted her paws even tighter around her needle. “Cécile,” she said as firmly as she could, “if you’re there, I beg you to help me.”

  Nothing.

  Alexander shivered, watching intently.

  Delphine tried again, despite her chattering teeth. “Please, Cécile. I want to know why I’m here. Who I am. And . . .” Delphine was struck by a realization. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who wanted to be known. “. . . I want to know who you are, too.”

  A warm breeze washed over her like the first day of spring. The fragrance of anise seeds sprang up again. Then light began to coalesce into the same figure of a mouse in the armor of a hundred years ago.

  Cécile. Her eyes burning bright, she gazed at Delphine.

  “Who are you?” Delphine breathed.

  “Let me show you,” Cécile said, her voice like wind whispering through the leaves. She came closer and the light swirled around Delphine, lifting her fur and blowing through her whiskers. A blast of pure white blinded her for a moment.

  Delphine blinked. When she opened her eyes again, she was in the same hallway, but the floor was swept clean and the cobwebs were gone. Alexander was nowhere to be seen. Bright moonlight streamed through the doors in front of her, now open to the outside. She looked down to discover that she was wearing Cécile’s armor.

  She could hear the sounds of a battle in the street in front of her. A high scream, a mouse in pain. Without thinking, she ran forward and through the doors to see an army of rats forcing their way into the schoolyard. A battalion of mice and shrews were trying desperately to hold them at bay. And there, on the steps of the music school . . . there stood the silver-whiskered mouse.

  VALENTINE SNIFFED THE AIR. SHE could smell old wood, a chicken coop somewhere in the distance, a loaf of bread being baked . . . but still no Snurleau. She gnashed her teeth. Where in nutmegs was that nasty little stoat? She should have been able to smell his stench a thousand tail’s-lengths away. She’d had to live with his odor stinking up the air at the fortress for far too long. But now that she actually needed to find that smell, it was nowhere.

  Valentine wormed her way back into the blanket roll on the horse’s back, where it was warm. The human and his horse were making good time. She would stay with them as long as she could get a free ride.

  When the rider stopped for the night, she slithered out of the blanket roll and into the animal side of the tavern for a quick bite to eat. She knew this crossroads well, unfortunately. The animal tavern owner was a foul-mouthed toad who overcharged for watery mead and raised flies in the backyard. The odor of the fly farm was so vile that normally Valentine avoided this entire area like the plague. But it was also a stopping place for ne’er-do-wells of all types . . . just what Valentine needed right now. She would ask around quietly, see if Snurleau’s name popped up in conversation, lay down some breadcrumbs.

  The tavern door swung open and a wave of garlic and heat hit her square in the whiskers. The din was so loud that it seemed as if the entire county was visiting. She shouldered her way inside, past a horde of musky old rats and a few evil-looking shrews.

  The crowd was singing along raucously as a lithe figure, prancing on the table, led them all with vigorous waves of his arms and nods of his head. The figure turned as he pranced, and Valentine got a noseful of his smell. Snurleau. Finally. No wonder she hadn’t been able to smell him until now, with the fly-farm stench so thick.

  “Ow! Ow! Lay off my ear!” Snurleau whined as Valentine dragged him through the tavern toward the side door. The crowd kept on singing, unperturbed at losing their ringleader. She spied the squat figure of Grenouille, the tavern owner, at the same time that he spotted her.

  “Valentine!” He bowed his broad head to her, then o
pened his toady eyes wide. “We’ve not seen you for far too long.” The tip of his fat tongue poked out through his lips as he spoke.

  “The king keeps me busy,” she said shortly.

  “Ah yes . . . the king.” The toad winked one bulbous eye at her.

  Valentine pointed with her free paw toward the side door, her other paw still firmly clamped on Snurleau’s ear. “Grenouille, would you mind if we stepped outside for a quiet conversation? Don’t let other guests out that door for a few minutes, yes?”

  He bowed obsequiously, his dirty apron strings dragging on the ground. She kicked open the door, shoved Snurleau through, then slammed it behind her. The stoat landed in a mud puddle and glared at Valentine.

  “How dare you!” he spat. He rubbed at the mud on his breeches, but they were already so filthy that the mud was an improvement, if anything.

  A long-abandoned human boot lay nearby in the yard. Valentine seated herself atop it like a throne. “King Midnight thinks you’re tracking the mice,” she commented. She twitched her tail lazily.

  Snurleau grimaced. “Ah . . . yes. That’s why you’re here.”

  She went on. “You lost them, didn’t you.” This was a statement, not a question.

  He grimaced again. “They got their paws on a boat and headed down the river. And I really, really hate the water.”

  Valentine yawned. “More than revenge?”

  He stared at her, slack-jawed. “How do you know about . . . ?”

  “You’re going to catch one of Grenouille’s flies like that.”

  He clamped his mouth shut. Then he opened it again. “Anyway, there were no other boats that I could afford with the little gold I had left. That’s why I sent for reinforcements, see.”

  “So you came here to drown your sorrows, rather than heading down the river to try to catch up with them.”

  “We-e-e-lll . . .”

  Valentine started cleaning her left paw. “Look. I don’t really care why you let them get away. We’ll head toward the river and then start tracking from there. With me in your corner, I’d say you’ll have vengeance on that ruddy noblemouse in no time.”