Delphine and the Silver Needle

by Alyssa Moon

  At night Delphine would sit in front of the twigfire with her needle in her paws, trying to connect with the magic. Each time, she could summon the fizzy feeling of the power inside her veins a bit more, but it took an enormous amount of concentration. She longed to move beyond the basic magics that she had mastered so far: lighting a fire, wiping away mud stains, straightening a frizzled whisker. Again and again, she would push hard with the magic, eager to discover just how far she could go. The result was either nothing at all, or clouds of sparkles that collapsed into dust. On one unfortunate evening, she had focused so intently on trying to awaken the needle, it had backfired in her face with a massive silvery explosion. She had found herself sneezing silvery shimmers for days.

  But still she continued to practice. Summoning more patience than she had thought she possessed, she began to discover that if she relaxed and let herself fall into the magic, she could make things happen—truly magical things. One afternoon, Delphine noticed a branch of pussywillow hanging low over the path ahead of them. It was as bare as any pussywillow would be in late autumn, and she found herself thinking of how her mother loved the fresh buds every spring. She pictured them, smiling idly, at the same time feeling the silvery tickle running over her paws and through her needle. Then she jerked to attention and saw that the branch was now dotted with tiny green buds. But even as she looked, her attention fully on the sight before her, the feeling faded away. In an instant, the buds had vanished in a mist of silvery sparkles.

  She stood stock-still, staring hard at the branch. Had that really just happened?

  Alexander was at her side, shaking her excitedly. “You did it! You did it!”

  She grinned slowly at him. “I guess I did.”

  Cornichonne would sometimes tell jokes in that gravelly whine of hers until both Delphine and Alexander were doubled over laughing, at which point the cat would stop and stare at them sternly. “You have to be quiet in these woods,” she would say, drooling on them in the process, which would send them into fits of laughter all over again.

  She sang sometimes, too, and one of her tunes always seemed to tickle the back of Delphine’s mind. She had never heard it before, but somehow she still knew it.

  Over hill and over dale,

  Through the dappled autumn light,

  Comes the hidden silver vale.

  Enter if your heart is bright.

  In the clouds we mice reside,

  Castle floating high above,

  Runes will open gateways wide,

  Lead you to your heart’s true love.

  Call, my dear, and I will run

  Across the waves to bring you home.

  Now I watch the setting sun,

  Taste the bitter honeycomb.

  “Are you sure that’s the last line?” Delphine asked when Cornichonne had finished. “‘Bitter honeycomb’?”

  “Far as I know,” the cat replied.

  “Well, I love your voice,” Delphine said, for Cornichonne’s low crooning was oddly soothing in its monotone quality. “Do all cats sing?”

  “I don’t think so,” responded Cornichonne. She nosed a few large twigs aside so that the mice could pass safely. “But I don’t really know what other cats do. They never wanted to spend any time with me. That’s why I ended up visiting the music school so much.”

  That seemed sad to Delphine, even though her newfound appreciation of Cornichonne had done little to curb her fear of the rest of the cat population. But the idea of this sweet creature being ostracized, just because she looked different from the rest; it made Delphine’s heart break a little. “That’s awful.”

  “But I never would have met Rolanta otherwise, and come to live in the church, and learned all those songs.”

  They walked on. “You don’t live in the music school?” Delphine asked.

  Cornichonne laughed, a cacophonous series of snorts. “Oh, no! How could I fit in there? I live in the human church overhead. But Rolanta comes and visits me, and I listen to them singing every day.

  “I help the school, too. I bring them all the seafood they can eat. I’m excellent at fishing.” She paused in her stride long enough to extend one paw, claws curving in front of her. “They dry the fish and use it for their meals, but there’s plenty left over for provisions whenever I decide to travel.”

  “So then Rolanta didn’t actually pay you to escort us,” Delphine said slowly.

  “No. I just said that so that you wouldn’t think I was strange for showing up there. Rolanta told me about you, and I thought you might want some help. I know what it’s like to be lost and alone. She did pack the saddlebags. But it was my idea to see if you wanted a guide up the river. Is that strange?” She looked almost nervous.

  “No!” Delphine cried, scurrying over to the cat. “I don’t think that’s strange at all! Honestly, that’s one of the most incredibly kind things I’ve ever heard.” She stretched up and managed to pat Cornichonne’s chin.

  “As kind as when I came along on your adventure?” called Alexander from behind the two of them, but Delphine understood that tone by now.

  “Not quite!” she teased, and he laughed.

  In the evenings, Delphine sometimes pulled out the sheets of lyrics that Rolanta had copied for her. She pored over them by firelight but could make nothing more of them. Now she noted down the lyrics to Cornichonne’s song, as well as the other songs she had overheard at the Fortencio Académie, and gazed at them all side by side. Could they all be about the Threaded?

  “Do you know any more songs about mice like these?” she asked the cat, showing her the written lyrics.

  “Not sure.” Cornichonne peered at the sheets, gnawing away on a piece of dried fish. “Are you certain you don’t want any of this?”

  Delphine shook her head. “We’ve still got plenty of barley,” she said politely. “Thank you, though.”

  “More for me.” Cornichonne smiled and went back to her gnawing.

  Delphine went back to examining the lyrics, but if there were any secrets hidden there, they were locked up tight.

  One morning when the fog was thick and they were cutting across a harvested wheat field in an oxbow of the river, Cornichonne turned to the mice. “I’m going hunting. You both keep on moving. I’ll catch up with you.”

  Delphine and Alexander were used to this by now, and continued on as Cornichonne disappeared across the wide field. The morning fog felt thick and damp around them. Delphine shivered, then noticed that Alexander was doing the same.

  “It’s creepy out here,” she said softly. “It feels like the trees are watching us.”

  “That’s because it’s cold,” he replied. “Maybe we should stop and make a fire.”

  “We need to keep moving.”

  “You’re freezing. I’m freezing. Let’s stop.”

  “No.” She kept walking.

  Alexander crossed his arms. “You have to stay warm!”

  She glared at him over her shoulder. “Shh! You’re talking so loudly, the entire forest can hear you.”

  A low hiss broke through the mists, stopping them both in their tracks.

  “Hush!” He put a paw to his lips, but Delphine had already gone silent. They stood stock-still. The sound came again, crawling through the air toward them.

  “Look!” Delphine whispered. She pointed at the field before them. The dead grasses were bent in places, crushed. “Are those pawprints? Rat prints?”

  Delphine reached for her needle as Alexander pulled out the sharpened little stick he had taken to wearing in his sword belt. The field stretched bare on either side of them. There was nowhere to hide.

  “Hello, little mice,” came a blood-curdling whisper through the mists.

  Delphine and Alexander turned frantically side to side, wide-eyed with terror.

  “We’ve been waiting for you.” Another voice, sibilant and sneering.

  “Show yourselves!” squeaked Alexander. He redoubled his grasp on his little stick-sword.

 
“All I had to do was catch your scent, little one.”

  Heart racing, Delphine tightened her grip on the needle, trying to summon the silvery magic. If she could figure out how to disperse the mists . . .

  But before she could do anything, a stoat and an ermine emerged in front of them, sly grins on their faces. Delphine and Alexander were trapped.

  “Mouse!” called the ermine as she stalked toward Delphine. “Give me that needle!”

  “Never!” Delphine cried. “Neither one of us will answer to you!” She pointed her needle toward them, hoping she could summon some dangerous-looking magic.

  The ermine laughed tauntingly. “I think you will, little mouse. No one refuses Valentine. And your friend will make a tasty bite for Snurleau here.” She licked her lips with a pointed tongue, gazing at Alexander.

  Delphine cried out, bringing her needle into the air above her head. Her voice pierced the sky, and a rush of sparks flew from her needle. It worked! she thought.

  Snurleau hesitated for a moment, but Valentine charged forward. She and Delphine met head-to-head. Valentine drew her dagger, a cruel-looking curve of razor-sharp steel. Delphine brought her needle down like a sword, crashing against the dagger and sending up flashes of sparkling magic. Each blow of the needle caused dark magical burns across Valentine’s metal blade.

  Alexander ran toward Snurleau. The stoat leapt into action, slashing with his claws, but Alexander fought valiantly, weaving and stabbing with his stick.

  Valentine shook her head and snarled. Delphine snarled back, charging toward her, needle raised. But Valentine slashed with her other paw. Delphine barely managed to dodge, falling hard on the frozen earth. The ermine spread her jaws wide and plunged for the kill.

  A streak of gray flashed across the field, heading straight for them. It was Cornichonne. She smashed into the side of Valentine, sending her skidding across the grasses. The ermine pulled herself up as Cornichonne stood protectively over Delphine, fangs bared. Blood dripped in blobs from her jagged fangs to the frozen ground. Her tail lashed madly from side to side, stirring up clouds of ice.

  Snurleau scrabbled backward away from the cat, falling over in the process. “What in nutmegs is that?!”

  “Coward!” Valentine kicked him, and he leapt back upright. “We’re not afraid of you . . . whatever you might be,” she snarled at Cornichonne, her voice like oil on silk. “We’ll take you all down, one at a time. My blade will see to that.”

  “Alexander!” Delphine called desperately.

  The noblemouse ran to join Delphine between Cornichonne’s front legs. The cat made a terrible low growl that neither of them had ever heard before, a sound that would have made their blood run cold if she hadn’t been on their side.

  Valentine and Snurleau started backing away, but whether to retreat or regroup, Delphine couldn’t tell. Then Cornichonne leapt toward them in a surge, eyes gleaming. Delphine seized the moment and stepped forward, raising her needle again. Focusing her powers, she channeled coils of silvery magic that flew toward the pair, wrapping around their arms and legs like vines.

  Their bodies suddenly bound by magic, Valentine and Snurleau cried out in horror. They flailed, breaking through the silvery vines, then turned tail and ran. Cornichonne pursued them, chasing the pair across the field.

  Their voices faded as they retreated, arguing as they went. “Midnight’ll have our heads!” came Snurleau’s faint voice.

  “I didn’t sign up to fight magic!” was Valentine’s reply in the distance. Then they disappeared into the woods on the other side of the field.

  The silvery swirls vanished in a flash, and Delphine’s whole body suddenly went limp. She swayed, leaning against Alexander.

  “Are you hurt?” he cried, holding on to her protectively.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, but she leaned against him for another moment anyway. Then something suddenly occurred to her, and she pulled back to look at him.

  “Hang on.” She shook her head to clear it. “You can fight?”

  “Why yes, of course.” He looked surprised. “Swordplay is required for all young lords and ladies of the court. Every Tuesday and Saturday on the north lawn.”

  “No, but you really do know how to”—she waved her arm around in the air—“do all that stuff. I always thought your stories were, well . . .”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Did I not tell you the tale of when I single-handedly fought off the hawkworms?”

  She blinked. “Yes, but . . . well, aren’t hawkworms just little green harmless things?”

  “Not when they’re threatening the safety of the castle croquet garden.”

  Delphine grinned as he wrapped his arms even tighter around her. She hugged him back, realizing she was grateful for the warmth as well as the company.

  The sound of approaching pawfalls made them jump apart. Cornichonne returned, licking black blood from her lips and making awful slurping sounds. Alexander turned away.

  “Did you—” Delphine suddenly felt a little faint.

  “Oh no, no,” said Cornichonne, still slurping happily. “I just caught a weevil on the way back to keep up my strength. I let them lose themselves in the trees. That forest is full of devilthorn. They’re going to be pretty unhappy. Still, better for us to get as far away as we can, and in a different direction, just in case they’re watching.”

  They worked their way deeper into the forest, finding a stream, where Cornichonne drank deeply. The mice both refilled their acorn-shell water carriers. Then they all crawled into a makeshift cave created by tree roots and frozen earth. Cornichonne passed out instantly on a pile of dry leaves, snoring in soft whuffles.

  Delphine gazed at the towering trees that flanked the cave. She had been shaking all afternoon, terrified that the enemy had been able to find them so easily. “We’re still too exposed here.” She let the needle rest in her paws, gazing hard at the entrance and the darkness beyond. If only the branches of the tree hung just a little bit lower . . .

  Letting her gaze soften, Delphine imagined the branches, heavy with pine needles, bowing down in front of the cave. The needle tingled in her paws. Slowly, the branches descended in front of them until the cave was completely hidden.

  She turned to Alexander and found him gazing at her. She looked away again quickly. “We all need to rest,” Delphine said before he could volunteer to take first watch. “This will hide us.”

  They wedged more dry leaves between Cornichonne and the walls of the cave to keep her warm. Then they dug themselves into the leaves, making two little mouse nests next to the cat.

  The wind tore through the trees outside. Soon, snores and sleepy wheezes joined the sound.

  But one of the adventurers was still awake, a question turning over and over in her head: Why had an ermine and a stoat been on the hunt for her needle?

  Had the danger expanded beyond just the rats?

  Rien glanced around, double-checking that nobody had followed him down the broad stone hallway. Then he quickly crossed and pulled back a tapestry, knocking at the little door hidden behind it.

  Elodie cracked it open a smidge. At the sight of Rien, she flung it wide. “Come in!” she whispered happily.

  The forgotten chamber was just one of many that dotted the corridors. It never ceased to amaze Rien how many rooms had simply stopped being used over the hundreds of years that the mice had lived here—rooms that were then hidden away as furniture was moved, tapestries were rehung, and entire wings were abandoned.

  This was one of his favorites. The cozy space shared a wall with one of the many kitchen chimneys, ensuring it was always warm, even on the wintriest of days. The window looked out over the misty rocks to the swiftly flowing river and the endless forest beyond. Elodie had even smuggled in a few pieces of furniture over the years. It was their own special place.

  Now he settled happily into one of the old overstuffed armchairs, tucking his paws up under him. “I brought some morsels,” he said, offering th
e little sack to her.

  She took it, pouring its contents out onto a tray. “Cheese! And walnut meats! How did you manage to smuggle this out of the kitchen?”

  “I was careful.”

  Elodie shot him a look. “But what if you had been caught? It’s not worth it, risking your safety for something like this. Besides, I have enough to eat. You’re the one who’s always going hungry.”

  His face must have fallen, for she gently touched his paw. “It was very kind of you,” she added. “But next time, you should bring something that won’t put you at such a risk. Maybe some beautiful stones from the river, like the ones we used to play with? We could line them up along the windowsills. It would be so pretty.”

  Rien nodded. “I’d love to.” He was already thinking about which of his favorite little river stones he would add to their cozy hideaway.

  They sat and chatted, laughing over silly stories, trading tidbits of gossip, talking about everything and nothing, as they had since they were little children. Rien ate voraciously, and Elodie kept encouraging him to have just one more piece, just one more crumble, even pushing her own plate of food over to him. Years had passed since they had first met, and although they had both grown up, he was still so small, nearly as small as a mouse.

  Rien, ever optimistic, told her all about the sunset he had seen and how gloriously the clouds had glowed. He shared how he had seen a mealworm eat its way into a loaf of bread and never come out the other side, and she laughed until she cried.

  “But who ate the loaf?” she asked, still laughing, and he shrugged, grinning back.

  “There are some mice upstairs who I wouldn’t mind seeing eat a mealworm,” she giggled. “Especially the old monsieur. Always lecturing us on the dangers of our magic. ‘Keep your heart pure when you cast. Don’t meddle in life and death. Never touch time.’ He’s so dull. Why would I want to do any of those things anyway? Turning leaves into butterflies is so much more fun!”