by Alyssa Moon
“I hang my hopes upon you,” the princess continued gravely. “The ball is in just three days. Can it be done?”
“Why, yes, of course, my princess!” It was just what Delphine needed—an achievable project. With new energy in her step, Delphine scampered out of the princess’s suite to begin tracking down whatever sewing tools and materials might be available throughout the château.
She spent many hours over the next few days in Princess Petits-Oiseaux’s chambers, and each day her spirits rose a bit more as she poured her talents into her latest creation. The princess smiled at her all the while, and said nothing.
The needle was coming in handy, too. When Delphine needed gold-braid trim, she found she could use the magic to coax a strand of golden thread to knot itself into an intricate pattern. And when she could only locate cream tulle for the skirt—not the snowy white she’d imagined—the needle gave that little fizzy jump in her paws that she was coming to recognize. She gazed down at it, then back at the bolt of fabric. Well, why not? She knew how dyes worked. If she could just reverse the process . . . And so, Delphine focused her energy, picturing the cream hue lightening bit by bit. As Delphine’s ears tingled with the effort, the color of the tulle faded until it glowed a perfect white.
Delphine laughed aloud. It was, of course, nothing more than a parlor trick. She wouldn’t ever be able to save a life by changing fabric colors. But as a seamstress—how useful this magic was becoming! And her understanding of just how gifted the Threaded had been was growing every day.
Her time filled with these endeavours, Delphine barely saw Alexander. She wondered sometimes what he was doing with his days, but she couldn’t bring herself to worry too much. He was back in his element, after all, surrounded by courtly folks and doubtless doing courtly things.
When she did spot him one night at a formal dinner, she asked quietly after Cornichonne. He whispered that the cat was just fine, and very happy down in the cellars.
“She loves it down there, actually,” Alexander told her. “So many little tunnel bugs to hunt.” But guilt gnawed at Delphine. Cornichonne had helped them get to the château safely so that she could search for clues, and Delphine had nothing to show for it.
As the Winterberry Ball drew closer, the pitch in the château grew frenzied. Chambers were aired out and prepared for guests, the grand ballroom was decorated in lavish detail, and even the hall of tapestries received constant foot traffic as staff and servants bustled in every direction.
Delphine found herself thinking more and more of her mother back home, preparing for the winter holidays with
the rest of the mice of Château Desjardins. When she was little, she had always imagined that the holiday celebrations at the castle were much more exciting than their dull country dinners. But now that she was actually in the midst of a royal celebration, she found herself missing her old life. She pictured all the mice of the château gathered together, laughing and celebrating as they split the traditional chestnut-cake.
The evening before the Winterberry Ball, Delphine carefully slipped the finished gown over the princess’s head and pulled it down to lace the bodice, not trusting even the pawmaids for the final fitting. The main overskirt had been designed to look like a single holly leaf, wrapped around and cleverly pinned in place by a decorative clasp. Underneath, piles and piles of shimmering white tulle shifted as the princess moved, giving the impression of light dappling onto the snow.
Delphine sighed contentedly. It was perfect. The princess turned to see herself in the glass and squeaked. “Absolutely exquisite!” she said, nose pink with happiness. “But what about you? What will you wear?”
“I wasn’t planning on attending,” Delphine admitted.
“Nonsense!” The princess waved a paw. “You could use some merriment. It won’t hurt for you to take one night off. Please. Find something in my closet—anything at all.”
Delphine smiled, grateful for her newfound friend’s
kindness.
The night of the ball, Delphine dressed with a flutter of excitement in her stomach. She had chosen a ruby-brocade gown embroidered with rich gold thread. The ruffled neckline set off her narrow shoulders to beautiful effect, while the broad skirts were full enough to pass muster for an evening formal ball. Delphine couldn’t imagine being away from her needle for that long, so she cobbled together a gold leather case that she could strap to her back.
The guests had been arriving all day, carefully escorted past the rats as custom dictated. Now they were lining up outside of the grand-ballroom doors, whispering and squeaking excitedly to one another. All the servants ran to and fro, completing the final touches.
Delphine had offered to stay with Princess Petits-Oiseaux to ensure that her outfit was displayed to perfection as the guests filed in, but the princess declined.
“Don’t be silly!” she laughed. “Enter with Alexander like a proper guest! Seeing the ballroom as you make your grand entrance is half the fun!”
And in fact, when the doors swung open and Delphine gazed upon the wonderland that lay before her, she had to agree. The ballroom had been transformed into a glistening fantasy of ice and snow. Princess Petits-Oiseaux stood in the center in front of a pine sapling that towered above, bowing under the weight of the glass icicles, crystal snowflakes, and spun-sugar candy canes that hung from every branch.
Two by two, the guests entered and were presented to the princess. Royal footmice stood at either side of the doors, announcing the names in their fullest baritones.
“Lord and Lady von Vertisme Muffley-Puffley of the Muffley-Puffley estate!”
“Lady Terafine Chouette and Lady Doyenne Moins-Soleil!”
As they waited in line, Alexander kept telling Delphine how wonderful she looked, using his most chivalrous tones. Maybe it was the magic of the evening, but Delphine found herself appreciating his compliments. She even fluttered her eyelashes a little.
“Duke Blancmange aux Cerises Vertes and Duchess Pantoufle-Courgette!”
But as Delphine and Alexander drew nearer to the front, her enthusiasm slowly congealed into nervousness, then dread. She had no title. She had no name, not that anyone would know.
Alexander noticed her growing consternation. “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.
She looked away, not able to meet his gaze. “Nothing,” she said, hoping to brush it aside. “Isn’t this a lovely evening?” She tried to smile once more, but her lip quivered. To her horror, she could feel tears gathering. She clutched at the little reticule Princess Petits-Oiseaux had lent her.
“Your introduction,” Alexander said gently as they moved another step closer to the footmice asking for names and titles. “It’s your introduction, isn’t it?”
She shook her head vigorously. If only he would stop looking at her.
“Don’t worry, Delfie.” He drew himself up and gently took her paw, placing it on his forearm. “I’ll handle it.”
Oddly enough, she believed him.
They stepped up to the footmice. “Your names?” intoned the senior-most.
Alexander cleared his throat. “Lady Delphine Silverthread Desjardins, Needle-Bearer of the Desjardins estates, honored guest of Her Royal Highness Princess Petits-Oiseaux.”
The footmouse blinked a little but didn’t lose his composure. “And . . . your name?”
It had to be the first time that Alexander had ever forgotten to provide his own title. Delphine giggled, unable to help herself. He flashed her a grin of his own. “I’m just Lord Alexander de Soucy Perrault,” he stated offhandedly. “She’s the honored guest.”
The footmice stepped to either side of the doors. As Delphine and Alexander moved forward, their names were announced.
“Impressive!” she said under her breath to Alexander as they descended the stairs.
“What, your title? Or his delivery of it?” he said back, equally sotto voce.
“Both.”
“You deserve every word,” he said.
> Delphine’s heart leapt in her chest unexpectedly, and her ears flamed. She tried to compose herself, looking around for any sort of distraction. “Ah! Dessert! Shall we?” She dragged him toward tables sagging under the weight of trays, dishes, and tureens filled with all the candied sweets, roasted nuts, sugared trifles, and other holiday delicacies that the kitchen had feverishly turned out over the last few days.
They sampled one bite of each treat, and then they went back for seconds of all the best ones. Alexander suggested a few times that perhaps they might like to dance. But each time, Delphine found a way to change the subject. She couldn’t bear to admit to Alexander that she had never learned any of the courtly dance routines that were being performed by the guests. Her former nervousness was beginning to return.
It didn’t help that other guests kept approaching. “Ah, the honored guest of Princess Petits-Oiseaux!” they would say, bowing or curtseying low. Delphine couldn’t help but wonder if they were secretly making fun of her.
“They aren’t,” Alexander had assured her after she’d finally admitted why she was looking so uncomfortable. “They simply want to meet the honored guest.” But Delphine was starting to wish that Alexander hadn’t been quite so enthusiastic when he had dreamt up her title. She was sweating under the heavy gown, and her head hurt from all the conversations happening on top of one another. She had never heard so many mice all talking at the same time.
A slow waltz began, and Alexander extended his paw ceremonially. “You must surely join me for this one,” he said to her, quirking his eyebrow in that Alexander-ish way that she had come to recognize. But it was all too much. The ladymice around her, stepping onto the dance floor with light, easy movements. The gentlemice, equally full of grace. And all of them believing her to be someone she wasn’t.
“I . . .” She backed away from Alexander. “I just need to get some fresh air.” He looked at her quizzically and she managed a wan smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Delphine walked back to the ballroom’s main doors as calmly as she could, just in case he was watching. Once in the hall, she turned tail and ran blindly, not knowing where she was headed, the needle case banging against her back. She let the hot tears finally fall from her eyes. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere.
When Delphine could no longer hear the festive strains of the ball, she finally slowed. The gown, heavy with embroidery and gold thread, was making it hard to move, and her paws were sore in the thin silk slippers. She walked quietly, miserably, staring out through the tall glass windows. The Sainte-Maure moon was full, its light peeking through the heavy clouds that blanketed the night sky. She pawed at her tears, forgetting about the delicate lace handkerchief tucked into her reticule.
After a while, Delphine found herself in the hallway of tapestries. She tiptoed down the hall, her silk slippers silent on the marble floor. In the darkness, the embroidered colors seemed to glow. She thought of the walls in the monastery. It felt so long ago.
She had nearly reached her favorite tapestry, the one that portrayed three of the Threaded riding on snail mounts, when she suddenly caught sight of a dark figure sitting on one of the chairs.
Delphine froze. She had been certain that every guest, every servant, was in the grand ballroom enjoying the festivities. Who, then, was this?
“Hello?” she called out, her voice quavering a little. She could make out the silhouette of a bent head in a mobcap, full skirts tucked neatly. Then the figure leaned out of the shadows, and Delphine saw the face of an ancient mouse, one whom she
had never seen before. Her whiskers were trimmed short in
the fashion of half a century earlier, and her garments reflected the same era, though everything about her was immaculate. Her eyes twinkled beneath the ruffled edge of her mobcap—a mobcap, Delphine could now see, made from the finest Venetian silk and trimmed with hand-tatted lace.
“Child,” the mouse said gently. “Why are you not at the party?”
Delphine found her manners, and curtseyed politely. “My lady,” she began, for this mouse was clearly a lady of one of the kingdom’s noble families. “I was tired and came for some fresh air.”
This was met with a chuckle. “You were tired . . . so you walked across three wings and up four flights of stairs?” The bright eyes seemed to see straight into Delphine’s heart. “You were tired not in body, but in soul, I think?”
Delphine took a deep breath that turned into a ragged half sob. Despite all the troubles that had been weighing upon her for months—fleeing for her life, fearing for her mother’s safety, nearly starving and freezing—in this moment, the shame and humiliation she had felt in the ballroom as an outsider somehow overwhelmed everything else. She could stay strong in the face of near death, but she was crumpling like a leaf under social pressure. It was so silly! She took another raggedy breath, trying to calm herself. “I don’t know how to be one of them.”
“Nor do I.” The elderly noblemouse gazed into space thoughtfully. “I am one of them, and I still do not know how to be one.” She gave Delphine a wry wink. Delphine couldn’t help but laugh shakily through her tears.
“I am Philomène,” the noblemouse said. “And you are?”
“Delphine, my lady.” She gave another curtsey. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Philomène.”
The noblemouse sniffed. “I gave up on the pretense of titles long ago. The more titles you carry with you, the more masks you find yourself hiding behind. You must call me Philomène, and I shall call you Delphine in return, if that meets with your approval.”
“Of course.” Delphine found herself already fond of this curious old mouse, sitting ramrod straight in the hall of tapestries. “You didn’t want to go to the Winterberry Ball?”
Philomène waved her paw in the air. “I saw the beautifully decorated ballroom.” She glanced sideways at Delphine and gave a tiny smirk. “I snuck past the officious footmice who were insisting upon announcing every single guest—what a tedious, tiresome folly that is!—and I enjoyed the tastiest of the sweetmeats.”
Delphine let out a proper laugh, and it echoed through the hall. She clapped her paws over her mouth, but Philomène joined her, guffawing even louder. The sound danced against the glass windowpanes.
“And then I came here to enjoy the view of the moon,” continued Philomène. “I have no interest in putting on airs anymore.”
Delphine sat down impulsively on the floor in front of Philomène’s chair, putting down her needle in its sheath beside her. “I wouldn’t even know what airs to put on,” she said. “I’m not from anywhere. I don’t even know who I really am.” A fresh tear slid down onto one of her whiskers. It hung like a glimmering dewdrop, and Delphine turned her head away in shame.
Philomène produced a handkerchief and passed it over. Then she turned respectfully to gaze at the tapestries, giving Delphine time to compose herself.
“I never tire of these weavings,” Philomène said when Delphine had stopped sniffling. “And I still dream of the Threaded. It was my favorite tale as a pinkie mouse. ‘They lived in a castle in the clouds.’ That’s how it always began. ‘Once upon a time, the Threaded lived in a castle in the clouds.’”
“I’ve never heard that line,” said Delphine, her curiosity piqued.
Philomène smiled. “It’s all here in this hall with us.” The ancient mouse gestured expansively with one wizened paw. “Read the tapestries, dear. The stories of the Threaded are woven into them.”
“Then whoever made the tapestries . . . had to know the stories somehow.” Delphine found herself drawn into Philomène’s words. This was far more interesting than feeling sorry for herself.
“Oh yes. There was a workshop of weavers in the heart of the north’s largest city, Montrenasse-sur-Terre. I remember visiting it when I was very young. It was the same workshop that made all of the finest tapestries for all the finest homes in the kingdom.”
“Then . . .” The wheels were turning in De
lphine’s head. “If I went to that workshop, maybe I could find more tapestries of the Threaded. More stories of them, woven into the fabric. More clues?”
Philomène watched her silently.
“It’s worth a try,” said Delphine, hoping to convince herself. She looked back at Philomène. “And what was that you said, about them living in the clouds? The story you heard when you were little . . . how did it go?”
Philomène shook her head. “That was so long ago, my dear. I only remember fragments now—how they plucked rubies from thin air and stitched them together into real roses. How they traveled the kingdom, sewing for those who were kind and loving. They brought magic into the world around them. They were the heroes of their time.”
She and Delphine sat quietly, looking at the tapestries. Then Philomène spoke again, half to herself. “I like to think of what they might be doing today, if Midnight hadn’t destroyed
them.”
Delphine’s eyes widened. “Midnight?” she squeaked. “The rat outside . . . he said something about Midnight!”
Philomène turned her gaze back to Delphine. “Oh yes. That was always how the tale ended. A terrible rat who called himself King Midnight managed to gain entry to their sanctuary. He killed every last one of them—and every mouse in league with them—in an effort to harness their magic. But he failed. And that was the end of the Threaded.”
Delphine sat breathless and horrified. “I’ve never heard that ending,” she finally said. “I’d always heard that they just disappeared and would someday return.”
The elderly mouse sighed, shifting on the chair. Her skirts rustled softly. “Fairy tales have a way of getting softened over the years. The most violent parts are sanded away, the story made safer for little ones.”
“But . . .” Delphine’s mind was racing. “What about Midnight?”
Philomène waved one bony paw. “Another part of the tale that’s been revised for being too frightening, I imagine. However, the name King Midnight is still whispered in dark places by evil creatures. That title has been passed down from rat leader to rat leader, each one striving toward the goal of the original King Midnight—to take over the kingdom and destroy all of mousekind.”
