copyright 2010 Lisa Anne Nisula
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 1
It never would have happened if Alice hadn’t been sitting on the top shelf. To be completely accurate, it never would have happened if Rachel Simmons hadn’t decided she hated my sweater. Then she wouldn’t have been passing notes about it all during my third period computer science lecture on Boolean searches, I wouldn’t have had to give her detention, her mother wouldn’t have called to yell at Mr. Brown for letting a sub punish her little angel, Mr. Brown wouldn’t have said, “Now Ella, I’m not sure a few notes really warrants a detention,” right in front of Rachel, Rachel wouldn’t have left with that smug look on her face, I wouldn’t have left two hours late in a bad mood, and I wouldn’t have decided to stop at the library for a book to distract me. But I’m not about to give either of them credit for even the smallest bit of what happened. In any case, if the library had kept the works of Lewis Carroll on a lower shelf, I would never have gone into the biographies in search of one of the metal stools with self-locking wheels which the library provided for patron’s use, and I would never have seen the footstool.
My first thought was that the footstool was infinitely more interesting than anything else the library offered, with its claw feet, blue and silver tapestry cover and heavy silver fringe, but my second was to wonder if it was for general use. It was in the reading corner, between the armchair and the new wall mirror, both of which were clearly intended to be used by anyone. I leaned forward and examined the footstool. The fabric did not look old, but it was dusty and worn. It had been used before.
That decided me. I picked up the footstool. No one tried to stop me, so I carried it to the stacks and put it down under my book. I tested it with my right foot first, but it seemed steady, so I shifted my weight onto it, and it held me. It still seemed safe enough, so I stepped up and reached for my book, and almost fell off. I rested my fingers on the nearest shelf for balance and adjusted my stance, trying to figure out what had made the footstool move.
It didn’t seem to have uneven legs. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, but I couldn’t make the footstool wobble again. It had felt more like the stool had raised up a bit, but that made no sense; locking wheels would have gone down, not up, and anyway I hadn’t seen any wheels. I pushed those problems to the back of my mind and reached for my book again. This time the footstool did more than wobble. It ran.
I couldn’t turn to see where I was going, or even get my arms out for balance. I tried to press my feet deep enough into the cushioned seat to make contact with the steady wooden base, but the material was slippery and the stuffing in the cushion slid around under my shoes. I was afraid to jump off, even when I could see we were running toward the wall. I managed to keep my balance by bending my knees and trying to sway with the motion of the stool. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the mirror directly in front of us. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see what was coming next, but that made it even harder to balance and I opened them just in time to see the edge of the gilt frame brush past me as the footstool ran through the mirror and into — somewhere.
The footstool stopped. We were in a large room made of rough, dark gray basalt rock, with iron bars on windows too small to let in much light, a wooden door at one end, and a hard wooden bench near the mirror.
I dismounted, glad to have a solid stone floor under my feet. The footstool ran to the door, then turned like it was waiting for me to follow. Deciding things couldn’t get any curiouser, I went to the door. It swung open by itself when I pushed it.
The door led to another stone room, with even smaller windows and light provided by one oil lantern on the floor. The footstool went in. I followed cautiously. As soon as I was through the door, it slammed behind me.
On the far wall, there was an iron cage. In the cage, there was a panther. I took it as a sign that the day was very strange indeed when I did not find that out of place. I edged closer, still cautious even though the animal seemed to be completely imprisoned. This was not one of the sleek black panthers I was used to seeing on television or at the zoo. His coat was dull and matted, his ribs visible beneath his ragged fur. His great green eyes opened. His head rose. He opened his mouth and spoke,
“You’re not what I was expecting.”
“Neither are you.” As a reply it wasn’t bad, but it was so unlike myself, it shocked me into silence.
“What were you expecting?”
“What were you?” At that, I snapped my mouth shut, resolving to say nothing else.
The edges of the panther’s mouth curled up, showing his teeth. It might have been a smile. “Fair enough.” He rose and I would have staggered back only my feet didn’t seem to be working. The panther was enormous, much larger than any cat I had ever seen at the zoo. His shoulder reached at least to my elbow. If he had stood on his hind legs, he would have towered over me by more than a foot. Even emaciated as he was, the panther was impressive.
His voice startled me out of my stupor. “I am waiting for a hero who can free me, then accompany me to the castle over there.” He nodded toward one of the windows.
I turned to the window. I couldn’t see anything but a bit of sky.
“You won’t be able to see it from there.” The panther looked down at the stone floor. “It has been arranged so the castle will be the last thing I see before I close my eyes and the first upon waking.”
I went to the panther’s side and knelt, leaning back against the bars. When I was at the panther’s eye level, I could see the tops of the castle’s towers and turrets stretching up, like stubby fingers trying to reach the light. It was a lost cause. The lawn outside the window was bathed in sunlight, but the castle was in deep, moonless darkness, with just enough light to make out shapes. “I can see it now.”
The panther did not look up. “As you can see, it is cursed. I can end it, if I can get there.”
I thought I heard a hint of melancholy in his voice, but when I looked over at him, t
he panther was sitting up straight, all business, and I thought I must have misheard. The panther turned to me and went on, “The mirror gives us access to other worlds to seek a champion. You’ll be able to go back in …”
The footstool banged its foot on the ground three times.
“In three hours your world will come back and the footstool will take you through. In the meantime, make yourself as comfortable as you can.”
I sat on the floor and crossed my legs. The panther lay back down and rested his head on his paw. After a moment, he sighed deeply and went back to staring out the window. He seemed so quietly wretched, it seemed too private to interfere, to even look at him, unless I could find a way to help. I let my eyes wander around the room. “Did you know there’s a ring of keys on the wall up there?”
The panther didn’t bother to look up. “Yes, they’ve been tried. A giant from Upper Zancar got them down.”
So that had been done; I should have known. I needed to think like a hero. The keys had been too obvious.
The panther closed his eyes. “You can try them if it will amuse you.”
I stared down at my feet. Amuse me, like a child. I knew I didn’t look like anyone who could help on a quest, with my long coffee brown hair and large lapis blue eyes, and a build that was decidedly not athletic, but that was no reason to think I was useless. I could think; that had to count for something, even in a world where a knight was the obvious answer to a quest. I rested my cheek against my knees and caught the panther staring at me with his sad sunken eyes. I had already noticed their unusual color, emerald green with little flecks of gold, but I hadn’t realized why they affected me so deeply until now. They weren’t like any cat’s eyes I’d seen before, not just their unusual color, but the shape, larger and rounder than I expected, and set deep beneath an expressive brow. I couldn’t just sit there knowing those eyes were watching either me or the cursed castle.
I got to my feet and looked at the keys. They were hanging from a thick iron hook far above my head, too far for me to reach from the ground. I looked around the room for inspiration, but the prison held nothing useful. I didn’t think I could bear sitting beside the panther doing nothing while he lay in his cage, waiting for a hero and watching a cursed castle that he could save but not get to, so I kept looking. Maybe there was something in the other room. At least it would put a wall between me and those eyes for a little while.
The room with the mirror had a jumble of bits and pieces that I guessed the footstool had dragged in with him from other worlds. Among the leaves and dust and feathers and what seemed to be an abandoned shoe, I found a possibly useful stick. It wasn’t long enough, but if I moved the wooden bench that was against the wall into the prison room and under the keys, it might work.
The bench looked like it was made of solid oak. When I tried to move it, I decided it must be petrified oak; it was certainly heavy enough. I couldn’t pick it up, but I managed to drag it across the stone floor, screeching like nails on a chalkboard all the way. The legs kept catching on uneven bits of the stones and forcing me to tug, or in one case, put my end down and pick up the other to push it across the floor. The door posed a bit of a problem, as it had now decided to swing shut by itself. I had to wedge it open with my back and pull the bench across the threshold. The panther looked up as I banged into the room and screeched across the floor.
I didn’t look in his direction, but I could feel the green eyes following me as I crossed the room, struggling to get the clumsy legs over the cracked floor. He was probably thinking I was insane. I realized I probably was insane. Even assuming the panther was real and the footstool was real and the magic mirror was real, why did I think I could find a way to fix this when a giant and who knew who else had failed?
I gave the bench a sharp tug and managed to get it stuck in a rut in the floor. I heard a little sniff from the panther’s direction, but I couldn’t tell if it was scornful or irritated or some emotion I wasn’t thinking of. Disdainful maybe? Incredulous? I focused on getting the bench unstuck, which took a good bit of strength as I had to lift it enough to get the leg back onto a level bit of stone so I could keep dragging it across the room.
Once I had shoved the bench into place, more or less under the keys, I had to go back for the stick. As I crossed the prison room for what felt like the hundredth time, I risked a look at the panther. He was still watching me, but his features were too alien for me to read. He could have been bemused or annoyed or bored. It was much easier to think about getting the keys down.
As I stood in front of the bench with the stick in my hand, I wondered if there was anything else I could do to make myself feel more idiotic under the panther’s gaze. I considered taking my shoes off, to prevent slipping on the worn wood surface, banging my head, and ending up unconscious on the floor, but the keys were still far above me and I needed all the height I could get. I climbed up on the bench, shoes and all, and held the stick over my head. I saw at once it wasn’t long enough. I braced my left hand against the wall, ignoring the uneven bits that cut into my palm, and stood on my toes, but the stick still scraped against the wall below the keys.
After all the trouble I’d had getting the bench in place, I wasn’t going to give up yet. That, and I had a silly need to show the panther I wasn’t an idiot for having dragged the bench across the room. I lowered my heels to the bench and scanned the room for something else I could stand on. My eyes landed on the footstool. That could work, but what was the proper way to ask if I could climb on it? As I considered the question, the footstool came over to me, stood up on its hind legs and rested its front legs on the bench, right in front of me.
“May I?”
The footstool stayed put. I knelt down and lifted the footstool onto the bench, careful to arrange it so all four legs were squarely on the seat.
I kept my left hand on the wall for balance and climbed from the bench to the footstool. The stick almost reached the keys. Shifting my left hand from the wall to the window ledge, I pulled myself up to my toes and, with a final stretch, the stick brushed the keys.
It took me a few tries to get the stick under the keys. Once I did, I was able to flip the stick to the side and knock the keys off the hook. I heard them hit a wall and clatter to the ground.
I climbed down very carefully so I wouldn’t fall and spoil my small success, then lifted the footstool safely down before I ran across the room and gathered up the keys from the corner where they had landed.
The panther was sitting up in his cage, watching me. When I took the padlock in my hand, he put his head down and went back to staring out the window. I was rather glad he did; at this close range, the green eyes boring into me made it hard to think clearly.
I tried each key in the lock, but had no more success than the giant had. Not ready to give up after all that trouble, I went back and retried each key upside down. I turned the lock over, but there was no place to fit a key on the back, just a maker’s mark, a cart over a name that ended with “dian,” the rest worn away with age and use. I was still looking for other ideas when the footstool nudged me.
The panther looked up. “It’s time to go. Thank you for trying.” His mouth curled up at the corners again, another smile perhaps, this one sad; then he put his head down again, and his eyes went back to the small window.
I followed the footstool into the main room. It stood in front of the mirror. When I didn’t do anything, it dipped its side a little. I took the hint and climbed on it. The footstool jumped through the mirror and brought me back to the reading corner.
“Thank you,” I whispered as the footstool hopped back through the mirror.
The library lights were still on, so I knew I couldn’t have been gone too long — or had been gone so long it was another day. I didn’t bother with Alice’s adventures in Wonderland. I went to the computer catalog.
I had just gotten to the search screen when an arm reached over my shoulder and across the desk to push the off switch on the moni
tor with one short, peach-colored nail. “Sorry dear, fifteen minutes until closing. I have to shut all of these down.”
“I just need to look up one thing …”
“It’s the rules. Tell me what it is and I’ll tell you where it is.”
I did not want to ask her for help. Especially since I was going to look up lock picking. She was the type who’d want to know what kind of lock and why I wasn’t calling a locksmith. I wasn’t in the mood to lie; I didn’t have the energy after everything that happened on the other side of the mirror. “That’s all right.” I left the computer and went back to the stacks. Maybe fifteen minutes was enough time for me to figure out where they kept the lock picking books on my own. Maybe in with technology books, or home improvement, if they were assuming it would be used for a locked door with no key. Home improvement was closer, in the front of the library by the main entrance. I would start there.
There were plenty of books on fixing up your house. I grabbed a couple that dealt with replacing doors. It seemed a promising way to start. I flipped to the index of the first book. Plenty on replacing locks and choosing locks, but nothing on picking locks. Same with the next book. I tried one on restoring old houses, but the book was probably older than most of the houses in the area. I flipped through it anyway, looking for any reference to locks.
It was dry reading and small print. My eyes started to blur and my mind didn’t catch all the words. I remembered that I hadn’t been home since six-thirty that morning and hadn’t eaten since noon. No wonder I was having trouble concentrating. I let my mind rest for a moment, and my eyes drift to relax them. Outside the window I could see students hanging out by the bike rack, chatting. I saw one of them was Rachel Simmons, who appeared to be dating the head of the smoking group that hid outside the gym door and thought we didn’t know it. Watching their gestures, I decided they were either making their Friday night plans or planning to steal the bikes. They’d probably know how to pick locks; I should ask them.
Ella and the Panther's Quest Page 1
