A Nest for Celeste Part 8

"You've got to be pulling my leg! Why in the world would I do this?"

"Hold it right there!" whispered Celeste. "That's it! Don't move a feather!"

The osprey froze in place. "Like this? You sure? I feel ridiculous!"

"You look great! This is going to be perfect!"

"He's going to think I'm about to attack!"

As if on cue, the heavy tread of Mr. Audubon's boots could be heard climbing the stairs, then walking down the hallway.

"Shh! He's coming back! Don't move!" squeaked Celeste as she scampered to a hiding place. He's coming back! Don't move!" squeaked Celeste as she scampered to a hiding place.

The boots turned into the studio doorway.

"Mon Dieu!" Audubon gasped, staring at the osprey. " Audubon gasped, staring at the osprey. "C'est ca! Parfait! Toi! Le beau specimen! You are magnificent!" He stared for nearly a minute, then grabbed a large piece of watercolor paper and a handful of pencils and began to sketch. You are magnificent!" He stared for nearly a minute, then grabbed a large piece of watercolor paper and a handful of pencils and began to sketch.

There, in front of her, Celeste watched as Lafayette's body and wings began to form on the paper. Only an outline at first, but feathers, streaks, spots, and other details soon followed. Audubon's pencil raced in every direction; his eyes, bright with excitement, studied the bird's every feather.

He drew a gaping beak, opened as though screaming across a valley, and wings outstretched in flight. "I'll put a fish in your talons, like you have just pulled it from the Mississippi," he said out loud.

Next, out came a wooden box of watercolors.

Celeste couldn't help herself as she crawled out from behind the paint box. Mesmerized, she watched Audubon use a variety of soft brushes and an old shaving mug filled with water as he transformed the penciled outline into an osprey full of chocolate brown and tawny cream. A golden yellow eye blazed fiercely. He added a background sky of cool blues.

At last the artist sat back. He stretched his long arms and smiled at the osprey.

"Merci, my friend," he said; and he lay on the bed, asleep within several ticks of a clock.

Lafayette blinked and lowered his wings. He glanced over at the paint box lid. Celeste smiled approvingly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

Freedom.

Ah! You're almost there, Celeste!" whispered Lafayette encouragingly. "Just a little bit more."

Celeste felt her jaw muscles ache. Gnawing tough leather was not easy.

"A little more...just a little more...Yes! That's it!"

The heavy leather strap fell to the floor, and Lafayette leaped up with a flap of wings.

They glanced at the bed; Audubon was snoring peacefully.

"Pumpkin pie," Lafayette said, "you are one good friend to have around! My, oh my, but does this feel good. Thank you, darlin', from the bottom of my ever-lovin' heart!"

"You're welcome," she said, rubbing her swollen jaw.

"If I can ever be of any service, don't hesitate to give a shout, anytime, day or night. I am forever obliged." Lafayette gave a little bow.

"Would you come visit me?" queried Celeste.

"Well, sugar lamb, I'll definitely be keeping an eye on you," promised the osprey. He nodded at his wing. "But it may be a while before I come for a visit. It's a dangerous world out there. Now, you be careful, you hear?"

"You be careful, too, Lafayette." Celeste smiled.

And with that the osprey flapped to the open window, tested his lame wing, leaped joyfully into the air, and was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

A Discovery.

Celeste decided that, until Joseph returned, the safest place to be was in the attic, where the knothole entrance kept out the menacing inhabitants of the house. The nest she made in the old feather mattress was cozy, safe, and quiet.

She decided to explore her attic home a bit more. Scaling to the summit of the mountain of mattresses, she studied her new domain. Across the way next to the window, which was missing a pane, she saw another mountain: a draped sheet.

Celeste crawled under the old sheet and blinked. In the musty shadows she saw-or did she see?-a tiny, mouse-sized chair. And was that a miniature ta.s.seled pillow? Amid a confused jumble of chair legs and patterned fabrics Celeste could discern what looked to be a complete and perfect dining room...made for a mouse!

There were tiny, ornate picture frames, carved and beveled, holding tiny pictures: a still life, a portrait, a country landscape. Cl.u.s.tered around a tiny dining table were several chairs, each with a needlepoint seat.

Celeste made her way past a corner cabinet with gla.s.s doors; she puffed on a pane and wiped it gingerly with her paw. Inside she saw plates and cups and saucers, pieces from a blue-and-white china set. Opening a cabinet door below, she found what looked to be a tablecloth.

She pa.s.sed through a doorway and entered another room. The light was a little better here, and she noted the lavender-striped wallpaper.

"This must be the living room," she whispered. A beautiful sofa, just her size, covered in maroon velvet, lay on its back. Two chairs and several small tables were also overturned. A fireplace and mantel had been artfully painted on one wall. Over it was the oval portrait of a young girl; her face looked familiar. A set of stairs in one corner of the living room led to another story above.

Celeste climbed the stairs and then tiptoed her way into a bedroom. As with the rooms below, the contents here were also tossed about and covered in dust: a small bed and nightstand, an oval hooked rug, and a ladder-back chair painted orange. A washbasin and pitcher lay on the floor. Next to the bed was another door.

Celeste pa.s.sed reverently into the last room.

Through the dim light she saw an enormous four-poster bed covered with a soft, pink blanket. Two satin pillows were trimmed in tiny lace ribbon. Beside the bed was a small table draped with a lace cloth. Against one wall stood a wooden armoire with flowers and vines painted up the sides and on each door. A large, overstuffed chair sat perched on a small rug. The walls were covered in flowery wallpaper, making Celeste feel as though she were in a magical garden.

"This is the most beautiful room that has ever been," she murmured to herself.

The bed looked comfy and inviting; Celeste ran her hand along the soft blanket and then crawled up. The bed was stuffed with cotton bolls, and she sank blissfully into it, head plopped onto a silk pillow.

"I've found home home," she said to herself. "There is nowhere else I'd rather be." She smiled and fell asleep.

And indeed, it was a lovely nest for a mouse.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

Housecleaning.

The draped sheet over Celeste's new home made it feel close and dim, dusty and airless. She scampered to the floor and pondered.

Gathering a corner of the sheet in her mouth, she bit tightly. With claws gripping the rough oak floorboards, she leaned forward and pulled fiercely. Slowly the dusty sheet moved with her, inch by inch. Finally, in a rush of fragile and yellowing cotton, it slipped into a pile in front of the dollhouse, producing a haze of dust.

Celeste began straightaway to clean and make order of her new home. Now that the house was bright and cheery, and its contents easy to see, she could open drawers, explore cabinets, shake out linens, polish bra.s.s, s.h.i.+ne crockery, and sweep floors.

And that she did. She made a small broom using feathers from the old mattresses and a rag from a bit of mattress ticking. Soon the floors and walnut staircase glowed. She dusted and polished the chandelier and gla.s.s cabinet doors.

An inventory of the dining-room cabinet revealed a lace tablecloth, four china plates with matching cups and saucers, and a china serving platter. In one drawer Celeste found several tiny candles, partially melted from the summer heat in the attic.

She pulled one of the chairs from the living room out onto the windowsill. The missing pane afforded her the chance of catching a pa.s.sing breeze, and from her perch she could see the comings and goings of the plantation below.

Celeste felt contented after days of hard work. She straightened one last picture, fluffed up a sofa cus.h.i.+on, and then at last made her way to her bedroom.

Beams of a peach-colored sunset washed across the wallpaper, and the tiny room glowed with coppery peonies and amber hyacinths. A breeze, fragrant with ripening grapes from the garden arbor, drifted through the missing windowpane.

Celeste could now see out the window from her perch on the bed. Over and beyond the treetops lay an expanse of sunset-drenched lawn and fields and forest. Even the dusty windowpanes couldn't dull the brilliant scene as Celeste lay on her soft, cottony bed. She nibbled on a watermelon seed, staring in rapture at the landscape stretching so far. A mockingbird was singing in the nearby magnolia.

She missed Joseph. She wished Cornelius or Lafayette were there.

At that moment there were two feelings inside Celeste's tiny, rapidly beating heart that made her feel as full, and as empty, as a gourd. The sheer beauty of this moment was perfect and sublime. But she was alone.

The golden edges of the clouds faded to soft pinks, then to gray blues; and finally the sky darkened. A few stars appeared. Celeste crawled under the soft blanket, tucking her nose under her paw, and sank into sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

A Homecoming of Sorts.

When she awoke, Celeste realized that laboring over her ch.o.r.es had worked up an appet.i.te. She gathered two baskets and headed down the attic stairs and through the knothole.

The hallway was dark. Celeste scampered past Joseph's room, then quickly stopped. Her ears flicked, her whiskers quivered, and her heart felt a sudden fullness. Was that the sound of his pencil sketching? She felt dispirited when she realized it was just the distant ticking of the hallway clock downstairs.

The dining room seemed unusually still. There were leftover crumbs and bits dotted across the carpet, but certainly no bounty. The dining-room carpet had been swept. She sniffed the air for traces of cat.

Ducking beneath the sideboard for a short rest, she let out a tiny cry of surprise. The hole was no longer there: A short wooden board had been nailed to the wall, sealing off the entrance, and the emergency escape route, forever.

She evenly distributed her meager spoils between the two baskets, securing the straps across her shoulders. She studied the dining room and then ran cautiously toward the stairs.

The looming clock suddenly struck five, startling Celeste so that she left tiny claw marks in the waxy patina of the oak floorboard. Her heart beat furiously. Some inner feeling was nagging at her. She sniffed the air again and again. Her whiskers twitched nonstop.

The journey across the hall, up the newel post and the stair rail seemed routine now, although still arduous. But there was a faint feline odor hanging in the air. Her dark eyes pierced the dim hallway, but there was no other sign of the cat.

Celeste reached the end of the upstairs hallway, then stopped in her tracks. The scent of cat fur and cat paws and cat breath quickly thickened, like a soupy mist moving in off the river. She saw it now: the dark, cloudy shape of the cat crouched and waiting, staring motionlessly at the knothole in the attic door, between Celeste and home. The cat didn't see or hear Celeste. It seemed completely fascinated by the hole in the door.

Celeste hid as best as she could in the shadow of a bookcase that stood against the wall. She waited.

Rescue came in the unlikely form of Eliza Pirrie.

There was a swis.h.i.+ng sound from the hallway downstairs and then continuing up the steps. Celeste pressed her body against the bookcase as Eliza glided by, inches away.

"There you are, Puss!" she exclaimed, hurrying to gather up the gray cat, who glared at her from the base of the attic door. "You've been hiding from me! Shame on you, Puss! Time for your breakfast!" Eliza carried the cat down the stairs, fussing and cooing. Celeste made a dash for the attic knothole.

It was a relief to be within the relative safety of the attic, and Celeste smiled contentedly at the thought of her warm, cottony bed with the soft satin pillows.

She unpacked her goodies, stowed her baskets, and nibbled a bread crumb as she made her way up the steps to her bedroom.

"Well, well, well," squeaked a vaguely familiar voice. "You finally made it home. I hope you brought back something to eat."

Celeste stared as the cool, gray, dawn light came creeping into the bedroom. There, stretched across her bed, pinched face and beady eyes poking out from beneath the pink blanket, was Trixie.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

An Unwanted Housemate.

Cat got your tongue, Celeste?" Trixie yawned, showing her pointy teeth and fleshy gums. "What do you have there...a bread crumb? I'd have thought you'd bring home something more substantial than that. There better be more downstairs."

Celeste felt all her blood surge to her feet; they seemed frozen to the floor. Her ears buzzed, and her mouth was dry. She stifled a gurgled cry, as suddenly her nest seemed unsafe, uncertain, and unhappy.

"Yes, it's me," continued Trixie. "Don't look so surprised. Aren't you happy to see me?"