A Nest for Celeste: Chapters 1–7

She spent her time under the floorboards, or upstairs in the dining room, furtively darting about in the shadows, searching for bits of food, plucking strands of horsehair from the dining-room chairs’ seat cushions, or searching for bits of grass that had been tracked into the house on the shoes of humans.

More often than not, after a venture to the dining room or crossing the hallway, she would return with a feather.

“Goes quickly, once you have a rhythm going,” she mused.

She heard the deep gong of the dining-room clock resonate through the floorboards above her head.

Then she heard a rustling sound, and she glanced nervously down into the darkness of the tunnel between the musty floor joists.

The first rat, Illianna, had small, narrow-set eyes like a pair of black peppercorns and a tongue like a lancet.

The other rat, Trixie, began pilfering Celeste’s food stores, searching through her baskets, helping herself.

Celeste felt defenseless against the two marauders, who frequently bullied their way into her nook, ransacking and filching.

Celeste felt defenseless against the two marauders, who frequently bullied their way into her nook, ransacking and filching.

Once she had clumsily let her tail protrude from the shadows, and a lady had screamed and dropped a dish.

Yes, I will be collecting specimens of as many different species as I possibly can when not instructing Miss Eliza here. It is my intent to paint the portraits of every single species of bird in North America.

“Quite an undertaking!”
“Yes, it is indeed. And this evening I have brought along an example of what I am trying to achieve.”

His eyes were wide and pale blue; Celeste noticed something melancholy in them.

It raised its rear haunches slightly, careful to use only the necessary muscles, with only barely detectable movement.

There was a ripping sound of claws on carpet as the two rats split paths, Trixie racing hysterically toward the front screen door and Illianna attempting to rapidly circle back to safety under the sideboard.

The cat ignored Celeste’s piteous cry.

And now that the cat knew her hiding place, foraging had become nearly impossible.

The cat stealthily patrolled the edge of the dining-room carpet each night, leaving Celeste little chance to make forays from beneath the floorboards.

She set off toward the hallway as though she was flying low, a tawny-colored blur.

She careened into the hall, her legs skittering across the polished wood like drops of water on a hot skillet.

She sprang to the newel post in a leap that covered many floorboards.

As the mouse scrambled to the top, the cat reached the bottom, leaping up in a furious attempt to snag Celeste.

It sat at the bottom, unmoving, staring up intently at Celeste.

Even the belittling comments and piercing squeaks of Illianna and Trixie seemed almost comforting now.

A flashing sense of vertigo filled her, and her ears blazed pink with a rush of blood.

She felt enormously tiny in the cavernous hallway.

The window sash was raised, and Celeste could hear birds singing as dawn awakened the garden outside.

On top of a tall armoire was an empty cage.

But it needed sprucing up, and Celeste needed a bed.

Hopefully, the return trip would be laden with spoils from the dining room.

She quickly covered the area at the head of the table, usually the more bountiful end. Here she found several more morsels: a crusty fragment of a baguette, complete with a tiny dab of butter; a slice of pickled okra; a bit of cheese.

Barking and braying, it headed straight for the cat.

“Dash!” reprimanded a voice from the parlor. “Quiet, you! You’ll wake the dead! Dash! Quiet, I say!”

The dog obediently sauntered back into the parlor, with a backward glance at the glaring cat.

It had been a grueling night, but she had food that would last for days, if not weeks.