Delphine and the Silver Needle Read online

  Copyright © 2021 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  Illustrations by Therese Larsson © Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023.

  Designed by Marci Senders

  Cover design by Marci Senders

  Cover art by Therese Larsson

  ISBN 978-1-368-05651-9

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Kingdom of Peltinore

  Prologue

  The Brie Moon

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Interlude

  The Camembert Moon

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Bleu Moon

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Interlude

  Chapter 10

  The Chaumes Moon

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  The Morbier Moon

  Chapter 17

  Interlude

  Chapter 18

  The Sainte-Maure Moon

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  For my grandmother, Jane Elizabeth

  Deep in the Kingdom of Peltinore, puddles of moonlight glowed on the cobblestones and lay across the shuttered windows of the Château Desjardins. In the barn, sheep and horses dozed. Everything was quiet except for the hooting of an owl in the forest nearby.

  On the main doorstep, all was still. And on the little mouse-size doorstep next to it, a shimmer hung in the air, just as it always had. Then, without warning, buzzing wisps of light began to gather. The wisps swirled and joined in a sudden burst of magic so dazzling that the whole front of the house shone bright as day. In another instant, the flash was gone, taking the odd shimmer along with it. The puddle of moonlight remained, though it no longer lay on an empty stoop. Now it illuminated a tiny bundle.

  After a while, dawn crept over the horizon. The residents of the château began to stir, human and mouse alike. Toes touched cold flagstones and were pulled back into bed for a few more moments. A human mother lifted her baby from the crib and kissed her forehead.

  In one of the tiny homes hidden in the wall alongside the human stairs, the mouse Meline tightened her apron strings and brushed her ears back under a sensible work cap. Picking up her broom, she unlatched her front door into the passageway. It was her turn to sweep the little mouse doorstep of the château. Some of the other mice shirked this task, unwilling to admit they were afraid of the odd shimmer that hung in the air. Meline sniffed at this attitude. That shimmer had always been there, no different from the dust motes that danced through sunbeams in the barn. No mouse of Château Desjardins could remember a time when the front doorstep had ever been without the odd glimmer, so why be afraid?

  The air was crisp as the old front door swung open under her paw. Gazing up at the first leaves beginning to change color, it took Meline a moment to notice the package on the little doorstep. A bundle of linens? Rags left by a wandering peddler? She could see an oversize human needle had been woven in and out through the fabric on one side of the bundle. Odd.

  Meline stepped closer, suddenly noticing that the strange glimmer in the air was gone. Her heart caught in her throat. What had happened? Just then, a tiny squeak sounded from within the bundle. All other thoughts disappeared as Meline knelt to snatch up the linens, realizing what was inside:

  A baby mouse, a little girl, no more than a few months old.

  Meline rested her paw on the baby’s cheek, and the little one gazed up at Meline, wide-eyed and serious. Then she sneezed. Her fur was the color of early-morning fog, and she had strange gray whiskers, the likes of which Meline had never seen.

  “You’re safe now,” Meline whispered. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.” Leaving her broom forgotten on the doorstep (most unlike Meline!), she carried the baby inside to spread word of the incredible arrival.

  Delphine rolled over and buried her head under her pillow. The morning sun was streaming through her window, tickling her whiskers and calling for her to awaken, but she had stayed up too late again, sewing by the light of one of the candle ends in her workshop.

  It never failed. Whenever Delphine started a new project, she lost track of time. She would sew and sew, until invariably her mother came yawning down the corridor to remind her it was time for bed. So when her mother had shown up last night, as always, Delphine had set aside her scraps of fabric in one of the many walnut shells she used to store her projects and tiptoed back down the curving hallways toward her home under the human stairs.

  Now she tried to snuggle deeper into her thistledown bed, tucking her tail under the covers where it was warm. Maybe she would be able to drift back to sleep. But it was no use. She could hear the old hound, Bruno, barking happily in the yard, which meant Cinderella was already gathering eggs from the hen coop. And if Cinderella was up, then Delphine could manage to drag herself out of bed as well.

  She splashed a quick bit of water on her face and smoothed back her gray whiskers, peering into the chip of mirror leaning against the wall behind her ewer and basin. Such dull gray whiskers, she thought for the thousandth time. None of the other Desjardins mice have gray whiskers. Why must I? But she knew the answer. Because as much as she was a Desjardins mouse, ever since the day she had been found on the little doorstep, she hadn’t been born a Desjardins mouse. She had no idea where she had come from; she only knew the story her mother had told so many times.

  Delphine glanced up at the oversize human needle that had arrived with her that fateful day. It had hung in that spot on the wall since the morning her new mother had brought her into the room sixteen years earlier.

  “I laid you down into a makeshift crib,” Meline always said fondly. “You were so tiny, I had to use the shell of a hazelnut. Can you imagine?” And as a youngling, Delphine had always giggled, imagining herself being that small.

  “I tucked you in with the blanket from my bed,” her mother would continue, “and you fell fast asleep in an instant. The linens that you had been swaddled in, and the huge needle—that was all you had with you. I folded the linens around the needle, and I hung it on the wall just above your cradle so that you could see it. I thought it should stay close.”

  And so Delphine had grown up with the needle in view every night of her life. Many times she had climbed up onto her bed to run her paws along the needle’s dark tarnished surface, wondering what mysteries it held. Why a human needle? And what were the strange engravings along the shaft, looking almost as if they had been born out of the clouded silver surface itself? The linens, too, and that strange crest that was embroidered onto them—nobody had ever been able to tell her what it meant.

  “Delphine!” Maman called now, interrupting her thoughts. “Breakfast!”

  Delphine threw on her overskirt and apron, hastily knotted a fichu around her shoulders, and scampered down the hall.

  The kitchen windows were already steamy from the pot of dandelion
soup bubbling on the stovetop. Fresh brioche crumbs sat heating in the little ember-oven. Brioche! Delphine had forgotten it was Friday. She cringed.

  Maman stood at the kitchen countertop, flour on her paws and snout, kneading dough for the evening tartelette. She was as beautiful as always, with gentle ridges of cream and brown fur across her cheeks, broad country ears, and sweeping chestnut whiskers.

  “Morning, Maman,” said Delphine quickly, taking down two button-plates from the cupboard. She served up a dollop of fresh, rich butter onto each. Her mother pulled open the door of the ember-oven and whisked out the crumbs with a swift flick of the paw, placing them onto the plates.

  “You know, Delphine,” said Maman gently, “the best crumbs always go to whoever gets to the human kitchen first on Friday mornings.” She wiped her paws on the corner of a mouse-size tea cloth, a scrap from an old human towel.

  That was Maman’s subtle way of reminding Delphine that crumb duty had been her responsibility, and she had slept right through it.

  Delphine sighed, twisting her peculiar gray whiskers around one paw. “I didn’t mean to sleep in.”

  Maman sat down on the bench made of folded human playing cards. “I know you didn’t, darling. But you stay up so late sewing away that your chores are starting to be affected. Dreams are important, but don’t forget about your responsibilities in the real world.”

  Delphine sat down next to her mother and they began their breakfast. She thought of all the other Desjardins mice living in the nooks and crannies of the château, sitting down to breakfast at the same time before heading to their daily jobs. It had been the same ever since she could remember.

  They nibbled at the hot, fragrant brioche crumbs. Delphine sighed. She had been so busy lately, she hadn’t even had time to see her friends Gus and Jaq, hadn’t participated in any of the summer’s-end festivities. And now summer was over.

  “Maman!” she said suddenly. “What if we just skipped our jobs today, and went for a snail ride instead?” She could already feel the fresh air in her whiskers, the leather reins in her paws, the slow, steady pace of the snails.

  Her mother smiled good-naturedly. “And leave the little pinkie mice without onesies to wear? Who will help sew those if you aren’t at your spot in the row?”

  Delphine wrinkled her nose and crammed the rest of the brioche into her mouth. “It’s the most tedious thing. They won’t let me make up my own designs, or add any interesting details, or try anything new.”

  “That’s why you have your workshop, so that you can sew whatever you like in the evenings.” Her mother rose, clearing the table. “Until a reasonable hour, of course,” she added.

  Delphine leaned on the counter, watching her rinse off the plates in the stone washtub. “But you love my gowns.”

  Her mother laughed. “We all do, sweet pea! They’re beautiful. But they’re fit for a royal ball, not everyday wear. Why do you think your aunt Roselle borrowed one for her visit to the palace last month?”

  “Because she liked it,” Delphine muttered.

  “Because she loved it,” corrected her mother. “So keep sewing. But that means during the day for the pinkie mice as well. We must find a balance, chérie.”

  Delphine finished wiping off the table and retied her apron. Her mother peered into the tiny shard of mirror hanging on the wall, adjusting her bonnet to cover her ears. Then she turned.

  “Now, before we head off to work . . . I have something for you. A human messenger arrived from the castle with an announcement for the Desjardins girls early this morning. There’s to be a ball, and all the humans are invited. Though that’s not the real news. A mouse messenger also came along to deliver this!”

  Maman drew something from her apron pocket, a creamy envelope of thick linen paper. She held it out to Delphine with a curious expression. “Have you been sending letters to the castle?”

  “N-no . . .” stammered Delphine. She took it with trembling paws.

  A gold wax seal on the envelope flap featured the mouse princess’s crest: a thick slice of Camembert cheese above two crossed wheat sheaves. On the other side was her very own name, written in ornate copperplate:

  Mademoiselle Delphine Desjardins

  Delphine gasped. The residents of Château Desjardins almost never received communication from the court, and certainly never personal correspondence. Delphine cracked open the wax seal and carefully pulled out the card. It, too, was made of the same fine linen paper and was delicately lettered with the same copperplate, words interlinking in luxurious swoops of gold ink that danced across the page.

  The presence of Mademoiselle Delphine Desjardins is requested tomorrow

  to provide dressmaking services

  to Princess Petits-Oiseaux

  at the stroke of twelve noon by the castle clock

  Delphine’s mouth fell open. “I’m going to the castle?”

  Maman was reading over her shoulder. She stared back at Delphine with delight. “My very own daughter, summoned to sew for the princess?” She swept Delphine into her arms, glowing with pride.

  Delphine’s head was spinning. “But how . . . ?”

  Her mother shook her head slowly, uncertain. “When Roselle wore your gown there for her last visit . . . could the princess have seen it?” She ran a paw along Delphine’s whiskers. “Your clothes are one of a kind. It would have been impossible to miss. In any case, you can take the vegetable farmer’s cart first thing in the morning.” She glanced out the window. “But we’d better get going now. We both still have a full day’s work ahead of us before tomorrow.”

  Delphine jumped up, overflowing with excitement. She didn’t think she could possibly go about her chores with something so extraordinary on the horizon. And yet the day flew by in the blink of an eye; before she knew it, dinner and the tartelette had already come and gone. As the sun began to set through the tall oak trees outside of the château windows, Delphine scurried through the passages for nursery duty. The little orphan mice sat waiting for her with their nurse keeping watch. Delphine settled down on a mound of pillows in the middle of the room as the tots crowded close.

  “Once upon a time,” she began, snuggling all the little mice up around her, “there lived the Threaded, right here in this very kingdom.” This was one of Delphine’s favorite fairy tales. She herself had asked to hear it over and over when she was young, and now she delighted in sharing it with the newest members of the Desjardins clan. It also made nursery duty her favorite of the château chores. “The Threaded,” she went on, “were magical mice who were not only the best seamstresses and tailors in the land, but could even perform magical sewing with their needles.”

  “What’s magical sewing?” piped up one of the little ones, wide-eyed.

  “Nobody really knows,” she replied, “but I like to think that they embroidered butterflies whose wings could flutter, and roses that smelled like real roses plucked fresh from the rosebush.”

  The toddler mice oohed in wonder at the idea.

  “Now, the Threaded,” Delphine continued, “sewed for all of the noblemice of our kingdom. They were here for hundreds of years in Peltinore, passing down their magic, generation after generation. And there were always twelve of them. No more, and no less. Do you remember the rhyme?”

  They recited along with her:

  The First rides the wind. The Second walks on light.

  The Third bends the waves. The Fourth moves with might.

  The Fifth sings with birds. The Sixth paints the sky.

  The Seventh writes the song. The Eighth draws the eye.

  The Ninth touches stars. The Tenth sweetens tart.

  The Eleventh reads the dreams. And the Twelfth knows the heart.

  “That’s right!” Delphine said, delighted. “You know the rhyme even better than I do.”

  “What happened to the Threaded?” the littlest mouse asked.

  Delphine sighed. “They disappeared. Nobody knows where they went, or why. But some say that
one day they’ll return, and we’ll have magical mice in our midst once more.”

  The little mouse cheered, rocking on her rear paws.

  “Is magic real?” said another toddler mouse.

  “As real as you want it to be,” said Delphine, smiling. “And now it’s time for bed.” She picked them up one by one, carrying them gently to their cribs lined up along the sides of the room. As she tucked them in, she sang an ancient mouse lullaby: “Whiskers soft and eyes are closed. Time for baby mine to doze.” After she had tucked the last one beneath his covers, Delphine quietly blew out the candle end and tiptoed out of the room.

  As she passed through the château walls, she could hear Lady Tremaine arguing yet again with her two daughters. She was castigating them for forgetting to reset the mousetraps. Delphine shivered. Cinderella always sprang the traps whenever she found them in the château, out of kindness to the mice. But it made Delphine’s blood run cold to hear the lady of the house speak so cruelly.

  With Lady Tremaine’s voice still ringing in her ears, she entered the little nook that served as her workshop. It was built inside a wall cornice, with funny angles and corners. But to Delphine, it was the best room in the château, especially because Cinderella did her mending and sewing in the parlor directly below. It felt almost as if they were sitting and sewing together . . . even if Cinderella didn’t know it. Delphine had learned all her best sewing techniques that way, studying from above.

  As usual, Delphine’s workshop was a disaster. There were piles of leftover fabric trimmings from human gowns, thimbles full of seed beads spilling onto the floor, and half-finished projects hanging from every rafter. She glanced down through the little window into the parlor to see if Cinderella was in her usual spot.

  Alas, there was not a human in sight, only Lucifer sharpening his claws on the good sofa. Mean old cat. The château would have been far more pleasant without him—or the other cruel residents—in it. Delphine sighed and turned back to the task at hand. She needed to put her best paw forward if she was going to make a good impression at the castle tomorrow.