Free A Nest for Celeste by Henry Cole

drapes just as the cat leaped up. With her heart in her throat, she lightly flew down through the creases of the brocade and then raced along the wall, frantically trying to find a place of safety.
    The cat saw the curtains move, quickly followed the movement down, and jumped back to the floor. It would not let the mouse escape again.
    Celeste headed straight to the bedroom door and out into the hallway. She looked for an escape. In a flash she saw there was only one option: Straight ahead was a small knothole at the bottom of a door. The hole looked just large enough, she thought, to squeeze through. Of course, she had no idea what was on the other side of the door, but what fate could be worse than the needle-sharp teeth and merciless claws of the cat?

    She raced to the door, the cat inches behind her. She felt her tail slip between the cat’s claws as, with a frantic wiggle, she made it through the knothole. The cat’s head slammed into the door just behind her. Immediately, a paw was thrust through the knothole, with hooked claws extended.
    Celeste looked up, gasping, breathless. A set of steps loomed in front of her.
    “More stairs? Higher still?” Her mind raced as she glanced behind her. The cat’s claws were still making vicious swipes through the knothole. “Well, no cat can get through this hole, at least.” She caught her breath and headed up the stairs.
    Celeste climbed the steps, one by one, until at last all fourteen stairs were scaled. She was out of breath and fatigued as she had never been before, almost too tired to care where she was.
    Celeste reached the top step. She surveyed her whereabouts.

    Lemony yellow sunlight filtered through dust motes from several windows. A high, beamed ceiling angled above her head.
    Hills and valleys of unimagined treasures spread in all directions. To her right, Celeste noticed a vast field of old feather tick mattresses. They were piled in a slanted heap against a weathered-looking table, on top of which sat a cracked oil lamp.
    To the left was a mountain of trunks and chests covered with dusty sheets speckled with bird droppings. Straight ahead, Celeste saw a stack of old books tied into a bundle with twine, a broken spinning wheel, a chair with a sagging cane seat, a stack of old dishes, a tangle of woolens hanging moth eaten on a line. There were old crates and trunks and satchels and chests.
    Celeste was exhausted. It had been a long, arduous several days. The field of striped ticking looked inviting, and easy to climb. She scaled the mountainof feather mattresses. There was a small rip in the side of one; she crawled in, curled up in the feathers, and fell asleep.

 
     
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A Friend Returns
    S he slept for a long time. Life on the plantation continued its pattern: The mules pulled the rattling wagons to the fields and back, the chickens and geese pecked at bugs around the smokehouse. Meals were cooked, chores were begun and completed. Garden spiders wove webs in the crape myrtles. Bees visited the okra and squash blossoms. Viridian hoverflies darted among the rosemary and lavender and lemon balm in the herb garden. The live oaks sent long shadows toward the west, then to the east.
    Celeste finally awoke to the sound of shouting voices coming from downstairs. One of them she knew was Joseph’s voice, and she scampered down the attic steps, pausing at the knothole; she feared the cat might be lurking nearby. Light from an oil lamp glowed beneath Joseph’s bedroom doorway. Loud voices mixed with a shrieking, screeching call and the sounds of flapping feathers.
    “Tie him, quickly!” shouted a deep voice. She recognized it as Audubon’s. “And tightly! Here!”
    After more scuffling sounds the room quieted. Celeste started across the hallway, then hesitated.
    “Ah, yes. He’s a beauty!” said Audubon. “Mr. Pirrie isn’t a bad shot after all!”
    Then she heard Joseph. “And he’ll heal up fine. He’ll be a great live model for the