Free A Nest for Celeste by Henry Cole Page B

across the bed and leaped over to a nightstand, hiding behind the washbasin.
    The tall, imposing figure of Audubon appeared in the doorway. He stood with hands on hips, the thick shank of auburn hair hanging to his shoulders, studying Lafayette in the lamplight.
    Lafayette glowered back, sitting hunched and tense. He had had enough of this man who sat watching him for hours and hours, scratching lines on paper.
    “We begin again,” Audubon said, grabbing his supplies and sitting on a stool in front of the osprey.
    From her hiding place Celeste could see over Audubon’s shoulder. His eyes were fixed on Lafayette. Pencil line after pencil line covered the large pieceof paper. Over and over the lines were erased, then begun again.
    The room was hot; Audubon’s face glistened with perspiration.
    Lafayette’s anger slowly gave way to boredom. He sat on the bed rail half asleep.
    Celeste watched Audubon’s hand, fascinated. The way it glided and flowed across the paper reminded her of her own paw as it moved in rhythm when she was weaving.
    Suddenly it stopped. The pencil fell to the floor as Audubon dropped his face into his hands and sighed with exasperation, shoulders slumped.
    “Mon Dieu,” he moaned. “My drawing is all wrong.” He stood up, sheets of paper spilling off his lap. He paced the room several times, thinking, his chin in his hand.
    “Perhaps,” he said, contemplating Lafayette yet again, “I need to pin your wings up, holding themin place…and then your head needs to be wired upright…. I could make a better painting….”
    Celeste nearly squeaked in alarm, peeking out from behind the washbasin.
    But Audubon picked up his pencils; again there was the sound of graphite scratching on paper, then he suddenly stamped his foot.
    “Ça n’est pas possible!” his voice erupted. “There is no life in this portrait! This osprey might as well be dead and stuffed like a Christmas goose! The wings are folded like it is in a casket! And the eyes…dull! The neck…stiff! The feet…how you say it? Crooked! I cannot get it correct. My paintings are as blank and lifeless as the portraits of Monsieur and Madame Pirrie in the dining room downstairs!”
    There was a clatter of pencils being thrown across the room as Audubon stormed out. The large piece of paper drifted to the floor, sliding nearly to the door.Celeste ducked a little closer into the shadows, but she could see the lines of a large bird drawn on the paper.
    Celeste studied the drawing. She had a plan. It had worked before, and it would work again.

 
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lafayette Strikes a Pose
    C eleste once again climbed up to the bed rail and began gnawing at the leather tie.
    She stopped for a moment.

    “Look,” she said. “I’ve got an idea. You’re going to think it’s a bit odd, but please trust me.”
    “Okeydokey, sugar plum, I trust you. What’s the idea?”
    “When Monsieur Audubon returns, he’s going to sketch you again, correct?”
    “Correct.”
    “And he’s going to try over and over, and get very frustrated, correct?”
    “Correct.”
    “And he’s going to try and capture your beauty with pencil and paper, correct?”
    “Correct.”
    “And if he doesn’t get it right, you may end up stuffed and pinned, correct?”
    “I prefer not to think about that, if you don’t mind, peach blossom.”
    Celeste giggled. “Well, so, you need to help him!”
    “Come again?”
    “Pose! Be yourself, but pose. Help him out.”
    “Help him out? He’s got me tied up here like a prisoner, and you want me to help him out?”
    “Would you do it, for me?”
    “Well, what’ll I do, darlin’?” queried the osprey. “Jump up and down? Clamor around like a parakeet? I’m new at this, you know.”
    “Pretend that you’re on top of the tallest sycamore tree you can think of,” said Celeste, hardly daring to whisper. “Like you’re just about to scream out across the river. Wings up! Look excited! Look dangerous! Look…