Ella and the Panther's Quest

by Lisa Anne Nisula

  Mistress Leone did not give me much time to look at the doors. She lit a branch of candles on the table beside the hall door and held it up to illuminate the painting on the wall behind us.

  “He was two when that was painted.”

  I stepped further into the hallway and turned around to look more closely. It was a family scene, the mother seated, her pale blue gown flowing around her, holding the small prince. The father stood behind them, stiff and straight, making his velvet and linen look like a uniform. The mother had black hair. Her eyes could not be seen, since she was looking down at her son. The child had the same black hair. He was reaching for something outside the edge of the frame. While the mother and child were entwined, the father could have been painted at another time and place. He looked directly at the child, but he was formal and remote, one hand resting on the chair back, the other behind his back.

  “Is it very like them?”

  “His Highness always felt the artist made it very flat.”

  I agreed with that assessment, but it didn’t answer my question, and I didn’t think I’d get a better answer. I turned away from the picture and saw that one of the doors was open a few inches. While Mistress Leone was distracted putting out the candles, I did my best to see the room.

  It was a bedroom, with a bed as large as the one in my room, piled with cushions and blankets. The open window looked out over the gardens, the view slightly blocked by a large telescope. The walls were hung with paintings and shelves filled with objets d’arts. Books were piled on the floor by the bed and on the table by the window. Papers were scattered over the dresser, held down by small statues and knick knacks. It was a jumble, no definite style or place, not a guest room, but one decorated specifically for the taste of the owner. The room of a traveler, I decided, filled with memories of trips and souvenirs of favorite places.

  The candlelight went out and I knew I had to leave. I doubted Mistress Leone would like me snooping in the master’s room.

  Once we were out in the main hallway, Mistress Leone pulled the door closed tightly behind us and locked it at once. She spent a bit of time carefully arranging the curtain so it hid the door again.

  “Thank you for showing me the painting.”

  Mistress Leone nodded. “I will have lunch brought to the morning room, for a change.”

  Clearly, she did not want to talk about the master anymore, so I let it drop. As I watched Mistress Leone disappear downstairs, I tried to sort out what all of this told me about the master, about the castle, and about the curse. Not much that I hadn’t already known, I decided. So much for accomplishing anything this morning. I had hoped to have something worthwhile to tell Footstool when I had to apologize for not watching Mrs. Boswell, to make myself feel better if nothing else. I gave up and went down to the morning room.

  Cheese sandwiches and green salad had been laid out for lunch. I did not think it would have taken Mrs. Boswell half the morning to prepare that, even for the entire staff. I hoped giving in to the hints to leave hadn’t made it harder for Footstool.

  I gathered up a plate and sat by the window. I was too distracted to read, so I stared out the window as I ate, letting my mind drift over the morning. I might not have learned much about the curse or the castle, but I suspected I had learned something about my place in the household during my adventures. Mrs. Boswell had been much more forthcoming the last time I’d spoken to her, but I couldn’t tell if the change had happened because she had said too much before, and if that was the case, who had decided what was too much, or if she had become suspicious of me. Clara seemed to trust me. I was pretty certain she had trusted me all along, although I didn’t understand why. And I didn’t think Phoebe trusted me at all. Mistress Leone was more of a puzzle. I didn’t think she trusted me, but she was willing to share information; she had shown me the picture, after all.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe she was trying to make me sympathetic to the prince, to what had happened to him, so I would take their side. That made sense. I got another sandwich from the tray. If that was Mistress Leone’s motive, it seemed like there should be a way for me to use it to our advantage, but I had no idea what that was.

  *

  As lunch was being cleared, I decided to go back to watching Mrs. Boswell. I’d wasted a good bit of the day, but maybe it wouldn’t be a complete washout.

  But walking down the kitchen stairs I realized that, if Mrs. Boswell was the one feeding Panther, it would all be done by now, lunch served and cleared. And she had gotten rid of me in plenty of time to prepare something for him. I sighed and pushed open the kitchen door. Maybe I could distract Mrs. Boswell while she made dinner.

  But dinner wouldn’t be for hours, and I was already in the kitchen when I’d figured that out. I stood at the foot of the stairs, wishing I’d gotten through that line of reasoning faster; coming back for the third time in one day would definitely look odd.

  But the kitchen seemed empty. I was about to make a dash for the door when I heard, “Do you want something, miss?”

  Too late, then. I turned.

  It was Clara, standing in one of the pantry doors.

  Even though I had just eaten, I felt I really should request something. It was the easiest way to explain why I was in the kitchen. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on. Did you find Mistress Leone?”

  I remembered that Clara had always been very helpful. Maybe the afternoon wouldn’t be a total waste. “Yes, thanks for the advice. But she only had a portrait of him as a child.”

  Clara nodded. “I’d have told you about it, but it’s outside his room, and I know Mistress Leone doesn’t like to let people near there.”

  “I understand. Do you know of any other pictures? More recent ones?”

  Clara shook her head. “Not here. He liked that picture of his mother, so he kept it with him. As far as I know, all the others are formal portraits, and those are all at the castle.” The kettle came to a boil and Clara brought it to the table.

  “Would you join me?”

  Clara looked around. “Well, the others will be at lunch for a little while longer.” She brought a second cup and a plate of scones over and sat down across from me.

  “How’s your burn doing?”

  Clara looked down at her arm. “Much better. Still a little tender, but Mistress Leone is taking good care of me. Try the scones; Mrs. Boswell is known for her fig scones. I could write down the recipe for you, if you’d like.”

  I helped myself to a scone. “If it wouldn’t get you in trouble, then yes, I’d like that.” I decided to try a little fishing. “Is the painting very like them?”

  Clara was much more willing to talk than the others in the house. She seemed genuinely disappointed when she said, “I don’t know. I never met the last Prince and Princess. They’d been gone almost five years before I came.”

  So much for that line of questioning. I tried again. “What was he like?”

  Clara smiled. “You’ve never seen anything so brave. That night, when Crawa was coming, he was just like something out of a book, all strong and stoic, even when Crawa got here.” She bit her lip and murmured, “You’d never have known he was going to his death, but I think he did.”

  I wanted to distract Clara from that moment. I latched onto something else useful. “You mean you saw Crawa?”

  “Oh, yes. Like I said, I was in the last group to leave. We stayed to be certain he was all right while he waited.” She hesitated.

  I led her back. “What was Crawa like?”

  “Terrifying.” Clara seemed quite comfortable to be describing this horror. “He hadn’t left his tower in our lifetime, and he’d spent all that time hunched over his desk at his dark experiments. He was stooped, like he was still bent over his studies. His robes were covered in dust, and he had cobwebs growing from his hair and his beard.” Clara shivered, but I could tell she was enjoying herself. “When he went to open the door, I saw his hand. It was thin as
bone, and the skin was yellow and dry like parchment. And he cackled when he talked, like he hadn’t said a word in decades. You wouldn’t think he could stand up to the likes of out master, but Crawa had been gathering his dark power over the years, hoarding it to use against our Prince. You know the first thing Prince Nathaniel did when we knew Crawa was coming? He made certain the last of us were getting away to safety.”

  Clara paused, and I knew I was supposed to respond. “A very caring master.”

  Clara nodded. “He made certain we were safe, then went to face Crawa alone. When we saw Sagessa come, we thought it would be all right; but you know the rest, as much as any of us, I suppose.”

  I nodded and picked up my cup, but the tea was cold.

  I could see that the end of the story had upset Clara, not that I blamed her. She stood up. “Mrs. Boswell will be wanting me soon. Did you need anything else?”

  I didn’t want to be in Clara’s way. “No, thank you. And thank you for the story. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

  “It’s good to talk about it, and everyone here, well, you’ve seen. If I think of anything else, maybe you’d like another cuppa sometime?”

  “I would.”

  We heard Mrs. Boswell in the kitchen hallway. Clara cleared up the teacups and I slipped up the stairs.

  Chapter 15

  I went straight from the kitchen to the library. It was empty when I got there. I picked up my book and curled up in the armchair to think about what Clara had told me. The description of Crawa should have been comforting: bent over, old, even dusty. But it wasn’t. I couldn’t shake the thought that Clara was right when she’d said he was conserving his power, waiting to use it to get what he wanted.

  At least I’d learned something about what to expect, I told myself. And I had kept Mistress Leone in the house during the critical lunch time. Maybe my day hadn’t been a total waste, and maybe I’d managed to help Footstool a little bit.

  My chat with Clara had taken up some of the afternoon, but I still had hours before dinner. I wanted to talk to Footstool, tell him what I’d discovered, and find out if he’d learned anything. Of course, it was much too early to find him. I tried to read my book, but I was too distracted. Every few sentences I came up with something new to worry about. What if Clara reported our conversation and got in trouble? What if it got both of us in trouble? What if Footstool got caught? And there was the constant worry about Crawa. The bits of the story I was reading between my worrying got muddled, and I could barely keep the characters straight. After an hour, I had gotten no further in my book or in my worrying. I decided to go upstairs to dress for dinner. It was early, but, I thought, not early enough to cause too many questions. I could spend some time looking through the closet. Maybe it would kill a bit more time.

  *

  I assumed that Footstool would follow Grigsby until there was no chance he’d go to Panther, and I wasn’t expecting to see him until bedtime. So I was surprised when I opened the door to my room and Footstool sprang up from his place by the fire. He pranced over to me.

  I could only think of one reason he’d give up the search early. “Did you find Panther?”

  Footstool danced a few steps in front of me, then stopped for a moment, just long enough to very clearly nod his head up and down, then pranced a bit more in celebration.

  I wanted to dance a few steps myself. “Is he all right? Can you lead me to him? Tonight, when everyone is asleep.”

  Footstool nodded then skittered into the next room. I was too excited to sit still, and went to the closet to change for dinner without waiting for Phoebe. I pulled the first velvet thing I put my hand on out of the wardrobe. It was a very useful long black cloak. I hung it in the front of the wardrobe where I could find it again easily. With a little more care, I took out another dress. By the time Phoebe arrived, I was already getting my laces undone. It was trickier than I had thought, but not impossible to do alone. Phoebe looked a bit perplexed, but said nothing as she finished undoing the dress in a few quick movements.

  “You wished to wear this dress, my lady?”

  I realized I’d have to be more careful. The staff was probably watching me for any sign of odd behavior. I was still on trial, even if it was a very comfortable court room. “Yes, I was looking through the closet and I wanted to try it.” I tried to throw a surreptitious glance at the dress, hoping it was tasteful, or at least appropriate. I’d hate for Phoebe to think I didn’t like what had been chosen for me, or that I had bad taste.

  But I was safe. I doubted anything in the house had been done in anything less than the very best style. The dress was blue silk, a little brighter and fancier than I normally wore, with more sparkle and heavier trim, but I could say I wanted to try a little more luxury while I had the chance, to see if it suited me.

  Phoebe did not comment further, but laced me in and arranged my hair with more flourish than usual, matching the style of the dress. She also took out a pair of high heeled shoes with what could very well have been diamond buckles, but I drew the line there. “I’m afraid I’d trip and ruin some of this finery.”

  Phoebe put back the shoes and took out the flat black velvet slippers I had worn the night before.

  *

  In the dining room, I had no idea what I ate from the dishes that were brought to the table and removed almost untouched. Most of my mind was occupied with Panther, wondering how he was, where he was, and how we would sneak out to see him. I didn’t realize how distracted I was until I caught a glimpse of the footman’s expression as he leaned over my shoulder and took away my barely touched plate. I realized I didn’t know what had been on the plate he had taken away, and that I was causing concern, which meant questions, and worse, doubts.

  I yawned. Maybe I could make them believe my odd behavior was all due to sleepiness. They would understand that, and maybe they wouldn’t worry. It would even explain why I was not planning on spending the evening in the library.

  By dessert, I managed to relax enough to convincingly let my head loll to the side, so I looked like I was falling asleep in my chair. I considered skipping dessert all together, but Mrs. Boswell’s honey and fig tart looked too good to miss.

  Apparently my behavior had been noticed. Mistress Leone came into the dining room just as I was finishing my slice of tart. “Shall I have a fire in the library lit, my lady?”

  I shook my head and tried to force another yawn. “No, I think I’d better go right to my room. Maybe I’ll read in bed a bit.”

  “Yes, my lady, I’ll have Phoebe prepare your room and bring your book.”

  *

  In my room, I got rid of Phoebe as quickly as I could, then changed from my nightgown back into the dress I’d worn that afternoon. I sat near my bedroom fire, hoping it would help my hair dry before I went out in the cold, and picked up my book. We would have to wait for everyone to be in their rooms for the night before we could sneak downstairs. I opened the book and tried to read.

  It didn’t work. I kept glancing over at the clock. I usually read in the library for an hour or two, and there were always people awake and about.

  I looked over at Footstool. “Do you think it will be safe by midnight?”

  Footstool looked up at me and shook a little. No.

  “One?”

  He seemed to consider it and nodded.

  I sighed and picked up my book again. I would have no trouble staying up, but the book was doing nothing to keep me from worrying. Between paragraphs I worried about being caught, locked out, finding nothing, finding Panther with many guards, and being seen from a window.

  Surely it was time by now. I looked up at the clock. 10:30. I was usually still down in the library now, and it never seemed to take as long as this.

  An hour later, I put the book aside. I didn’t want to read about heroes, not when I was going to be doing something semi-heroic and felt cowardly. The only heroic thing I’d done was to go through the mirror the second time, and that wasn’t even pa
rticularly heroic. I kept telling myself I’d done it because of those sad eyes watching, and they were part of it. A big part. But I’d also done it to prove to myself that I was right, that I had solved the puzzle of getting Panther out of the cage. That was the problem with me; I picked at tangles until I got them sorted out, whether it was yarn or jewelry or a mental problem like the hedge.

  And there was an even less heroic reason. I’d wanted to get away from my routine, my job, the same dreary people, the same dull tasks, the same rooms full of students who knew they didn’t have to listen to me. Thinking about it, it seemed like a substitute life.

  I got to my feet and went to check my knitting bag, trying to pull my thoughts out of that spiral. “Can’t call this place dull.”

  Footstool turned to look at me, one corner raised.

  “Don’t worry, just talking to myself.” I sat on the bed and listened to the sounds of the servants downstairs. The thick walls didn’t let me hear very much, but a little after I heard the hall clock chime midnight, the house fell silent.

  “Should we risk it?”

  Footstool clattered over to the door and pressed against the gap at the bottom. He bounced up and down once.

  I took the black cloak from the wardrobe and wrapped myself in it. I thought it might hide me from a casual glance. I knew I couldn’t hide Footstool under the cloak with me; he had to be able to walk so he could guide me. I hoped he was small enough to escape notice if someone looked around a corner or out of a window.

  Chapter 16

  I stepped into the hall and held the door open so Footstool could slip out beside me. As he moved from the carpeted bedroom to the passage, his feet scraped softly on the wood floor. I froze, but no one in the household seemed to hear.

  I knew I was being silly as I eased the door closed and followed Footstool down the hall. The clicks of his wooden feet hitting the floor weren’t loud enough to travel through the thick walls, and even if someone did hear him, they would think it was a chair sliding back. At least I hoped that was what they would think as I followed Footstool down the hallway, his feet clicking all the way, me turning to examine every billowing curtain or strong shadow.