A Nest for Celeste by Henry Cole Page B

missing pane afforded her the chance of catching a passing breeze, and from her perch she could see the comings and goings ofthe plantation below.
    Celeste felt contented after days of hard work. She straightened one last picture, fluffed up a sofa cushion, and then at last made her way to her bedroom.
    Beams of a peach-colored sunset washed across the wallpaper, and the tiny room glowed with coppery peonies and amber hyacinths. A breeze, fragrant with ripening grapes from the garden arbor, drifted through the missing windowpane.
    Celeste could now see out the window from her perch on the bed. Over and beyond the treetops lay an expanse of sunset-drenched lawn and fields and forest. Even the dusty windowpanes couldn’t dull the brilliant scene as Celeste lay on her soft, cottony bed. She nibbled on a watermelon seed, staring in rapture at the landscape stretching so far. A mockingbird was singing in the nearby magnolia.
    She missed Joseph. She wished Cornelius or Lafayette were there.

    At that moment there were two feelings inside Celeste’s tiny, rapidly beating heart that made her feel as full, and as empty, as a gourd. The sheer beauty of this moment was perfect and sublime. But she was alone.
    The golden edges of the clouds faded to soft pinks, then to gray blues; and finally the sky darkened. A few stars appeared. Celeste crawled under the soft blanket, tucking her nose under her paw, and sank into sleep.

 
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A Homecoming of Sorts
    W hen she awoke, Celeste realized that laboring over her chores had worked up an appetite. She gathered two baskets and headed down the attic stairs and through the knothole.
    The hallway was dark. Celeste scampered past Joseph’s room, then quickly stopped. Her ears flicked, her whiskers quivered, and her heart felt a sudden fullness. Was that the sound of hispencil sketching? She felt dispirited when she realized it was just the distant ticking of the hallway clock downstairs.
    The dining room seemed unusually still. There were leftover crumbs and bits dotted across the carpet, but certainly no bounty. The dining-room carpet had been swept. She sniffed the air for traces of cat.
    Ducking beneath the sideboard for a short rest, she let out a tiny cry of surprise. The hole was no longer there: A short wooden board had been nailed to the wall, sealing off the entrance, and the emergency escape route, forever.
    She evenly distributed her meager spoils between the two baskets, securing the straps across her shoulders. She studied the dining room and then ran cautiously toward the stairs.
    The looming clock suddenly struck five, startling Celeste so that she left tiny claw marks in the waxy patina of the oak floorboard. Her heart beat furiously.Some inner feeling was nagging at her. She sniffed the air again and again. Her whiskers twitched nonstop.
    The journey across the hall, up the newel post and the stair rail seemed routine now, although still arduous. But there was a faint feline odor hanging in the air. Her dark eyes pierced the dim hallway, but there was no other sign of the cat.
    Celeste reached the end of the upstairs hallway, then stopped in her tracks. The scent of cat fur and cat paws and cat breath quickly thickened, like a soupy mist moving in off the river. She saw it now: the dark, cloudy shape of the cat crouched and waiting, staring motionlessly at the knothole in the attic door, between Celeste and home. The cat didn’t see or hear Celeste. It seemed completely fascinated by the hole in the door.
    Celeste hid as best as she could in the shadow of a bookcase that stood against the wall. She waited.
    Rescue came in the unlikely form of Eliza Pirrie.

    There was a swishing sound from the hallway downstairs and then continuing up the steps. Celeste pressed her body against the bookcase as Eliza glided by, inches away.
    “There you are, Puss!” she exclaimed, hurrying to gather up the gray cat, who glared at her from the base of the attic door. “You’ve