The Spindlers by Lauren Oliver

have dreamed … but who would want to hug a rat? Who would cuddle and coddle me, and tickle my ears? Rats are dirty , and filthy , and diseased ; they’re garbage diggers and bad-luck bringers .” It was obvious, from the way Mirabella spat out the words, that she had heard these insults many, many times.
    â€œThe most we can ever hope for is a broom in the eye,” Mirabella said. She whipped out her small golden compact and began furiously repowdering, creating such a storm of makeup that Liza could barely contain a sneeze. “Now if I had been born a cat,” Mirabella said, “it would be a different story. Oh, yes. A far different story. Cats, with their round little eyes and their tiny little noses and their cute, cuddly tummies and tails! Fine animals! Precious little things! Ha!”
    Mirabella abruptly turned and scampered forward once again into the thick network of fuzzy-mitten trees. Liza hurried to follow, and caught her toe on an enormous root that was protruding from the ground. For a moment she was falling, and then the broom went clattering from her grip, and then she landed on a pillowy pile of dark undergrowth.
    Liza sat up. Her pajama bottoms were now coated in green muck. Her mother would kill her. Liza let out a very small groan.
    Strangely, the forest groaned in response: a sound that soon swelled to a roar.
    The trees began to shake, and creak; and then, all around her, the tangle of branches began slowly to separate, like a jigsaw puzzle coming apart. And as the trees, like crooked fingers, straightened and withdrew, a narrow carpet of trimmed green moss was revealed, running toward a dazzling palace that seemed, from a distance, to be made of light. At the same time, the music surged in volume, as though it had previously been muffled by the mess of wild growth.
    Liza gaped. Mirabella let out a titter of laughter.
    â€œHow absolutely silly of me,” she said. “Here I was, gabbing away—and I almost entirely missed the palace gate. Come along now, come along.”

Chapter 8

T HE D ANCE OF THE N IDS
    â€œI t used to be that the balls were open to everybody,” Mirabella explained, as she hurried down the long green alley toward the palace. “The gates were never closed—not for hundreds and hundreds of years. Anyone and everyone was welcome to come and dance! Moles and nids, toads and tripoli. Even rats! Yes, yes. Even poor scruffy rats like me were allowed to attend.”
    â€œSo what happened?” Liza asked. She was trying very hard to listen to Mirabella and to memorize everything she was seeing: the trees, now dignified and perfectly straight, that lined the path on either side; the topiary bushes, trimmed to look like different animals; the dozens of lumpen nestled in the glossy tree leaves and glowing like tiny Christmas lights strung among the branches.
    Mirabella glanced around nervously. “It’s the spindlers,” she whispered. “Never know who’s on what side and which is playing for who. It’s made everybody anxious, you know. Now the nids are nids and the moles keep with the moles and the tripoli don’t hold truckle with anyone. Members only—orchestra and nids alone. And there is no more dancing for the rats, oh, no.”
    â€œThis is a shortcut, isn’t it?” Liza asked anxiously.
    Mirabella gave her an injured look, and only sniffed in reply.
    They were nearing the palace, and Liza could hardly keep from gasping. It appeared to be made of crystal, or quartz. Carved out of the translucent rock were an enormous series of pink and white spires and winding outdoor staircases, dazzling ramparts, and high towers. The palace stretched vastly upward, high as the highest skyscrapers Liza had ever seen or imagined—and in every corner, and on every peak and winding balcony, were more lumpen, lighting the palace with a dust-rose glow.
    The music was even louder now. It was the strangest music