The Spindlers by Lauren Oliver Page A

Liza had ever heard: It seemed to be made of gasps and whispers, and babbling-water sounds, as well as of stringed instruments and high, fluting voices.
    â€œNow let me see, let me see …,” Mirabella was muttering. “If we just cut around the palace, we’ll be a hop, skip, and a jump from the River of Knowledge, and from there we shouldn’t be far from the Twin Mountains....”
    As they began skirting around the palace, the music swelled louder. Its strains reached out and wove themselves around Liza, freezing her in place.
    Come closer , the music seemed to say. Come dance .
    It was as though it had reached inside her and was tugging her toward the palace; unconsciously, she moved across the soft moss carpet toward the enormous vaulted palace windows. “Just a quick look,” she said, more to herself than to the rat.
    The windows were low enough that she could easily peer through them without straining onto her tiptoes, and they were made of the thinnest, prettiest glass Liza had ever seen—pink-tinged, like the rest of the palace walls, and full of bubbles and imperfections that slightly distorted the view of the palace inside.
    And what a palace it was. It took Liza’s breath away; it made her insides ache, as though the music had just plucked the core of her, like a string.
    The hall stretched vastly into the distance and was carved with so many ornate surfaces and mirrors, it made Liza dizzy to look at. There were pale white branches in beautiful crystal vases arranged at intervals along the floor, in which hundreds of lumpen were resting, filling the hall with a soft, golden light. The ceiling was actually a vast and complex system of roots, which had been whittled and polished until they shone like dark amber.
    The orchestra was clustered on a raised platform directly in front of the window to which Liza had pressed her nose. Liza blinked several times, and then pinched herself, to make sure she had not accidentally gone to sleep and begun dreaming.
    But no. She was not dreaming. The maestro, a mole, was directing an orchestra of bullfrogs and crickets, hummingbirds, and one very large, very grumpy-looking animal that Liza thought might be a badger.
    The mole stood on a chair, gesturing broadly with a baton. It was dressed elegantly in pants and coattails, which were so long they pooled on the floor. All the animals were dressed elegantly, in fact, although the crickets wore nothing but top hats perched rakishly on their heads, and the effect of the frogs’ outfits was somewhat ruined by the fact that they were spotted with moisture.
    The crickets sang; the hummingbirds beat their wings against tiny bells; the frogs croaked out a rhythm; and every so often, the badger sang out a great, deep, throaty roar, which intermingled with the other notes perfectly and sent a shiver up Liza’s spine.
    â€œBeautiful, isn’t it?” Mirabella whispered. Liza jumped; she had not realized that the rat had approached the window. Tears welled up in the rat’s eyes. “I’ve always loved this piece. It reminds me of the days … but no matter, no matter. Things are different now.”
    â€œWhere are the nids?” Liza whispered back. “I don’t see any.”
    â€œOh, they’ll be along shortly,” Mirabella said. “The party’s just getting started. See? Here comes the master of ceremonies now.”
    â€œThe master of ceremonies?” Liza pressed as close to the glass as she could; she wished she could pass directly through it and into the beautiful room, and dance and sway with the music. Dimly she was aware of a rhythm drumming through her: Patrick, Patrick, Patrick , it said. But the rhythm of the hummingbirds and crickets drowned it out quickly and swirled Patrick’s name into her subconscious.
    Mirabella said in an excited whisper, “Look! See? He’s climbing the stairs.”
    In one corner of the gigantic room was