A Tale of Two Castles by Gail Carson Levine Page B

would hold a donjon for supplies on the lowest floor and a residence above on the next two stories. The door on the wall to my right would open into the inner ward. The third door I couldn’t see, but it should be behind the screen in the corner ahead, and this would take me into the kitchen, across which I would find another door to another tower.
    Where to hide a dog? Perhaps in a tower or in the stables.
    Statues win no races and find no dogs. I should decide and go.
    The towers adjoining the hall would be most convenient to search, but also most dangerous in case I made a noise. I rejected them for now. Tonight I’d investigate the kitchen tower.
    I tiptoed behind the screen to the door, which groaned as it opened. I stopped breathing and waited, listening for sounds of waking.
    What would they do if they caught me?
    Silence. I slipped through and left the door ajar, so it wouldn’t groan on my return.
    Now I was in a short passageway; castle walls are so thick that rooms are separated by little tunnels. I entered the enormous kitchen, only slightly smaller than the great hall.
    Door on my right, but not the tower door. Dimly outlined shapes of tables, stools, benches, buckets. At last, to the left of the sink, the tower door.
    I pressed my ear against it. Through the thick wood, I thought I heard a thud and a whine. I pictured Nesspa, hiding from thudding feet, whining in fright.
    Of course the explanation was likely more innocent. The castle steward and his family, for example, could live above the donjon. Someone might have risen to use the garderobe and stubbed his toe.
    This door opened noiselessly. A stairway rose to my right. Ahead, beyond an open doorway, a light flickered in the donjon. Grain sacks piled twice my height faced me, parted by a narrow aisle. Except for the aisle, the sacks butted one another, leaving not enough room between them for a rat, let alone a big dog.
    The donjon wouldn’t contain just grain, however. I started down the aisle. After perhaps ten steps, the piles ended, and I saw a candle in a holder on the floor and a monstrous shadow flowing across rows of barrels, the shadow bigger by far than the ogre.
    I backed away. Don’t hear me! Don’t see me! Whatever sort of monster you are, be deaf and blind!
    Safely out the tower door, I sped through the kitchen and across the great hall to the servants’ pallets, where I turned about, looking for the biggest sleeper.
    There. I knelt at his side and shook his shoulder. He rolled over. I shook harder.
    He raised his head. “What?” Then he leaped up, tucking his blanket around his waist. He wasn’t as tall as he’d seemed from above, but he was muscular, with a hairy chest and a graying beard. He grasped my arm, whispering, “Who are you?”
    â€œSomeone is in the donjon.”
    â€œBy thunder, who are you?”
    â€œThe new kitchen maid.” I repeated, “Someone is in the kitchen tower donjon. Or something. It’s big.”
    His grip tightened. “How do you know?”
    â€œI know.” What else could I say? “I saw.”
    He half dragged, half lifted me out of the hall, making much more noise than I’d have dared. No one woke. In the kitchen he took a long knife from a chopping table. “This will do. By thunder, it will do for you if no one’s there.”
    â€œHurry!” I said, terrified of whatever was in the donjon and almost as terrified of this man.
    But at the doorway he paused, yanked me up to his height, my feet dangling. “The steward hired you? By thunder, I’ll—”
    â€œNot the steward.” My arm hurt! “The count said more help was needed for the feast. His Lordship brought me.”
    He let me go. I staggered sideways as he flung the tower door open. I pointed down the grain aisle at the glimmering light. He tugged me along.
    I saw the misshapen shadow again. He saw the person making the shadow.
    â€œYour