A Ceiling Made of Eggshells

  Dedication

  To my sister, Rani, and to my cousins Joe and Lucienne

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Gail Carson Levine

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Columbus sailed the ocean blue

  in fourteen hundred and ninety two,

  and in the self-same year, it’s true,

  Spain’s king and queen expelled the Jews.

  1483 CE, JEWISH YEAR 5243

  My younger brother, two-year-old Haim, sat on the carpet, watching the kittens with me. I was in charge of him while Mamá, who had baby Soli with her, worked in the kitchen and bossed around our cook, Aljohar. I loved being Haim’s little mamá, as my older sisters were my little mamás.

  Abruptly, the biggest kitten, the one I had named Goliath, curled himself into a ball in the middle of play with the others. I wasn’t alarmed. Kittens often slept suddenly.

  Haim reached his hand out to Goliath, but, fearing he’d be too rough, I guided the hand to my mouth and kissed his fingers. When I had my own babies someday, I would cover their hands with my kisses, too.

  Haim said, as if it were two words, “Kit-tens!”

  Mamá, with the baby on her hip, came to take him to bed. She was in one of her silent bad moods, not a yelling one—it was always one or the other. Haim jumped up and raised his hand for her to clasp. They left me.

  I continued to watch the kittens as I had done by the hour since they were born. Now two of them were suckling, but three were curled up, sleeping, including Goliath. None had ever missed a meal before. It was another warning, though, at seven, I was too young to realize.

  Soon, Mamá came for me, too. I followed her flickering oil lamp to the courtyard balcony, which led to all the upstairs rooms, including the bedroom I shared with my older sisters Vellida and Rica. Even Haim wouldn’t get lost, because the balcony made a big square, and no matter which way you went, you’d always come back to where you started. In the dimness, I couldn’t make out the tapestries on the walls or the floor tiles—412 green and 412 brown, which had taken me hours to count, because I kept having to start over. I loved to count.

  At intervals, Mamá burst out, “No one listens!” and “What I put up with!” and “Why!”

  Mamá’s Why was never really a question.

  In my bedroom, she said the nightly prayers with me, clipping every word, reminding me of the pop! pop! when grease spills on a fire.

  I climbed into bed, wondering if the Almighty minded her angry prayers. I didn’t want Him to punish her. Since He knew everything, He should know she was angry at everyone, not just Him and me.

  When Mamá left, she didn’t snuff out the pole lamp, knowing others would come soon.

  I prayed, as I did every night, for forgiveness for hating my brother Yuda. I hated him secretly, in my heart, and God utterly condemned heart-hatred. Yuda’s hatred for me, which was on his tongue, was a lesser offense.

  His tongue was bad enough. Rather than my name—Paloma, or my nickname, Loma—he called me Unblinking Lizard, based, he said, on my way of staring. In my mind, I called him Ugly Camel Head, because of his long eyelashes, full lips, smooth tan skin, and not much chin.

  To distract myself from thoughts of him, I counted by sevens while I waited for my abuela, my grandmother, whom we called Bela. She was soft-footed, and I strained to hear her in the corridor.

  The door creaked.

  I had failed again. When I was younger, I thought she could float in air, despite her plumpness. She was the shortest in our family, her head barely topping Belo’s chin. Belo was what we called our grandfather, our abuelo. To sit on my bed, Bela had to rise on tiptoe.

  I breathed ten times before she spoke. She always paused, seeming to know I liked a moment to get used to anyone’s presence.

  “Shall I tell you a story, little fritter?”

  “Yes, please.” I slid toward the middle of the bed to make room for her.

  She heaved up her legs, wriggled to me, and lifted her arm to let me snuggle. “This story is—”

  “—about a girl named Paloma who lived a long time ago in the kingdom of Naples.” I inhaled Bela’s cinnamon-and-rose perfume.

  “How do you know?” she said with mock surprise.

  I giggled. All her tales started the same way. Bela’s sister lived in Naples, and every story took place there.

  “Was she Jewish?” I said, though I knew.

  “Of course she was. She—”

  The door creaked again, and Belo filled the doorway—or seemed to fill it. He always appeared larger than he was.

  Bela slipped off the bed, and they met halfway between the bed and the door.

  I stood, too, to show respect—and, with my feet planted, I felt less afraid.

  They were hugging! He had just returned from a trip somewhere. I knew only that he’d had an audience with the king and queen. He and Bela lived with us—or we lived with them, because he owned our house. He kissed the top of her head.

  Then he loomed over me, his smile for Bela lingering.

  No one in our family was tall, but he seemed to be and seemed heavyset though he was slender. The deception lay in his pulled-back shoulders and in the flow of his robe, which he let hang open, revealing his silk doublet and heavy gold chain necklace. His beard, which he kept combed and trimmed to two inches below his chin, was brown and gray. He was only fifty-one, though he seemed ancient. His wisdom was renowned. Even I knew he’d written two biblical commentaries and three books of philosophy.

  “What did you learn today, Loma?”

  I hadn’t learned anything! “The kittens sleep a lot.” But I’d known that since the day after they were born.

  He frowned. “What else?”

  My stomach knotted.

  “Don’t grill her, Joseph!”

  They were arguing! I had created discord, which I hated.

  But Belo’s face relaxed. “I’ll be in my study, Esther. Come soon.” He patted my shoulder and left.

  Esther was Bela’s name, after the queen in the Bible. She and I returned to our spots on the bed.

  “He didn’t mean to frighten you, fritter.” She stroked my forehead. “Your abuelo is a great thinker who doesn’t always think. He frightened your papá, too, when he was your age.”

  This astonished me.

  She added, “H
e’ll be nicer when he knows you better.”

  He’d known me my whole life!

  “You’re still a new arrival, and you’re different every day. You’re growing almost as fast as the kittens”—she tapped my scalp—“and you’re changing in here.” She returned to stroking. “Even I’m not sure who my fritter will be tomorrow.”

  I moved away from her hand and sat up. “Will Vellida’s husband be nice?” My older sister was eleven. Soon Papá would find a husband for her. My oldest sister, Ledicia, who was eighteen, had been married for years and had two children: my niece, Beatriz, and my nephew, baby Todros.

  “What does nice mean, fritter?”

  Not like Yuda. “Kind.”

  “Kind, certainly. And your husband will be kind and gentle. God willing, I’ll see to that.”

  I settled against her again. “Will we have a good life?”

  “You’ll have many happy, healthy children. Fritter, you’ll be a mother beyond compare.”

  That’s what I wanted most: to be a mother. Yes, beyond compare.

  “I see that in you. You’ll live in a house like this one, and when you’re my age, you’ll tell your own fritters stories every night.”

  “Will we be safe?”

  “My sweet plum, Jews have lived in Spain for over a thousand years. We’re in Spain, and Spain is in us. Sometimes the gentiles behave badly. We wait, and times get better.” She chucked my chin affectionately. “Are you ready for the story?”

  I said I was.

  “King Solomon, who was visiting Naples, wanted to marry the beautiful Paloma, but she would consent only if he first made her a ceiling of eggshells . . .”

  I laughed at the silliness, imagining egg white dripping on King Solomon. My eyes closed themselves. How many eggs would be needed to make a ceiling? I began counting and slipped into sleep.

  But I woke briefly when Bela moved on the bed as she prepared to leave. “Did she get her ceiling, Bela? Was there a happy ending?”

  “The eggshell ceiling was painted in many colors. It was as beautiful and surprising”—she shook her head, smiling—“and even as improbable as we Jews are in Spain. The ceiling never fell down. After her troubles, that long-ago Paloma had such a good life—many healthy children, who were her reward for doing her best.”

  Satisfied, I slept. As usual, I neither heard nor felt Vellida and Rica slide in next to me.

  The next morning, when I entered the dining room with my sisters, there were no kittens. The benches that had penned them in were stacked in the corner.

  I arrived at the conclusion I wanted: The kittens had grown too big to be confined. They were now roaming free, hunting rats.

  I went to the trestle table, on which rested barley bread and farmer cheese. When I’d put a big slice of bread and an even bigger chunk of cheese into a pewter bowl, I joined my brother Samuel, who sat on a bench. He moved to make room for me, although there already was room. Pleased, I smiled at him as I sat. He didn’t smile back.

  Yuda came in and did smile at me. My breath became shallow. A smile from him didn’t bode well. After he cut his own bread and cheese, he ambled over.

  “Lizard, I threw a reale on the kittens of blessed memory.”

  A reale was a silver coin, and “blessed memory” was what you said about the dead, but I didn’t let the words sink in. “Why would you throw anything at them? Did you hurt them?”

  Samuel’s hand found mine.

  “They are past pain,” Yuda said piously.

  Meaning broke on me. A lump rose in my throat. I might have created discord then—even kicked him—but fear of him stopped me. My sin of heart-hatred grew.

  2

  Samuel had let my hand go, but I seized his and squeezed. I held the tears in, and, I believe, kept my face serene. That night, however, I sobbed in Bela’s arms.

  “They were good kittens,” she said.

  I hiccupped. “I wish they could have lived long enough to kill a rat. Just one.” I wasn’t greedy on their behalf.

  She kissed my forehead. “Their mother lived. She’ll have other kittens.”

  She wouldn’t have another Goliath, not exactly.

  After Bela left, I was still awake. A few weeks earlier, an old woman in the aljama—our Jewish community in Alcalá de Henares, where we lived—had died. Belo had talked at dinner about what happens to dead people. He said no one knew for sure, except that they were with God, but that, according to legend, they couldn’t bend their elbows and so couldn’t feed themselves. If they were good, they fed each other. If they were bad, they starved.

  Smiling, I pictured the kittens feeding each other.

  The next morning, I woke up shivering under my sheet, with what seemed like spikes drilling into my skull. The bed was empty. My sisters had risen before me, which had never happened before.

  Mamá came in, carrying blankets, which she tucked around me. “Now God does this to me. Your abuela will bring you broth.” She left, saying over her shoulder, “Your worthless brother is sick, too.”

  She meant Yuda, who got the worst of her, more than I did, more than any of us.

  Bela came in. “Drink, little fritter.” She propped me up in bed.

  The broth had no flavor. I drank anyway, hoping to please her and make her look less stern.

  “Good. Lift your arm for me, please.”

  I did, even though it hurt. She breathed in sharply.

  “What?” I said.

  “A pimple. That’s all.” She removed her pendant and hung its velvet string around my neck.

  I’d never seen her without the pendant, a triangle made of red stone set in silver, which now rested on my belly. Etched into the stone were four Hebrew letters that stood for God. She always wore another necklace, too—the Cantala family dressed well. Today, her other necklace was a string of pearls from which hung a sapphire set in a gold circle.

  “The amulet gives the evil eye something to look at other than you.” She lay next to me, curling herself around me and spreading her arm across my chest. “Warm up, fritter. Pretend you’re in a frying pan, gently simmering, gently simmering, gently simmering.” The repetition took on the cadence of a prayer.

  The frying pan failed to warm me. I passed into delirium.

  It never snowed where we lived, but in my fevered dream, I stood in a shallow cave while a blizzard raged outside. At my feet, a weak fire wavered and kept me from freezing. Against the cave wall the kittens sat on their haunches and waved their front legs.

  Brush grew at the mouth of the cave. I knew what I had to do and hurried back and forth, carrying twigs to feed the fire, certain that if it died I would, too. When I threw on the wood, I was aware of my elbows bending and straightening, meaning I still lived.

  On my tenth trip, I glimpsed a figure beyond the cave—

  Belo!

  Snow mounded on his round cap and collected on his shoulders. He stood still, like a boulder, with only his eyes moving, searching. When they found me, they glared. I backed away.

  But I didn’t want to die! So, despite my fear, I returned to the fire and continued my task. Eleven trips, twelve. Counting tied me to life, too.

  A flame ignited in my chest, which I fed from glowing embers at the edge of the fire. Gradually, I warmed. And slept.

  Fatima, our maid of all work, stood over our bed, bearing a tray.

  “You’re awake?” she asked.

  I was staring at her. Didn’t that mean I was awake? I swallowed. “Where’s Bela?” Probably busy. I tried to sit up but collapsed back. Bela’s amulet, which had been nestling in the hollow of my throat, slid lower on my chest.

  Fatima’s eyes swam, as if she were close to tears. “Are you hungry?”

  I discovered that I was and nodded.

  She put the tray next to me on the bed and came around to the other side, where she raised me up, turned my pillow to vertical, and leaned it and me against the headboard.

  She touched my cheek. “I’ll say you’re awake.�
��

  “You’ll tell Bela?”

  But she exited without answering, leaving the door open behind her.

  My stomach grumbled. I turned to the tray, on which rested a shallow pewter bowl containing lentils, three hard-boiled eggs, and olives. We ate round food after someone died, but we also ate these foods when no one had died, so I didn’t think of death.

  I poked the lentils with my fork and estimated forty-two. Then I counted them. Forty-two.

  They were half burned, and I wondered why, since Aljohar was the best cook in the judería, the neighborhood where we Jews had to live. Bitter as the lentils were, I ate them all and everything else. I could have eaten as much again. With food in me, I was able to lean away from the pillow. I decided not to wait for someone to come and slid off the bed—

  —onto the floor, because my legs wouldn’t support me. Though I tried to use the bed hangings to pull myself back up, I was too weak. I didn’t call out. No troubling anyone. No discord.

  I heard birdsong from the myrtle bush outside our window and smelled its flowers. How long had I slept? Had Don Israel, the physician, been called for me? Would Yuda punish me for getting special attention?

  The door opened, and Belo stood on the threshold. His eyes were always intent, but now they bored into me. What had I done? His beard was uncombed and his robe, a faded green one, had been torn on the right side of his chest. We Jews ripped our clothing when someone close to us died, to express our sadness. Was he mourning the kittens?

  I didn’t ask. I couldn’t question Belo.

  He shuffled to me like an old man, though he usually walked briskly. To my astonishment, he joined me on the floor, put an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me close. Ordinarily, he smelled of the almond oil Bela gave him for his beard, but now he smelled sour.

  “Don Israel said no one could be as sick as you were and live.” He let go of my shoulders and cupped my cheeks in both his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I watched you. You hardened your face, as if you had work to do. Your hands and feet never stopped moving. Do you remember?”

  I nodded, hoping I wouldn’t have to speak.

  “What do you remember?”

  I swallowed and told him about my dream. “I think I went back and forth to get twigs twenty-three times.”