I followed them as the man led his gaggle of excitable children down two narrow alleys until they reached a rosy coloured building with a big red front door. The tied back curtains in the windows of the upper floors had been mended several times and the windows themselves were thrown open to tempt a cool breeze inside.
“Looks like we’re just in time,” said the man, his voice sounding sensuous, seemingly without him even meaning for it to.
The smell of a good home cooked meal was in the air and filling the alley fast. The man opened the front door and watched as the children filed in. As the last one did, he looked up, directly at where I was hiding behind a corner. He smiled right at me, before disappearing inside the building. Had he known I’d been following them the whole time? I edged forward, down the now empty street, towards the front door which had been left suspiciously open. On a brass nameplate next to it read the words: ‘Mother’s Home for Lost Children—All Welcome’
A wave of calm came over me as I stood there on the doorstep. Everything was fine. Lunch was ready.
Stepping through the front door, I found myself in a wide front hall, with a shelf along one wall filled with dozens of pairs of shoes. Two doors stood open on either side of the hall, leading to the front rooms of the building. Directly ahead, along the right wall was a thin staircase leading up and behind it was another open door. Sounds of chattering children and the smell of lunch, emanated from that direction. A long wooden table surrounded by mismatched chairs could be seen through the doorway.
I hesitated. I was already trespassing, and the man may have smiled at me but he hadn’t invited me inside. But the smell was making my mouth water and my stomach growl. Biting my lip, I approached the door, already formulating an excuse for my presence.
The kitchen room in the back of the house was long, the space mostly taken up by the wooden table. At least two dozen children or more, ranging in age from toddlers to older teens, were seated around it, passing each other bread and drinks. They laughed and joked; a ramshackle family made up of those who no longer had one of their own.
The blond man who had been with the children at the pool was reclined in a chair at one of the table's corners, his long legs resting on a frayed footstool. Taller than the chair, he was slouched, and staring at the ceiling with his neck resting on the chair’s back.
Up close, he wasn’t nearly as attractive as he’d first appeared down by the canal. His golden hair was more greasy than shiny, and there were dark purple circles under his bloodshot blue eyes. There was a white stick hanging loosely from his chapped lips, and at first I thought he was smoking. Then the stick rolled from one side to the other with a flash of bright purple between his lips, and I realised he was actually sucking on a lollypop.
“You’ll ruin your dinner,” a feminine voice scolded him.
At the far end of the room, a short woman stood on a stool, her attention focused on the many pots and pans on the cooker in front of her. Her hair was a brilliant rose red and tied back with a spotted scarf. There was a pleasant, curvy roundness to her, but one couldn't call her fat. Her skin was fair and slightly freckled, and when she turned to address one of the children helping her pass plates around, she spoke gently through brightly painted lips that matched her fiery hair.
When I entered the room, the woman spoke again and there was no doubt that it was me she was addressing.
“Take a seat dear,” she said, her voice sounding not just like a mother, but the mother of everyone who’d ever lived. It was a voice full of endless warmth and comfort. For me though, it sounded completely foreign. “Lunch is almost ready.”
“Pardon?” I asked, stumbling a little over my words. An invitation to a meal had been the last thing I’d been expecting.
“It’s lunchtime,” replied the woman. “Get these on the table will you, Vice?”
The blond man stood without a word, lollipop stick still clenched in pearly white teeth. He towered over the cooking woman and started transferring the dishes from the stove top to the table. The older children stood to help, then started serving their younger neighbours until everyone’s plate was full.
“What do you say?” asked Vice.
“Thank you, Mother!” chorused the children, before they tucked into their meal.
The woman stepped off her stool, and removed her apron, hanging it up next to the cooker. She smiled welcomingly at me as she approached, all rosy cheeks and bright eyes.
“There’s plenty to go around, dear. Always a place for someone new.”
And so there was. The previously-full table now seemed to have a new place, with an empty red chair squeezed between the others.
“Go on dear,” the woman encouraged with a smile. Just being around her was making me feel comfortable. “What kind of a mother would I be if I picked which of my children got to eat and which didn’t? You’re in my house dear, you can have my lunch.”
She guided me to the free seat. As soon as I sat down, the children were passing me buttered rolls, the older ones chatting to me as though I’d been there all along.
In front of me, a delicious spread had been laid out. Soft bread rolls, fresh salads, and centre place a massive cook pot filled to the brim with a hearty stew made with thick cuts of beef and bacon, perfectly cooked vegetables all tied together with creamy gravy. It was simple food, but it was the food of home. Whose home? Everyone’s home, or so it felt, even though I’d never eaten like this before. Any meal shared with my family had always felt awkwardly formal and tense.
The children around the table ate their fill from plates and bowls that never seemed to empty. No matter how many times voices cried for ‘seconds!’ there was always enough to go around.
After a while, the table began to empty. No goodbyes, no acknowledgment of leaving, a child would just smile contentedly, slide off their chair and wander away. A few footsteps could be heard heading upstairs, but most vanished as soon as they reached the front hall.
“Make sure they get home safely, won't you dear?” the woman asked. “And try not to take any detours on your way back?”
Vice stood from his chair again. He looked tired, the circles under his eyes seeming more pronounced from behind his long fringe. When he raised his hand to take the finished stick from his mouth and toss it away, I caught a glimpse of several thin white scars up his inner wrist.
Blue eyes snapped to mine, as though he could sense my gaze. His eyes swam with light, like the reflection on the bottom of a pool of water. I blinked and he was gone. I whirled around and found him again, standing at the door, his back to me. His shoulders were tense, as though someone had seen something of him they shouldn’t have. Before I could say anything, he took two steps out into the front hall and vanished again.
“What is—” I began, my thoughts coming out in a rush. I turned to the woman. “How did—? Is he a sorcerer? What kind of magic lets you just vanish?”
“Oh don’t mind him,” said the woman, already beginning to clear away the table. “He’s just making sure the little ones stay found on their way home.” She transferred the dirty dishes into a large wooden tub in the corner of the room, which was filling with hot soapy water that didn’t seem to be coming from anywhere. “So then, how was your lunch?”
“It was delicious,” I said, then asked the question that had been bothering me. “I don’t mean to be rude, I mean, I’m the one trespassing in your house but, who are you?”
Leaving the washing tub behind, which seemed to be doing its job without her, the woman sat down next to me. “Dear,” she said, gently taking my hand. “No amount of searching would have brought you to my door unless you were meant to be here. This is a home for the lost, whatever that might mean. People, young and old can be lost in different ways, sometimes for years sometimes for only a short while.”
“I just saw the children at the canal pool,” I said. “And well, I thought your friend was a bit suspicious.”
“Yes, he can appear that way,” she said
with a laugh. “But you see, my dear, you would not have noticed them at all if you hadn’t needed to come here.”
I thought back to the other people walking the promenade and how none of them had noticed the children. But why did I need to come here?
“The answer is different for everyone,” said the woman, as though reading my mind. “But sometimes it’s just nice to be able to get away for a while and be in a friendly place.” She released my hand and stood. “As long as you’re here, as long as you need to be here, then my doors are open. And if you ever have need again in the future, no matter where you might be, you will be able to find us.”
I blinked and was back at the canal pool. I spun around, but the way to the alley was now a solid wall of building. The canal was deserted, the sky above already darkening to twilight. Just how long had I been having lunch at that strange children’s home?
When I returned home Mother was waiting for me, arms crossed. Before I could even open my mouth, she was speaking over me. “Your father is home,” she said stiffly. “He wants to see you.”
Chapter 3:
The Bodyguard
The walk to Father’s study felt like an eternity, the hallway stretching out before me like some endless tunnel to my doom. I rarely spoke to my father, rarely even saw him anymore. As director of a trading company, his work took him around the world, signing deals, inspecting production sources and company ships. As a result, he was lucky to spend a few weeks at home a year.
I hesitated for several minutes outside his office, taking deep breaths and trying to organise my thoughts before knocking. When I did knock, the response was immediate, a deep commanding voice bidding me entry.
Father’s office was the exact opposite of Professor Linesley’s. Where the professor’s office was vibrant and filled with stories, Father’s had only the necessities, and it felt sterile in comparison. All the furniture, from the wall units and bookshelves, to the conversation couches, were constructed from dark woods and deep green-stained leather. In the centre of the room, in front of the middle of three tall windows, was my father’s desk. A gift from some business partner, it was ornately designed, with the Sterling family crest on the front. Behind it, in a high backed leather arm chair, sat my father, paperwork spread out on the desk in front of him.
My father was an intimidating man. He was tall to start with, but then men in the Sterling family were. His broad chest was wrapped in a stiff shirt and jacket which accentuated his muscular figure, and gave the impression he was the kind of person who could snap you in half if you disagreed with him. The Sterling men all had blue eyes, but where Uncle’s shone like the summer sky, Father’s were the colour of the ocean in a storm. While his brother had always sported a rather jolly looked beard, Father had a strong, clean-shaven chin. Underneath a greying but dignified-looking moustache, a large cigar was clenched between his teeth, curling smoke into the air.
I hesitantly broke the silence. “You wanted to see me?”
“Your mother,” he began, expelling a fresh cloud of smoke into the room. “Came to speak with me about your, internship. She does not approve.”
“I know.”
“So,” he continued. “In the new year you’ll start at Oaksfield and we’ll hear no more about it.”
The words ‘yes Father’ were on the tip of my tongue, but I bit them down. “No, I…” I hesitated again, but pushed on. “I want to do the internship. I’ve already said I would, and I want to see it through.”
There was a long silence as Father surveyed me, his gaze seeming to look right through to my soul. Just as I was starting to think of taking back my words, he gestured to one of the armchairs facing his desk.
“Have a seat,” he said, as though I weren’t his daughter, but an employee at his company that he was about to have a performance assessment meeting with.
I timidly obeyed. It felt strange to be here with him like this. The office had always been out of bounds to us kids when Father was away for work, and I couldn’t remember ever being invited here for a talk before.
“So,” he said crisply, leaning back in his chair. “Convince me.”
“Pardon?”
“Convince me,” Father repeated, sounding bored. He took his cigar out of his mouth and tapped it on a large ashtray. “Convince me that you taking this internship is something I should support.”
This was not what I had expected when Mother had said Father wished to speak with me. I’d expected his initial denial of my plan to be sure, but not that I’d be expected to justify myself to him. A bubble of offense rose in my chest. How dare he even ask? I was an adult now. I could join the military, buy a house, get married. Why should I have to convince him, to what, give me his blessing?
“Keep in mind,” he continued, cutting through my thoughts. “Even though you’ve finished your compulsory, I still have legal authority over your employment prospects until you get married, or turn 21.”
I hid my wet eyes by staring down at my hands. While it was true he couldn’t control my life completely, one word from him and the museum would be legally required to reject me from the project.[2]
My hands clenched in my lap, offense turning to anger. Would he really go that far? Invoke an outdated law from a time when children were the legal property of their parents, just to get his way? The expression on his face suggested, yes. I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice steady.
“I think this is a good opportunity for me to contribute to the professional field for the subjects I majored in during my compulsory. The impact this project will have on the cultural landscape has the potential to be massive, affecting future generations of academics and students alike. To have my name associated with something of that significance—”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he interrupted me, waving the hand still holding the cigar dismissively. “How does this excursion of yours benefit me or my company?”
“Well,” I stammered, a bit thrown. Had Father just implied that he expected all his daughter’s decisions to be made with his personal reputation and profits in mind? I couldn’t imagine a more selfish request, but I tried to respond properly regardless. “A well-travelled person would be better suited to negotiating trade deals with the leaders of foreign cultures, better able to understand them and their needs, and offer products and services accordingly.”
“You don’t need to intern with someone else if those are the skills you’re looking to cultivate.” said Father. “I can bring in tutors on those specific subjects. I can send you on business trips during your internship with the company. There’s nothing you could get elsewhere that I could not provide for you.”
“It’s not about you,” I said, finally letting myself frown. “This is about my future and the path I want to walk to get there.”
“Your future is decided by your name and the responsibilities that come along with it,” said Father, pointing at me with his cigar. “And as the director of the Sterling Trading Company, it is my responsibility to make decisions that benefit its future, not the whims of my children.”
“We’re not automatons,” I said angrily, speaking for my brothers as well now. “Did you only have children so you could fill positions at your company with them? How could it possibly be good for your company to have people running it that don’t want to be there?”
“As director—”
“You’re a father!” I exclaimed, slamming my hands on the desk.
“We fill the roles that society requires of us.”
I was struck silent, tears welling in my eyes. Had Father only had children because he felt he had to? Because he needed heirs for his name and his business? Did, did Father even love me? I swallowed the pain that rose in my chest.
“I can’t be that person,” I said, my voice cracking as I tried to keep my tears at bay. “I can’t just follow someone else’s plan.”
“You’re my child,” he said, in the same tone of voice someone would say ‘you’re my ser
vant’.
“I need to be myself!”
Father stared at me in silence, as though seeing me for the first time. He frowned, then looked down at his lap and sighed.
“James used to say that to me,” he said slowly. “Every time I objected to one of his ridiculous excursions. He’d just tell me exactly that and do it anyway.” He tossed his cigar into the ashtray and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. “You’ve grown to be so much like him. I suppose it’s fitting.” He sighed again, looking like an old man for the first time. “James why was all of this so easy for you?” He seemed to be talking to, and from, something deep inside himself, something I had never seen before.
“Very well,” he said suddenly, looking up again. “But you will succeed or fail on your own merits. Understand?”
He hesitated again, fingering the large silver family ring on his index finger. “At the same time, just by being out there, and being who you are, you will be representing much more than just your research team or the museum.” He slid the ring off his finger and passed it across the desk. “You are a Sterling, be sure to act like it.”
The Sterling family ring felt heavy in my hand, like the weight of many expectant generations were contained within it. It felt strange to wear it. I’d only ever seen the rings worn by Father, Uncle and once briefly before he passed away, my grandfather.
I slipped it onto my thumb and gave him a serious nod. “Yes Father,” I said, my voice breaking again.
“If you’re truly going to do this,” he said after a long moment of silence. “Then I have a request to make of you. A personal matter.”
He got up from behind his desk and went over to one of the wall cabinets. On one of the shelves there was a small collection of photos, mostly of Father and Uncle as children, along with an odd assortment of objects. Brightly-coloured stones, feathers taken from large birds, little carvings of wood, bone and ivory no doubt found in dig sites around the world. I’d had no idea any of this was here. Had Uncle been sending Father things as well? It seemed to be the case, but what was more surprising was that he’d not only kept them, but displayed them.
The Island of Wolves Page 3