Lottie couldn’t make out what happened next, but when it was over, Hagen Marplemeyer was howling on the ground, and Adelaide was steaming up the hill with two clenched fists, one of which was spattered in something reddish-black. When she caught up, she whipped her hair toward Fife in a defiant swoop.
“Hagen Marplemeyer,” she said triumphantly, “is not my boyfriend.”
Then Adelaide turned back to the boys and yelled, “Don’t you ever breathe another word about Oliver!”
In that moment, Lottie wondered if Adelaide Wilfer might not be so very different from her after all.
Ingle Inn sat at the very top of the cobblestone hill. It was a narrow, wooden building with boarded-up windows, lodged like a splinter between two brick walls. Its garden was overgrown with thistles and rotting cabbages and moldering pumpkins. There were signs that there had once been steps leading to the front door, but those steps were now gone, and Lottie could only climb onto the front landing with the help of Fife’s outstretched hand.
When she had been younger, Lottie had been forced to trail Mrs. Yates about the Isle’s countryside to visit old, important, and fantastically boring houses. As they had puttered about, taking flashless pictures with their cameras, Mrs. Yates and the other tourists would often say things like “Can you sense it? This place has a life of its own!” Lottie had thought these remarks to be very stupid.
If houses really did have lives of their own, though, Ingle Inn’s life had left it long, long ago. Lottie felt less like she was walking through the front door of an inn and more like she was slipping into the mouth of a shriveled corpse.
Plaster and sawdust peppered Lottie’s periwinkle coat as she followed Oliver and Fife into a lamplit corridor. There were drafty holes in the wood-paneled walls, and something screeched from under the floorboards. Lottie nearly toppled back onto Adelaide when she saw a many-legged thing scuttle at her feet.
“Sorry,” she said in a whisper, which seemed like the appropriate way to speak.
Adelaide merely sniffed and pushed past Lottie to join the others, who were now whispering to someone at the inn’s front desk.
Lottie sat down on the only straight-backed chair in the corridor that was not missing one of its legs. The others could work things out with this Mr. Ingle, but she preferred to be near the door in case this dead inn decided to give it up entirely and cave in on itself, necessitating a quick exit.
From where she sat, feet propped up on the chair rung to keep clear of any more scuttling things, Lottie could just make out Oliver whispering the words “arrest,” “Father,” and “Fiske.”
Lottie looked down at her soot-stained green sneakers and wished more than ever that she had gone back to the Barmy Badger and apologized to Eliot while she’d still had the chance.
“Charlotte Fiske?”
Lottie looked up. No one called her Charlotte except for her schoolteachers and Mrs. Yates. She half expected the next words to be a geography problem or an order that she go to her room without supper.
The man from the front desk was approaching her. He was bald, and his face resembled a walnut; it looked as though his eyes, nose, and mouth had been crammed into the creases and wrinkles of his face. Lottie would have been frightened if the man’s eyes didn’t look so kind.
“Blessed brass buttons,” said Mr. Ingle, hobbling toward Lottie. “Charlotte Fiske. I never thought I’d see you again, not in my lifetime.”
“Charlotte,” snorted Fife, peeking out from behind Mr. Ingle. “Is that your real name?”
Lottie reddened. She would have preferred it if Fife had never found out her full name.
“How do you know my name?” Lottie asked Mr. Ingle.
“How?” said Mr. Ingle. “Why, dear child, I was there when Bertram and Eloise chose it.”
Lottie straightened up. Bertram and Eloise were the names of her parents, the names that had been scribbled on the back of the black-and-white photograph she had received from Mr. Wilfer all those years ago. Lottie had never heard those words spoken out loud by anyone other than herself, and then only in a whisper very late at night, under her bedsheets.
Mr. Ingle gave a phlegmy sigh. “Hard to believe how the years have passed. Yes, that was at the end of the brighter days. Back when I was a rich, busy man. Back when these walls”—Mr. Ingle smacked a wood panel, causing a concealed mouse to squeak—“housed lords and ladies from the most illustrious Southerly and Northerly houses! You wouldn’t ever imagine that of me and my humble inn nowadays, would you?”
“I can imagine a lot, Mr. Ingle,” Lottie said.
Mr. Ingle grinned toothily at her. “Yes. I could smell that on you.”
“Mr. Ingle,” said Oliver, “perhaps you’d like to tell Lottie about our plan.”
“Ah!” Mr. Ingle clapped his hands together. “Yes. The plan. Oliver’s told me about your troubles, and I must say that I’ve never been so outraged in my life!” Here, he hit the wood panel again, causing an owl to hoot from somewhere in the room. “Moritasgus and I go back, far back. He helped me in my own hard times, and any assistance I can provide to his family and to Eloise’s is a kindness well spent.”
“Mr. Ingle says he’ll let us spend the evening here,” said Fife. “You know, harbor us like the wanted criminals we are. Like fugitives!”
“Titania’s sake,” groaned Adelaide. “We are not fugitives.”
Fife made a kissy-face at Adelaide. Mr. Ingle raised an eyebrow at this little exchange, but he went on.
“As I was telling your friends,” he said, “there is only one way that this tragedy might be averted, and that is to make a formal plea at the Southerly Court. That is how these things have been dealt with time out of mind, when one believes a party to have been wronged by the Southerly Court. An advocate from the wronged sprite’s house must make a petition before the king.”
“That means,” said Oliver, “that Adelaide and I can petition for our father. If we can make it to the Southerly Court in time, the king will have to listen to our plea.”
“But where exactly is the Southerly Court?” Lottie asked.
“A good two days’ journey from here,” Mr. Ingle said. “It is not an easy trip. More than that, I suspect that you are all worn from the night’s events. I suggest, then, that the best thing to do is take rest and nourishment here while you can and set out first thing in the morning.”
“And once we’ve reached the court,” said Lottie, “we can plead or grovel or whatever it is that one does at court, and they’ll set Mr. Wilfer free, right? We’ve just got to get him back. He’s the only way that Eliot’s medicine will be ready in time.”
Adelaide made a shrill noise that sounded like a dying ferret. “Of course it doesn’t matter that he’s my father and he’s in mortal danger!”
Lottie turned on Adelaide. “Well, of course that matters!”
As she yelled it, though, Lottie realized that she had been thinking all this time about Eliot. The fact that Mr. Wilfer could really be in serious danger had not even crossed her mind. Now, for the first time, Adelaide’s situation struck Lottie a little more clearly: Adelaide’s father had just been kidnapped, her home had been condemned and smashed up, and now she had to deal with Lottie, who, for a reason Lottie had yet to figure out, seemed to be responsible for all of these problems.
“It matters,” Lottie repeated, this time more softly. “I know your dad must mean everything to you. Don’t you think I know what it’s like to not have parents around?”
“You don’t know anything about it,” Adelaide said thinly. “I’ve just lost my father. You never even knew your parents.”
Fife looked around uneasily. “Uh,” he coughed, “on a cheerier note, the Southerly Guard will probably be prowling around for us any second.”
“Shouldn’t be surprised if they haven’t sent out the Guard,” said Mr. Ingle, nodding. “All the more reason to stay out of sight tonight. As it is, you can leave at dawn and still be outside the court walls the next e
vening.”
“But,” said Lottie, “isn’t there a quicker way to get there? I mean, can’t you travel by . . . apple tree or something?”
Adelaide made a gritty snort that could mean one thing and one thing only, and that was that Lottie was a complete and utter imbecile.
“What Adelaide’s saying so sweetly,” said Fife, “is that travel by tree is only for trips between worlds. We’re painfully old-fashioned when it comes to public transportation. We use a system called ‘by foot.’”
“There is one way to travel quicker,” Oliver said, “by Royal Piskie Dust. But that’s royal, of course, and very rare. Only the king and the Guard can use it.”
“Which means,” said Fife, “that Grissom has already got Mr. Wilfer locked up at the Southerly Court, and we’ve got to spend all this time just catching up with them.”
“So shouldn’t Lottie just stay here?” said Adelaide.
Lottie looked up sharply. “What?”
“You’re half human,” Adelaide said. “You’ll only slow us down. Anyway, this is about our father. There’s no need for you to come along. Or Fife, for that matter.”
Fife sputtered.
“Fife is coming,” Oliver said firmly. “He’s my friend, and more than that, he knows the wood better than the two of us combined. You know that, Adelaide.”
“But what good is she to us?” Adelaide protested, pointing at Lottie. “She can’t plead for Father. She just wants him to finish the medicine for her stupid friend.”
“But I can’t stay here!” said Lottie, realizing in a panic that this was true. “You heard that Grissom man. People are searching for me, here and back home. I won’t be safe.”
“You won’t exactly be safe with us,” Oliver pointed out.
“But I’ll be doing something,” Lottie said. “I’ll be doing something for Eliot. I’m not just going to wait around for you all. I’m going, too.”
Fife folded his arms and smirked at the others. “Lottie has spoken. She knows what she wants.”
Adelaide began to protest again, but Lottie shot her a cold look. She’d had enough of Adelaide Wilfer tonight.
“I’m coming,” she said in a steely voice.
Slowly, Oliver nodded. “She’s coming.”
“We set out first thing in the morning, like you say,” said Lottie. “Or sooner.”
“First thing,” agreed Fife.
“Or sooner,” said Oliver.
Lottie smiled at the boys. Maybe, just maybe, they were going to get along. Adelaide only crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Mr. Ingle, meantime, was shifting his weight from boot to boot, causing the floorboards of the inn to creak tremendously.
“Then it’s settled!” the old man cried. “Excellent. I can’t say how much good this does my old heart. It’s been ten years since I’ve had a proper guest.”
He pounded the wood panels for emphasis, and a cockroach hissed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At Ingle Inn
MR. INGLE PROMPTLY scooted his guests into a musty dining room in which Lottie tried to choke down what Fife told her was flower-bulb soup. All the while, she gazed at a wall-sized, moth-eaten tapestry that depicted an argument between a winged queen and king over a jewel-eyed baby boy.
After supper, with a gas lamp in hand, Mr. Ingle showed his guests up flight after flight of wheezing stairs to the sixth floor of the inn, where there were three empty bedrooms. One, he explained, belonged to him; the other two, which were set aside for the occasional guest, could be split amongst the four of them.
When Lottie asked why Mr. Ingle chose to live six floors away from his front door, he answered, “The smell, dear child! The smell. I simply couldn’t sleep with all the scents of the street wafting under my nose!” Lottie, as she had gotten into a habit of doing recently, pretended to understand. Then, after taking a deep breath, she asked if she could speak with Mr. Ingle alone.
“What for?” said Adelaide, snapping to attention. “There’s nothing to tell Mr. Ingle that you can’t tell all of us.”
“Or that Adelaide can’t hear,” said Fife.
Adelaide gave Fife a dirty look.
“I just want to ask Mr. Ingle something personal,” Lottie said crossly. “It’s my own private business.”
“Right, then,” said Fife, stretching his arms between Lottie and Adelaide in a peacemaking gesture. “Let’s not get worked up. You, Ollie, and I can have our own secret conversation, can’t we, Ada?”
Adelaide aimed a kick at Fife’s shin, but his feet left the ground just in time for her to miss and lose her balance. It looked like Adelaide was working up a shout, and Lottie seized the lull to push Mr. Ingle into his room and shut the door behind them.
“My!” said Mr. Ingle, smiling as he toppled inside. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”
“See! That’s exactly why I want to talk to you, Mr. Ingle,” Lottie said.
“About apple trees?” Mr. Ingle looked confused.
“No,” said Lottie. “Because you said that you knew my parents, Bertram and Eloise.”
From outside the door, Lottie heard Fife say in a voice that was extra loud for her benefit, “Well, I guess we’ll just go and have our own deliciously secret conversation! Did I mention that it’s going to be deliciously secret?”
Mr. Ingle took a seat on a tattered, spring-pocked sofa. He motioned for Lottie to do the same.
“Moritasgus locked up in the Southerly dungeons,” he said, shaking his head. “Poor fellow.”
Lottie took a seat on the sofa. “Mr. Ingle,” she said, “is it my fault that Mr. Wilfer was taken away?”
“No,” said Mr. Ingle. “That is the Southerly King’s fault. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.”
“He doesn’t seem to me to be a very good king,” said Lottie. “Back where I come from, you can’t just go around burning up gardens and throwing people into dungeons. At least, not anymore.”
“Ah, where you come from . . .”
Lottie waited for Mr. Ingle to finish that thought, but apparently Mr. Ingle thought it was finished enough. He looked entranced, like he’d just spotted a distant ship on the horizon.
“Mr. Ingle?” Lottie pressed, attempting to reel in his attention.
Without a word, Mr. Ingle got up from the couch, opened the door, and left the room.
Lottie was afraid that she had offended the innkeeper in some way. Mr. Ingle returned, however, in a minute’s time. By the looks of his tousled hair and heaving chest, it seemed he’d made an effort to retrieve whatever he now held.
It was a birdcage.
“Do you know what this is?” Mr. Ingle asked, setting the birdcage in front of her.
Lottie squinted at the cage. It was simply designed—a small, silver-barred dome with a single perch. What had captured Lottie’s attention wasn’t the birdcage at all but what was inside it.
A small bird sat inside, on the perch. Its head was tucked down, its body completely still. Its feathers were a deep, inky black.
“Is it—alive?” Lottie whispered.
“I’ve held him in my keeping for far too long,” said Mr. Ingle. “Eloise told me that you would be back for him one day, and blow me down if she wasn’t right. Now, if you’d be so good as to wake him up?”
Lottie frowned at Mr. Ingle. Then she frowned at the small, still bird.
“It’s sleeping?”
“For more than twelve years now.” Mr. Ingle hesitated. Then, quietly, he asked, “You do know what this is, don’t you?”
“It’s a bird,” Lottie said, though she guessed that Mr. Ingle was expecting another answer, and something inside Lottie told her that she knew what this answer was.
Mr. Ingle unlatched the cage door and motioned for Lottie to lean closer. “Put out your hands,” he instructed. “Both of them. Form them like a bowl. Then ask him to wake up. He knows your voice.”
Lottie didn’t see how a bird could possibly know her voice, let alone a bird s
he’d never seen before. Still, she did as Mr. Ingle asked and placed her cupped hands at the birdcage’s open door.
“Um,” she said. “Wake up?”
Nothing happened for a long moment. Then the little mound of feathers began to quiver. Then it rustled. Then the bird untucked his head from his breast and opened his eyes. Suddenly, he gave a great, fluttering jump and landed in Lottie’s cupped hands. She gave a cry of surprise.
The bird stared up at her. He chirped.
“What kind of bird is it?” Lottie whispered.
“He’s an obsidian warbler, if we’re being specific,” said Mr. Ingle. “Even more specifically, he’s a genga.”
The bird opened his slate-gray beak and piped out another tweet. It was a soothing sound that put Lottie in mind of wind chimes on a late April day.
“I’ve seen one of these before,” said Lottie. “Adelaide keeps one in her pocket.”
“The pocket is customary. You can use your own pocket if you’d like. Or you may choose a satchel or a hat. Anywhere close by. Gengas don’t like to be separated from their sprites.”
Lottie blinked dumbly at the chirruping bird. Then she understood.
“It’s my genga?” she whispered.
Mr. Ingle nodded. “Look. He knows you.”
The warbler had fluttered to the edge of Lottie’s hands and perched precariously on her fingertips, his head tilted to one side and black eyes glinting curiously at Lottie. Then, in one great go, he hopped from Lottie’s hands and landed on her knee. He bent his head and scrunched his feathers up in a cottony poof, and then he sprung into an upward swoop. He circled about the room, skimming the edge of the crown molding with his wings. At last, he settled back on Lottie’s knee and gave a low, content warble.
Cautiously, Lottie outstretched her forefinger and brushed it along the genga’s wing. The bird cooed and rubbed his downy face against Lottie’s fingernail.
“He’s beautiful,” she whispered. “How can he have been asleep this whole time?”
“Gengas only respond to their owners’ voice,” said Mr. Ingle. “They’re extremely delicate creatures, you understand. That is why Eloise entrusted yours to me. Any being that lives outside of his or her own world is bound to grow weak. But gengas are especially fragile. Your parents had decided to raise you amongst the humans, and Earth is no place for a creature so thoroughly Limnlike as a genga.”
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