The girls exchanged looks and Maggie wondered if she’d said the wrong thing.
“We don’t have families,” Harriet said coolly.
“No family at all,” Violet added.
“How did you come to be at Poppel?” Maggie asked.
“Madame Welles took me from an orphanage as a baby,” Harriet said. “I don’t know anywhere else.”
“What about you?” Maggie asked Nellie.
Nellie’s blue eyes narrowed. “I am not from around here.”
She didn’t seem to want to say anything else, so Maggie turned to Violet.
“I lived up there,” Violet said, pointing to the ceiling.
“Outside?”
“Yes, outside. But up there!” Violet continued to point fiercely. “Right above Poppel.” Violet leaned forward with a smirk. “They didn’t find me. I found them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I lived in the village up there. I was all by myself after my parents went away. I didn’t know where they’d gone to, so I stayed on the streets. At night I hid from the scary people. That’s when I saw a door―a hidden door. People were always secretly going in and coming out. One night a lady about to go through the door saw me. And I made her sad. The Garrison who greeted her also felt sorry for me, so they both welcomed me inside. I got fed lots of food and was given clothes and got all cleaned up. The lady eventually left. But I stayed.”
“You came here through an outside entrance? So you know where the door is that leads above ground?” Maggie asked, unable to hide her excitement.
“Yes, I know where it is,” Violet said, still smirking. “But you have to go through the Krog. And there are always Garrisons there. So there’s no way to get out without being caught.”
Maggie frowned at the short-lived hope.
“Don’t be sad,” Violet said, hugging Maggie’s arm. “It’s wonderful here. And there’s no more living outside or worrying about scary strangers.”
Harriet laughed dryly. “Oh, Violet, you don’t even know the difference. I lived here before the Garrisons took over, back when Madame Welles was in charge. And it was glorious. Myra Lane wasn’t gloomy and the Foundlings weren’t depressed. Parties were thrown in the banquet hall as though it were always Christmas in Poppel.”
Maggie studied Harriet closely. “But the Garrisons took over Poppel thirty years ago.” Maggie thought Harriet looked around seventeen or eighteen―certainly, not a day over twenty.
Harriet started to reply but the door abruptly flew open and Madame Welles marched into the room.
“Come with me,” she ordered to Maggie.
Maggie quickly got up and followed Madame Welles out the door, relieved to get away from the other girls. The looks on their faces were starting to become disconcerting.
Madame Welles didn’t talk as they walked back down the corridor. Maggie had questions she wanted to ask, but she worried the Garrisons could be lurking anywhere.
Soon Myra Lane appeared; a couple of shops were now open and a handful of Foundlings meandered around while a few Garrisons patrolled the road. But everyone stopped and stared at Maggie as she passed.
The post clock came into view. The tiny hands were still steadily rotating about, but the two main hands showed that it had been only twenty minutes since she and Henry were last there. But that didn’t seem right to Maggie. It had to have been at least an hour ago.
“Madame Welles―”
But the old woman cut her off.
“In here,” she said, holding open the white door of a brightly colored shop. Over the entrance hung a yellow sign with the word Kleren printed in blue.
Stepping inside the shop, Maggie saw endless rows of colorful vests, shirts, and hats. Long strands of measuring tape and ribbon hung from every inch of the ceiling and walls. A clock in the corner ticked happily away. It also read thirty-five minutes after twelve.
As Madame Welles shuffled through the shop’s colorful clutter, a pointy-faced man in a yellow top hat popped out from behind a rack of dresses.
“Hello!” the old man greeted. His silver hair was plastered across his forehead while his sparkling mauve eyes shined up at Maggie.
“There you are, Hostrupp,” Madame Welles said, apparently unmoved by his sudden appearance. “I have brought you another one.”
Hostrupp placed a hand gently on his wrinkled cheek where a deep dimple had sunk over the years. He looked Maggie up and down with an appalled expression. The ash from earlier had bled into her skin, creating a gray hue across her body.
After a thoughtful pause, he said, “Come with Hostrupp!” And with a wiggle of a finger, Hostrupp directed her toward the back of the shop.
Maggie followed him through the fabric stacks until they came to a clearing. A man stood on a wooden platform with his back toward them while he adjusted a green jacket and black top hat in front of a tall, dusty mirror. When he finally twisted around, Maggie saw it was Henry.
“Hen―” Maggie bit her tongue. Her face started to flush. “Alfred! Alfred, you’re here.”
Although they hadn’t been separated for long, Maggie was so happy to see Henry that she nearly ran up and hugged him.
Henry also seemed quite pleased to be reunited. His blue eyes lit up. “Lizzie! Yes, Hostrupp gave me a new outfit.”
He looked down at his black vest while adjusting the jacket’s sleeves.
“Yes, yes!” Hostrupp went up to Henry and smoothed out the green fabric on the shoulders. “A great match for the young man. Hostrupp knows his stuff.”
Hostrupp did a final review of Henry. Feeling satisfied, he pushed Henry aside and turned back to Maggie. “And now for you.”
Hostrupp pulled off the tape hanging around his neck and began measuring Maggie’s arms, shoulders, and waist. He went about his work so diligently that in no time Maggie was shoved through a curtain with a bundle of clothes in her arms.
“What am I supposed to do with all of this?” Maggie called from the tiny room.
Hostrupp replied on the other side of the curtain. “Put those on, of course. A Foundling’s clothes are of the utmost importance. They display unity yet individuality, elegance yet comfort, safety yet strength―a way to recognize Foundlings from outsiders like… you once were… very most recently.”
Maggie dropped the clothes to the floor and began sorting through the jumble. She was hoping to see some clean trousers, but not even a dirty pair could be found.
“And don’t forget to wash up,” Hostrupp added. “You appear a bit… unkempt.”
In the corner sat a bucket of water with a white rag draped over its dented rim. Although Maggie usually didn’t mind a little dirt, she had never desired to scrub her body more than at that moment.
When Maggie emerged from behind the curtain minutes later, her skin was no longer gray. Instead it glistened with a pinkish glow. But this glow couldn’t mask Maggie’s unhappy expression as she glared down at her new floor-length yellow skirt.
Hostrupp clapped his hands three times. “Wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful. You look wonderful.”
Hostrupp approached Maggie, adjusting pieces of fabric and brushing her long, messy brown hair behind her shoulders to showcase her cobalt blue vest.
“I have to wear a skirt?” Maggie asked. She already found herself missing Louis’ filthy trousers.
“Yes, yes. Of course. All young ladies of Poppel are to wear skirts. The Garrisons insist upon it. They say, Hostrupp, you must make sure all young ladies are dressed like ladies and all young gentlemen are dressed like gentlemen. They must know their place, Hostrupp.”
Hostrupp reached into his pocket and pulled out a silky yellow ribbon.
“One last touch.”
He motioned for Maggie to turn around. She reluctantly twisted just enough for Hostrupp to gently pull back her hair into a low ponytail, held in place by the ribbon.
Hostrupp didn’t seem to register Maggie’s scowl when she turned back. “Wonderful, wonderful. You shall be
the talk of Poppel for years to come.”
Henry smirked at Maggie’s annoyed face. But his amused expression quickly disappeared. His brow creased and mouth frowned. The bruise on his jaw was now a radiant shade of purple. Caught up in the excitement of the new clothes, Maggie realized they both had temporarily forgotten the seriousness of their situation―they were forbidden from leaving Poppel.
Madame Welles reappeared next to Henry. “Very nice, Hostrupp. Now I must take the new Foundlings to the workshop.”
Hostrupp waved goodbye to Maggie and Henry as they exited the shop. They didn’t get very far into Myra Lane before Madame Welles stopped and looked around. Seeing that the Garrisons down the road were distracted, she shoved Maggie and Henry into a gap between the shops.
For an older woman, Madame Welles was surprisingly strong.
“I know you want to leave. And I do not doubt that you will try. Castriot and the others do not doubt it as well. So you must be careful. Since the Garrisons took over, many of the older Foundlings have tried to flee. All were caught. And all were severely punished. You two will certainly receive no second chances if you’re seen escaping.”
“So you’re saying we shouldn’t even bother trying to leave?” Henry grumbled.
“What I’m suggesting is to be careful right now. You are being closely watched.”
“What about our families?” Maggie’s voice cracked in frustration. “We aren’t Foundlings. We have homes. We have people who will notice that we’re gone. Very soon they will notice. And then what?”
“We have some time. Not much, but a little,” Madame Welles explained. Maggie thought she was referring to the time before the Moore household noticed the missing granddaughter at the breakfast table. But then Madame Welles added, “This may be the only opportunity we have to reunite the sisters. But it must be done right. There is no room for error.”
Madame Welles looked behind her, clearly worried about being spotted by the Garrisons. “I will explain more later. For now just stay put, be obedient, and do not give your real names.”
Then Maggie and Henry were shooed back onto the cobblestone road. But the Garrisons saw the three emerge from the shadows and quickly stormed their way.
“Madame Welles, we are supposed to see that the new Foundlings report to the workshop,” said a Garrison with a large forehead and hooked nose.
“Yes, Crowther,” Madame Welles replied sternly. “I was just about to escort them there.”
She started to walk forward, but the Garrisons blocked her path.
“We’ll take it from here, Madame Welles, if you don’t mind.” Crowther’s tone wasn’t polite.
“It is my responsibility to make sure new Foundlings get acclimated to Poppel,” Madame Welles defended.
“Castriot has made a special exception with these two,” the other Garrison, Cabell, hissed. His slanted mouth held a thick scar above the lip. “It’s a security issue now. And that’s our job.”
Cabell yanked Maggie’s arm while Crowther grabbed Henry.
Maggie was getting a little tired of being tugged around.
“You are to have no further contact with these two until they have been fully evaluated, which could take days―maybe even weeks. Castriot’s orders.”
“I was not given that order,” Madame Welles argued.
“I’m giving it to you now, old woman,” Crowther snapped. “And that should be enough for you.” And with that Maggie and Henry were roughly escorted down Myra Lane, leaving a distraught Madame Welles behind.
Maggie knew Madame Welles hadn’t gotten the chance to tell them everything they needed to know. And now that opportunity had passed. Perhaps for good.
aszlo wasn’t a Garrison.
But he certainly wasn’t a Foundling. And he was far from resembling either Madame Welles or Hostrupp. The man in charge of the workshop was a peculiar mix of young and old. Slicked down past his ears, Laszlo’s hair was as white as Grandfather Clement’s, but his face was as young as Henry’s.
Laszlo’s ghostly eyes observed Maggie and Henry with apathy when they were hauled into the workshop, pinned between the Garrisons.
“New Foundlings. Alfred and Lizzie” Cabell barked, shoving Maggie and Henry forward. “Show them to their place.”
Without breaking his indifferent stare, Laszlo waved the Garrisons away with a pale, limp hand. Crowther and Cabell moved to a shadowy corner where they continued to watch Maggie closely. Other Garrisons were also stationed on the platform encircling the factory floor, monitoring the Foundlings that were tinkering and hammering away in the rows of tables below.
“Come,” Laszlo finally spoke with a vacant voice.
Laszlo led Maggie and Henry down to the floor. The Foundlings were spread throughout the workshop, barely filling up a quarter of the tables.
“Most Foundlings are still out delivering. Everyone has to work the Sleigh Pit on this night, you understand,” Laszlo droned. “Some Foundlings also tend to Myra Lane. But new ones are not granted such desired positions in Poppel. The Sleigh Pit and Myra Lane are for the older Foundlings. The ones who have been here longer and have proven themselves, you understand. The Garrisons certainly do not want new Foundlings toiling around the sleigh tunnels, climbing up ash pits around the city. The Garrisons do not believe new Foundlings are to be trusted. You understand.”
Laszlo stopped and spun around, his oversized gray coat twirled about his slender waist like a cape. The buttoned shirt and trousers beneath the coat were also various shades of gray. Laszlo didn’t wear a hat and his white hair glistened even in the faintly lit workshop.
“But I’m sure you two will have no trouble. Since you’re older, I am confident you will not do anything rash. Poppel offers great benefits,” Laszlo continued. “And you understand what could happen to you if you do not behave. The workshop may not seem ideal compared to getting assigned to the Sleigh Pit or Myra Lane, but it’s not like being sent to Furnace Brook.”
“Furnace Brook?” Henry spoke for the first time. “What is that?”
Laszlo ignored him and gestured to a table near the middle.
“Lloyd,” he called.
A lanky, curly-haired boy with a button nose glanced up through his round eyeglasses. He wore a brown jacket with a green vest. Spotting Laszlo and the two Foundlings, Lloyd got up from the table and stumbled over.
“Lloyd, this is Alfred and Lizzie. Please train these new Foundlings as best you can,” Laszlo instructed before swiftly returning to his station on the platform above.
Lloyd nervously eyed Maggie and Henry. “You both are old for Foundlings.”
“You don’t look much older than me,” Maggie replied.
“Yes, but I’ve been here a while,” Lloyd said, straightening his shoulders.
“How long?”
“Since I was eleven.” Lloyd looked up and counted softly to himself. “So nine Christmases, I suppose.”
“You’re twenty?” Henry said with surprise. The boy looked much younger than Henry.
Lloyd made a puzzled face. “Fourteen.”
Instead of explaining further, the Foundling sat back down at the table and motioned for Maggie and Henry to join.
“I’m working on soldiers,” Lloyd murmured, picking up a knife and the wood piece he had been holding earlier. Its sides had already been nicked. “I’m the best carver here. Even Laszlo thinks so. I’ve got the best hands and make the most-detailed faces.”
The knife between Lloyd’s fingers steadily sliced into the wood. As Maggie and Henry watched, wood shavings fell to the table as Lloyd’s hands worked on the block. After a few minutes a tiny, meticulous soldier appeared in Lloyd’s palm. He set it on the table, proudly.
Henry picked up the toy soldier and turned it around in his hands. “That’s quite impressive,” he admired. “The details are so precise.”
Maggie nodded in agreement. It actually looked like a little soldier.
“Do you paint him?” Maggie asked.
Lloyd shifted in his seat and frowned, scrunching his small nose. “My hands are no good when it comes to paint.” Lloyd took the solider back and slid it down the table toward a blond boy at the end. “Wendell paints. He’s probably one of the best.”
Maggie and Henry looked over at Wendell. It didn’t take long for them to recognize his burgundy coat.
“You!”
Maggie and Henry both leapt to their feet.
Wendell looked frightened and quickly peeked about to see if the Garrisons were watching. Maggie realized that the commotion could put them all in trouble, and she slowly lowered herself to the bench while tugging Henry’s arm, pulling him back down as well.
“You know Wendell?” Lloyd asked, alarmed at the sudden outburst.
“Um, a little,” Maggie mumbled.
“Somewhat acquainted, you could say,” Henry added.
Wendell’s eyes finally stopped darting around the room as he took the soldier in his hand and picked up a warped brush. Dipping the brush in the paint-filled bowls laid out before him, he gracefully applied color to the wooden toy. Wendell then slipped out of his seat and walked over with the newly painted soldier resting in his open palm. He gently set it down in front of Lloyd, but didn’t seem concerned when the fresh paint smeared on the table.
“You’re the one who broke into Chelsea Manor,” Maggie whispered.
Wendell shifted between feet.
“Do you know the trouble you’ve caused us?” Henry said.
Wendell’s back stiffened. Without saying a word, he turned around and picked up his paint supplies. A moment later, he was seated on the other end of the workshop, far from Maggie and Henry’s table.
“Why is he upset?” Maggie asked. “It’s his fault we’re down here.”
“Wendell didn’t make you follow him to Poppel,”
A boy in an orange jacket at the next table turned around. His black oily hair hung over his forehead, partially covering his glaring eyes.
“Because of you nuisances, Wendell won’t be allowed in the Sleigh Pit again. He’ll be kept here in the workshop day in and day out. And he was finally being considered for a position at Kleren. He knows colors better than anybody. Even more than Hostrupp, I reckon. But not anymore. All thanks to you two.”
Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1) Page 8