“You mean Bertha, the ostrich. I remember it all too well.” Her tone was chilly, for Admiral Faucet (he pronounced it Faw-say) had made a poor impression on her the last time they had met. She turned to her parents. “I do not know what dealings you have had with this man, but he is not to be trusted.”
“There’s no need to hold a grudge,” the admiral interjected. “I’ve learned my lesson. No more wooing rich widows for me! No more crackpot schemes about ostrich racing! I’ll stick to good honest ballooning from now on.”
He stooped to retrieve a fancy carved walking stick that was propped against one of the balloon’s anchoring stakes. Clearly he did not need it for walking, but it proved useful for making grand gestures. “So you know Hans and Suzie too, eh?” he said, twirling the stick toward her parents. “I see a bit of a family resemblance, not that it’s any of my business. Anyway, we balloonists tend to stick together. It takes courage and skill to brave the heavens, and good old Hans and Suzie know as much about it as anyone.”
Penelope flinched to hear her parents referred to so casually, but they did not seem to mind.
Admiral Faucet slapped her father on the back. “I keep telling Hans here to open an aerial show and sell tickets. ‘Touch the Clouds with the Lighter-Than-Air Lumleys! Paint the Landscape as Seen from Above!’ Why, they’d make a fortune!”
“We prefer a more private existence than you do, Faucet,” Pater Lumley answered.
“The Incognito Lumleys, that’s you two, to a T. It’s a rare treat to find you at sea level, I must say.” Admiral Faucet turned to Penelope and jerked a thumb at her parents. “These two could draw you a map of alpine villages so remote, the only way to get there is by balloon! Unless you’re a goat, of course, and even those Swiss mountain goats don’t go as high.”
Penelope had always been a whiz at puzzles. Quickly she put all the facts together. “So that is where ‘elsewhere’ is!” she said to her parents. “It explains why all those paintings are painted from above. You live in the sky. And Edward Ashton has been searching for you on land, all these years.”
Admiral Faucet pounded his walking stick on the ground. “Edward Ashton! The lying scoundrel. I’ll not soon forgive him for the nasty trick he played on me. Any foe of his is a friend of mine, and I mean it.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Time’s flying, and so must we! Now, which one of you is going to England?”
Penelope looked at her parents, her heart sinking.
“The admiral and his balloon will take you to England,” Mater Lumley said gently. “We will follow just as soon as we can.”
“But—but—but why can’t we all go?” Even as the words tumbled out, she knew how childish she sounded.
“Not possible.” Admiral Faucet rapped his stick on the side of the basket. “My balloon’s a compact model. It’ll only hold two people of average size.” He hoisted his trousers around his ample middle. “I’m a bit larger than average, and you’re a wee thing, so we’ll be all right. I’ve got our provisions weighed to the ounce.”
Pater Lumley handed him the carpetbag. “Here you go, sir. Seven pounds, five ounces, exactly.”
“Sounds like a bouncing baby baggage, har har!” The admiral hoisted the bag in his hand for a moment before loading it inside. “Even a few pounds over capacity and we won’t fly right, or at all,” he explained. “And we’ve a long way to go! Over land and sea, hup, hup, hup!”
Mater Lumley spoke reassuringly. “The admiral is an experienced pilot, Penny. Do as he says and you will be quite safe.”
Penelope forced herself to look up. The balloon was so small, and the sky was so large! She would simply have to keep her eyes shut the whole time.
“What’s the matter, governess? Afraid of heights?”
That question again! Penelope squirmed. It was not so much that she was afraid of heights. It was that she was afraid she would be afraid of heights, once at high altitude, and by then it would be too late. “Buck up, Penny!” she scolded herself. “You never minded looking out the nursery window at Ashton Place, and that was on the third floor!” Granted, there was an elm tree right outside, with spreading branches full of dancing leaves and friendly squirrels. That cozy view never prompted the sick, panicky feeling of being unmoored from the earth that the phrase “touch the clouds” had stirred up in her.
“I will go,” she said, with far more confidence than she felt.
Admiral Faucet scowled. “Better be sure, governess. Balloon travel is not for the faint of heart. Once you’re up, you’re up! There’s no changing your mind, for I can’t very well put down in the middle of the English Channel. And the basket is small, so we’ve got to get along peacefully. No whining or complaining.”
Penelope stood straight and tall. “Admiral, may I remind you, I am a Swanburne graduate. There will be no whining or complaining from me.”
“I should think not!” Mater Lumley said. Both her parents laughed at that, but it was the kind of laughter meant to keep things cheerful when sadness is right beneath the surface. Penelope knew the sound well.
Admiral Faucet wet a finger in his mouth and held it up to check the wind. “Not bad, not bad. We’ll be in England by week’s end, give or take.” He climbed back up the rope ladder that dangled from the side of the basket. “All aboard! Governess, say your good-byes. The sun has been up for an hour, and the wind is fair. Time to go!”
Her parents each gave her a quick, tight hug. Pater Lumley offered a hand to steady her as she set foot on the rope ladder.
“I am not afraid,” she said, and climbed into the basket without help. It was small, but not nearly as small as a herring barrel, and much sweeter smelling, too. The thought that she had already survived worse cheered her somewhat.
Admiral Faucet added more coal to the small stove that heated the air and made the balloon rise. At once the balloon stretched taut, straining at the ropes.
“Ready for takeoff,” he called to the ground. The Lumleys skillfully untethered the ropes, one by one. Mater Lumley dropped the last rope. With a sideways lurch, the balloon began to rise.
Penelope held on for dear life. “Good-bye!” she called, leaning over the basket’s edge. Her parents were growing smaller by the minute.
“We will see you soon, Penny dear!” Mater Lumley called, waving furiously. “Soon! I promise!”
“That is what you said the last time!” Penny yelled back, but her voice was swallowed by the wind.
THE TOWN OF FRANKENFORDE LOOKED even more picturesque than usual in the rosy glow of early morning. Some townspeople were already astir, for just as certain professions are the cause of late bedtimes (actors come to mind, and theater critics, too, alas!), other jobs demand an early start. Bakers, for example.
As Madame Ionesco herself could tell you, a baker must work in the dead of night in order to have plenty of fresh-baked treats ready for the morning’s customers. For who does not like a tasty apple strudel with their morning coffee? Or a thick slice of gingerbread, spicy and sweet, still warm from the oven? Or even a scrumptious Berliner Pfannkuchen, filled with marmalade and dusted with powdered sugar?
Edward Ashton was a man obsessed—a man who had resolved to commit murder. A man who had loosed the reins of his mind to gallop in pursuit of evil and was now unable to gather them up again! But he was also a man who had been traveling for days without rest or food. He had arrived in the village an hour past dawn. He knew his prey was near, but the mesmerizing aroma from the bakery nearly made him faint. “Breakfast, coffee—and then the Lumleys,” he told himself. With a trembling hand he opened the bakery door.
Ring-ring! Ring-ring!
A ruddy-cheeked woman in a flour-dusted apron appeared behind the counter, protesting mildly that the shop was not yet open, she was still icing the Black Forest cakes, could he come back in zehn Minuten, bitte? Ashton ignored her. He growled his order in German and paid for his coffee and Berliner Pfannkuchen (think of it as an extra-yummy jelly doughnut). He stood at the counter and s
hoved the food into his mouth like a starved animal, scattering crumbs over himself and the floor.
The woman pressed her lips together. She grabbed a broom and swept all around him, right up to the edge of his shoes, but he did not move.
“Where is the bookstore?” he asked, waving the book of melancholy poetry around. “I know it is nearby. I have the address right here.”
“Sometimes there is a bookstore in Frankenforde, and sometimes there isn’t,” the woman answered, still sweeping.
“No riddles!” he snapped. “Just tell me where it is.”
“When there is a bookstore, it’s next door,” she answered curtly, and disappeared into the back. It was a perfect example of why one must always use good manners when making a purchase in a shop. The baker was hardly inclined to be helpful after that rude, wild-eyed fellow made such a mess in her bakery—and while she was in the middle of icing her Black Forest cakes, yet!
“Bookstore, next door, bookstore, next door . . .” Edward Ashton left the bakery, muttering and flicking the ends of his black cloak in annoyance, the way a cat will flick the tip of its tail when the mousie is just out of reach. He looked to the right, then to the left. On one side of the bakery was a shoemaker. On the other side was a shop that sold little Tyrolean hats. There was no sign at all of a bookstore.
He walked the length of the street, and all four sides of the village square. No matter who he asked, the answer was the same: the bookstore was next door to the bakery, sometimes! And sometimes it was not.
His breath quickened with frustration and rage. What had he missed? Back to the bakery he went. He looked in the window and rested his forehead against the cool, smooth glass. Pastries, biscuits, the freshly iced cakes—each a work of art. “Once I find the bookstore,” he thought, “I will treat myself to a slice of that superb Black Forest cake.” Absently he licked the marmalade off his fingertips. He would search the town again, a hundred times, a hundred times a hundred if need be! Perhaps the Tyrolean hatmaker could give him better directions. Indeed, he had always had a fondness for that style of hat. He resolved to go ask him and, if the fellow was not in yet, to wait.
On his way to the hat shop he passed the bakery’s other window. This one held a dazzling display of birthday cakes, in many styles and flavors. Upon the largest of the cakes the following words were written in a flowing cursive, in English:
Happy birthday
To our children
Wherever you might be.
The penmanship was quite good, considering it was all done in icing. Ashton sniffed, doggishly. He frowned, and sniffed again. He reached out to tap the window, only to find it was not glass at all, but an enormous canvas drop, a painted curtain, like the backdrop for a play.
Fury rose within him as he tried to fight his way behind the canvas. It was not easy, as Pater Lumley had rigged an ingenious system of knots ’round the curtain’s edge to keep it steady in all weather. With a roar of frustration, Edward Ashton pulled a knife out of his boot and slit the canvas from top to bottom, coincidentally slicing the painted birthday cake in two.
Behind the gaping curtain lay the bookstore’s actual window, with the Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! books on cheerful display. The store was dark, the door was locked. The sign read GESCHLOSSEN. Closed.
Pony books and birthday cakes! The Lumleys had been here, all right. But they were already gone.
“I am too late!” he said, and crumpled to the ground. If only those blasted pheasants had not held up his train!
His mind raced. Horses, trains, boats—all were easy to intercept. He must think and act quickly. Like a man in leg irons he staggered to his feet. “They cannot get away from me again!” he said, sheathing his knife. “Never, never, never!”
By now the square had filled with people. A few regarded the strange, muttering man with suspicion, or pity. One or two may have noticed the ripped curtain, with the halves of the painted birthday cake now flapping in the breeze. But most ignored the strange scene and minded their own business. This is what busy grown-ups tend to do, especially in the morning when there are jobs to get to and errands to run. At such times, small children are the only ones who have time to notice things properly.
“Mama, schau!” just such a child cried, pointing upward. “Ein Luftballon!”
It was then that Edward Ashton looked up at the sky.
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
A ship that flies in the air.
“HANG IN THERE, GOVERNESS! TAKEOFF and landing are the bumpiest parts of the journey. Once we achieve altitude, we’ll have smooth sailing, never you fear.”
Penelope made a small, miserable noise to acknowledge Admiral Faucet’s remark. It was not the sickening sway of the rising balloon that had sent her to the floor of the basket with her knees clutched to her chest. No, it was watching her parents shrink to the size of squirrels, then toy soldiers, then mere specks, that had made her curl up in misery, taking one deep, calming breath after another. Frankenforde as seen from above could fit in a nutshell with room to spare, and the Itty-Bitty Lumleys would be no more than grains of sand within it.
“It is the coming and going that is hard,” she thought, sniffling back her tears. “But better they should be the Here-and-Gone, See-You-Later Lumleys than go back to being Long-Lost! And think what it will be like for the Incorrigibles—that is, my brothers and sister, the three littlest Lumleys!—to meet their parents once more.”
This happy thought got her feet under her. Soon she braved standing up. At first she kept her eyes downcast and concentrated on getting her flying legs, so to speak. When she finally lifted her face, the rush of fresh air (and really, what air could be fresher?), the canopy of sparkling blue sky all around, the sheer storybook magic of being in flight washed all fear from her, and she spread her arms wide and laughed aloud.
Admiral Faucet chuckled. “I knew you’d come ’round. Enjoy the view while you can! Your parents—now don’t deny it, I’ve got eyes to see with, miss!—asked me to travel incognito as best I could. We’ll have to sacrifice scenery for secrecy.”
Penelope looked up. “A brightly colored balloon floating across a clear blue sky? What secrecy can there be in that?”
He added more coal to the stove, for the stronger the fire, the hotter the air and the faster the balloon rose. “You’ll see. Lucky for us it’s springtime. April showers bring May flowers, as the proverb goes. There’ll be no shortage of stratocumuli and nimbostrati to hide behind.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Clouds, governess! It’s higher than I typically fly, but with enough hot air, there’s no reason we can’t get above the clouds. It’s quite a sight! You’ll want to put on your hat and coat, though. It does get chilly up there.”
It was all as the admiral described. When the balloon pierced the fog of the low-lying clouds, the air grew cold and damp. They were briefly blinded as the mist swirled all around, but soon they popped through to the other side. Above, the sky was bluer than the clearest day imaginable. Below, the tops of the clouds formed a thick layer that churned like an ocean of cake frosting. Penelope was tempted to reach out and catch some on her finger, just as she used to scrape the last bit of icing from the bowl when Cook let her help in the kitchen. But she knew better, for clouds are made of water droplets and ice crystals, not sugar and butter and cream. And leaning out of a balloon in flight is never advisable.
Brrr! The temperature had dropped thirty degrees already. Now she understood why her parents had packed her a warm coat and hat. Admiral Faucet made tea by heating water on the same stove that heated air for the balloon, and they each helped themselves to a sandwich. Occasionally the admiral glanced at a small compass he carried in his pocket, or added more fuel to the fire. Otherwise he left the balloon to its own devices.
Penelope cradled the warm tea between her hands. “Admiral Faucet, I am curious. How do you keep this vessel on course?”
“On course? You mean how do I steer the blasted thing?”
“Yes.”
He laughed merrily. “You can’t steer a balloon, governess! That’s the fun of it. It’s just a big bag of hot air. It blows where the wind takes it. If you have a particular destination in mind, it’s up to you to find the wind that’s heading your way.”
“You make it sound as if there are different winds to choose from,” she said, not wholly convinced.
“That’s because there are. The wind blows in all directions. Which one you catch depends on your altitude. It’s much easier than steering, when you get used to it. Just decide where you’d like to end up, and choose the wind that suits you best. Now, hand me another one of those sandwiches, would you?”
NOTHING PASSES THE TIME LIKE a good story, of course, and the admiral was nothing if not a talker. Alas, all his tales tended to be about himself and his globe-trotting adventures, and there was a sameness to them that soon wearied Penelope. Eventually she pretended to nap, so as not to have to listen anymore. “Imagine what Miss Mortimer would say,” she rued. “A Swanburne girl on a long journey without a single book to read!” And only yesterday she had been in a bookstore, too. Grimm’s fairy tales would have been suitable, given her recent experience in the German woods. The Arabian Nights and its flying carpets would also have served nicely. If only she had thought to borrow one of them!
Luckily, the workings of one’s own mind are highly portable, as they weigh nothing and take up no room in a suitcase. Penelope decided to occupy herself by making lists of questions for her parents. “At three questions a day, in a week I ought to be able to ask quite a few. Twenty-one, to be exact,” she thought. “The seven-times table is tricky, but the three-times table is easy as falling off a—whoops!”
The Long-Lost Home Page 20