The Long-Lost Home

by Maryrose Wood

Madame Ionesco dipped one finger into the soup, took it out, and licked it. “Not bad,” she said. “Maybe add a little more dill next time.”

  The bread knife that held the horsehair wig lay at the foot of the bed. Madame placed it next to the soup and offered the whole tray to the wolf. “Here you go, doggie. Blood and a pelt. Just like you ordered.”

  “That’s not blood. That’s borscht,” Simon blurted.

  “Tell that to a beet.” Again, Madame Ionesco turned to the wolf. “Just try it,” she urged. “It’s not bad.”

  The great beast nuzzled the horsehair wig with her nose and sniffed at the soup. Finally she took a slurp. Her ears swiveled in surprise.

  “Grrrrr! It’s good,” the creature said, and lapped up the rest. When she had licked the last bloodred morsels of borscht from her whiskers, the wolf swept her shining eyes ’round the room.

  “Ahwoo, ahwoo!” the wolf intoned. “Most unexpected! I came to witness the extinction of the curséd Ashtons, a family split in two. Yet now I cannot tell which side is which. Each of you was willing to sacrifice yourself for another.”

  “That’s because we are siblings.” Alexander stood proudly next to the cradle.

  “Brothers,” Beowulf said, joining him.

  “And sisters, oojie woojie woo!” Cassiopeia cooed at the babies.

  “And I am a mother!” Lady Constance giggled. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

  “And I’m a father, it appears!” Lord Fredrick said happily, and patted his wife’s hand.

  “I am a big sister, and some sort of cousin,” said Penelope, looking at the children. “And a daughter,” she added. Mater Lumley smiled.

  “And a niece, don’t forget!” put in Miss Mortimer.

  “I’m not sure what I am, exactly, but I do feel part of the family, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Simon offered. Shyly he took Penelope’s hand.

  “I’m just the soothsayer—don’t mind me!” Madame Ionesco chuckled.

  “Does this mean that only one side remains?” Penelope clutched Simon’s hand in hope. “Have the terms of the curse been fulfilled?”

  The wolf’s cold yellow eyes softened to a burnished gold. “Two sides have turned to one. Not through violence, but through compassion and kindness. The tree that was split down the middle has grown together once more.”

  A powerful wag of the wolf’s great furry tail pushed aside the drapes, and the cool blue light of the first full moon of May shone brightly upon them all. “Ahwoo!” the beast sang, full throated. It was a song of forgiveness. “Ahwoo, ahwoo! As there is one nose, one tail, and one moon in the sky, the Ashtons are again one family. Live long together, and live in peace. The terms of the curse have been fulfilled.”

  With that, the shimmering spirit of the Sacred Wolf of Ahwoo-Ahwoo detached itself from Mama Woof. It floated upward and hovered near the ceiling, then burst into countless sprays of gold that glittered in the air like fireworks. A moment later, it was gone.

  “Hooray!” cried the Incorrigibles, who understood that something marvelous had happened. Simon and Penelope hugged each other, and Mater and Pater Lumley embraced all their children in turn.

  Lady Constance beamed and yawned, for she had had a very long day indeed. Her husband held her hand in one of his own, and used the other to rock the cradle that held the future of their new and no longer curséd family.

  Mama Woof seemed dazed by the experience, but thanks to the nourishing borscht and some tasty sandwich meats offered by the children, she was soon quite herself again.

  “That’s a good girl.” Madame Ionesco scratched the enormous beast on the muzzle as if she were a much-loved pet. The wolf did not seem to mind at all. “Not what you expected, eh? But people change, doggie. People change.”

  TRULY, THE FIRST FULL MOON of May had turned out to be a day worth celebrating. No doubt Cook would have baked a cake for the occasion, had she known how well things would turn out. However, there was still one small betrayal left to settle.

  Simon rubbed bashfully at his head, which was far easier to do now that that itchy horsehair wig was off. “Whoops! I guess I owe you an apology, Lady C,” he said. “As you can tell, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

  Lady Constance merely laughed. “No need to apologize, Mrs. Penworthy! Many a lady has resorted to artificial means when her own natural beauty was in need of a boost, as the Americans say. I have dabbled in a bit of rouge and lip tint myself now and then. But not to worry. My dressmaker, Madame LePoint, knows the finest wigmakers in Paris. She can have a new wig made for you that is far more flattering.” Her little nose wrinkled. “Your old one did you no favors, if I may speak frankly, one lady to another! It had a bit of a barnyard smell about it, too.”

  Simon, amazed, looked at Penelope, who was desperately trying not to laugh.

  “Well, thanks very much! You’re awfully kind, Lady C,” he said, and curtsied as daintily as he could. The Incorrigibles nudged each other and looked pleased, for they enjoyed having both Simon and Mrs. Penworthy around, and now it seemed that he—that is to say, they—would be able to stay on as the baby nurse after all. It made perfect sense to the children, for they were used to thinking with their hearts.

  Throughout all this, Lord Fredrick only had eyes for his wife. “You certainly don’t need any rouge today, my dear,” he said. “I can see you clear as day. You look radiant.”

  “Do I?” There was no mirror handy, but none was required; the truth of it was reflected on her husband’s face. “Well, I feel radiant, so there,” she said merrily. “I believe motherhood suits me, Fredrick!”

  EPILOGUE

  BY MORNING, EDWARD ASHTON HAD disappeared.

  Old Timothy had locked him in the barn overnight. This was ironic, since the barn was where the Incorrigible children had been put when Lord Fredrick first found them in the woods. Yet it was not an unkindness on either occasion, for the barn was cozy and filled with clean hay and friendly animals. Old Timothy had stayed till Edward fell asleep. The man had shown no signs of violence, or even resistance. The former lord of Ashton Place seemed reduced to a muttering simpleton.

  But when Old Timothy returned in the morning to deliver breakfast—it was an excellent breakfast, too, as Mrs. Clarke herself had prepared a tray of hot porridge, jam, butter, and a basket of muffins, saying as she did so, “If a bloodthirsty wolf who’s been dead for ages can put the past behind her and move on, what excuse do the rest of us have for holding a grudge, I ask you?”—he was gone. A hollow in the bed of hay showed where he had slept, but the spot was cold. It seemed he had been gone for hours.

  “We ought to start a hunting party, what?” Lord Fredrick said when told. By this time it had been explained to him who “Quinzy” really was, a revelation that Lord Fredrick took rather well, given the circumstances. “But a peaceful one, please! No weapons. He is my father, after all. Perhaps he’s just hiding in the woods.”

  Everyone who could be spared went outside to join the search. This included Admiral Faucet, who had made his way to the house early, in time for a good breakfast and a much-needed shave, as well as a round of apologies for some past misdeeds, all of which were promptly forgiven.

  The children ran around the grounds and sniffed, but the scents of madness, meanness, and vengeance were nowhere to be found at Ashton Place.

  Old Timothy checked the stables, but no horses were missing.

  “That means he must have escaped on foot,” Beowulf deduced. “But which one? The right foot, or the left?”

  Alexander swiveled his spyglass upward. “Maybe not. Look!” High in the sky, a multicolored balloon lurched one way and then the other.

  Admiral Faucet spluttered, “My balloon!”

  “No worries, Faucet old chap. I’ll buy you a new one,” Lord Fredrick offered. “I’m still awfully rich, you know.”

  “Much appreciated, sir! But I’m more concerned with the fellow inside. In the first place, he doesn’t know how to fly it. In the second p
lace, after my rough landing in the treetops, that balloon’s in bad shape. I’d wager it’s leaking hot air like, well, a faucet. It might stay up for a day or so, but that’s it. And with the wind blowing the way it is . . .” His voice grew ominous. “He’ll crash in the ocean for sure.”

  The question of whether they ought to rescue Edward Ashton from certain death in a broken balloon might have posed an ethical dilemma, had there been any chance of saving him. But already it was too late. The stolen balloon rose quickly—too quickly, according to Faucet—and the howls of its lone passenger could no longer be heard, as the balloon shrank to a tiny smudge of rainbow in the sky. It blew topsy-turvy in an eastward direction, borne by fate and the prevailing winds toward the wide, unforgiving sea.

  AS YOU MIGHT EXPECT, LORD Fredrick’s feelings about this were mixed. “Even a terrible father is a father,” he said later, when they had all gone back inside to visit with Lady Constance and the babies. “Not having one is a pity, no matter how you slice it. I had one, lost one, found one, now I’ve lost him again. It’s upsetting. And now I’m a father, too! I hope I have more of a knack for it than old Edward.”

  Lady Constance and the twins were being well cared for by Mater and Pater Lumley, Madame Ionesco, and Mrs. Penworthy, too. Her pony-scented pigtails had been replaced to great advantage with Simon’s own unruly shock of hair, which tumbled quite naturally over her—his—intelligent forehead.

  Pater Lumley put his arm around Fredrick’s shoulders. “All parents make mistakes. You’ll make some, too.” Mater Lumley offered a clean pocket handkerchief, which Lord Fredrick put to good use.

  Lady Constance looked upon her husband with sympathy and gestured for him to come sit next to her. “I have news that will cheer you, Fredrick! I have thought of names for the babies. The little girl I would like to name Fern. Ferns are pleasant to be among and come in many varieties, so I am told. Therefore, I think the name will suit her no matter what sort of person she turns out to be.”

  Penelope nearly clapped her hands in delight, for she was very fond of ferns.

  “And Fredrick, dear, if it is all right with you, I think we ought to name the boy Edward. After your father.”

  “What?” he exclaimed.

  “The worst of him was not very nice, true, but nobody is perfect! We can name our son Edward after the best of your father, in honor of the father you would like to be. I have complete faith in you, Fredrick!” Constance chirped.

  Lord Fredrick cheered up a great deal after he heard that. In any case, Fern and Edward needed diaper changes, again, and as the newly blesséd Ashtons would soon learn, there is little time to worry about how to be a good parent when one is busy being one.

  Penelope, who still felt remorse about the unpaid hotel and taxi bills she had left behind in Russia, was doubly committed to making sure the good fortune-teller’s expenses were settled promptly. “Madame, I know your services do not come cheaply,” she said, taking the weird woman aside. “If you would give me an invoice, I will take the matter up with Lord Fredrick as soon—well, as soon as he is done changing diapers.”

  “Oojie woojie woo!” the lord of Ashton Place cooed as he put Fern—or was it Edward?—back in the crib.

  Madame Ionesco patted Penelope’s hand. “No charge! It’s a baby present, times two.”

  Lord Fredrick straightened. “I’d best write down the birthday so I don’t forget. Everybody likes to get a card on their birthday, what? Hand me my almanac, would you, Old Tim?”

  But the almanac was nowhere to be found. “Where is that book?” he said, turning in circles. “It’s uncanny. The blasted almanac still won’t stay put!”

  Madame Ionesco chuckled. “Sorry, poppa! I’ve been meaning to tell you. There’s a little spell on your almanac. In Romanian it’s called . . . well, in Romanian, it’s complicated. Loosely translated, it’s the other-sock spell.”

  “Socks? What’s that got to do with it?” Lord Fredrick asked.

  “I bet I know!” Simon exclaimed. “It’s the spell that makes people lose the other sock, isn’t it?”

  Madame Ionesco grinned. “You got it, baby nurse!” To the others she explained, “Long ago in soothsayer time—which is not like the clock on the wall, by the way!—one of my fellow fortune-tellers mixed up her abracadabras with her presto changos, and the other-sock spell got loose. Now we can’t get rid of it. You can’t put a genie back in the bottle, know what I mean? Anyway, Fred, somebody—it might have been me!—put the other-sock spell on your almanac.”

  He tipped his head to the side in a doglike expression of bewilderment. “Is that why I’m always misplacing it?

  “Yup. Also, you need glasses, honey.”

  Penelope was grateful for this insight about socks, for she too struggled with socks that went missing on laundry day, and this despite having an exceptionally well-organized stocking drawer. “But why put a spell on the almanac?” she asked.

  The fortune-teller shrugged. “Feeling ashamed is no good for the digestion. Freddy was using the almanac to try to keep his howling a secret. The sooner he got caught, the better. And Old Timothy helped, too, didn’t you, you enigmatic cutie?”

  The coachman looked smug. “His Lordship would circle the dates of the full moons, and I’d sneak in and change them.”

  Lord Fredrick shook his head. “You’re a tricky one, Old Tim, though that’s no surprise. Well, I can’t be cross about it, or anything else, really. Not today!” His blurry gaze met that of his new babies. “Oojie woojie woo, you little yappers,” he crooned. “Oojie woojie ahwoo-ahwoo, what?”

  The babies’ lips pursed into two round O’s.

  “Look, Fredrick,” Lady Constance said, all aglow. “I think they’re trying to howl!”

  ONE WOULD THINK THERE HAD always been babies at Ashton Place. Everything had changed, and yet it all came to seem quite normal as the days went by. An abundance of knitted sweaters and scarves began to appear on the household staff, which gave a cozy feeling to the grand house. Meanwhile, Penelope had returned to wearing her comfortable brown governess dresses, although she did ask that Madame LePoint alter them slightly. A fortnight in sailor pants had made her accustomed to having pockets, and she saw no need to give them up. Soon this too became the fashion at Ashton Place, until even Lady Constance began requesting pockets on her dresses. They came in useful for holding rattles and pacifiers and, of course, the occasional chocolate treat.

  However, there was another curious alteration at which no one could cease marveling. After the night of the curse breaking, the portraits of Admiral Percival Racine Ashton and the Honorable Pax Ashton that hung in Lord Fredrick’s study were never the same. They lost their long noses and pointed, wolfish ears. The expressions that had once been so cold and offputting took on a warmer, more familial look. One could almost call them kindly.

  And the portrait of Agatha Swanburne, long in residence in the headmistress’s office at Swanburne, now hung next to that of her twin brother, Pax. Miss Mortimer supervised the installation personally. Penelope, Simon, and the Incorrigible Lumleys gathered for the special occasion. Madame Ionesco was there, too, as the spooky change in the paintings pleased her to no end.

  “Agatha belongs here, at home.” Miss Mortimer stood back to admire the rearranged gallery of Ashton ancestors. From a certain angle, it looked as if Agatha and Pax were glancing at each other, a twin twinkle of merriment in each oil-painted eye. “And there is another, rather intriguing portrait of her at the British Museum that deserves to be more widely seen. I’ve arranged to have it moved to Swanburne as a permanent loan, courtesy of the meweezum. Drat! I mean museum. Now you’ve got me saying it, Cassawoof!”

  Cassiopeia grinned at hearing her baby word for museum come out of Miss Mortimer’s mouth.

  “And both portraits of Agatha were painted by Pax himself?” Penelope asked, looking at the signature—a large, swooping A. It was how all the Ashton men signed their names.

  Miss Mortimer nodded. “Yes. P
ax painted portraits of his sister his whole life long. As cruel as he was to her, he never forgot her.”

  “Since we’re on the subject of art appreciation,” Simon said, “what’s up with Edward Ashton’s portrait? The rest have gone positively cuddly, but his looks the same as ever.”

  “I know what it means,” Penelope said firmly. “It means he’s still alive.”

  “Hang on. I’ll see if I can find out.” Madame Ionesco squinted at the portrait and mumbled a few words of soothsayerese. The dead duck on the mantelpiece let out a single protesting quack, but the portrait of Edward Ashton remained unchanged. “Hmm! You might be right. But don’t worry, honey. He won’t bother you anymore. I don’t think.”

  “Is that another prophecy?” Penelope asked with hope, for the good fortune-teller had never been wrong yet.

  The soothsayer shrugged. “Call it my opinion. The dead are predictable. But the living? Please. You never know what they’ll do next.”

  PENELOPE WAS DEEPLY RELIEVED TO think that Edward Ashton was no longer a threat to anyone, even if it was only Madame Ionesco’s opinion. But where was he?

  No one knew. Admiral Faucet maintained that no one could have survived the journey across the sea in that tattered balloon, especially a person with no balloon-flying experience.

  Still—oddly—some weeks after the birth of Fern and Edward, and all the dramatic events of that strange, moonlit night, a letter arrived from Europe. It was addressed to Lord Fredrick, and it was from his mother.

  After some pleasantries about her croquet game (she had been practicing a great deal and had improved tremendously, she said), she wrote:

  And now, Freddy, allow me to share news of a more personal nature. I have made a new friend, a gentleman who goes by the name of Ward.

  He reminds me of your father—those dark eyes!—and yet I know it is not him. Your father was so sharp minded, so unflappable. Poor Ward is like a child most of the time. He plays croquet, not well, and sings sea chanteys. He has a horror of dogs, imagine! I pity him, but there is something easy and familiar about his company, too.