In fact, Adélaïde spent most of her breaks on the theater rooftop because Adélaïde was not terribly popular with the other young ballerinas. Mr. Stanislas stood up and leaned against the front of his desk with folded arms. Adélaïde stayed where she was.
“And how exactly does one maybe feed birds?” he asked. “I’ve seen people feed birds and I’ve seen people not feed birds, but I’m sorry to say I’ve never once seen someone maybe feed birds.”
“They have to eat, too!” Adélaïde insisted.
“This is true, but not on my roof!” he barked. “And if you feed those creatures one more time, I’ll send you up with the mop. I’ll lose my job if the director sees that mess. Do we understand each other?”
They didn’t, but Adélaïde nodded and continued down the hall, rubbing her tongue against the roof of her mouth to rid herself of that terrible taste. The theater halls were littered with young ballerinas, stretching and warming up. They whispered and giggled as Adélaïde passed. Her room was number seventeen. She stepped inside to change.
♦ BALLET OF ADÉLAÏDE L. BELMONT ♦
It was not long before Adélaïde rose above the other petits rats (as the young ballerinas are called at the Paris Ballet Theater) to the top of her class. Her exceptional talent was well noted by the instructors. But not everything was like bread with chocolate baked inside. There were plenty of snails served along, too. The other petits rats were jealous of the fuss and attention paid to Adélaïde.
“I think she’s cheating.”
“Is that even possible?”
“She looks more like a fish flopping around, if you ask me.”
“That doesn’t matter. Mr. Ravel thinks she’s better than us.”
“Not just Mr. Ravel. She thinks she’s better than us.”
While none of this was true, it didn’t matter. The petits rats would join hands and dance in circles around her singing:
We hope that you, Miss Pirouette,
Will see a day you won’t forget
A change in your nice silhouette
Just like the young queen, Antoinette!
Adélaïde made her solo debut at the age of eight. It was a young persons’ concert, which meant tickets were sold at half price and even then, many seats were left empty. But that didn’t matter to Adélaïde.
The performance began at eight, so she told her father to be there at seven, knowing even then he would still be late.
“To the Paris Ballet Theater, and step on it!” shouted Mr. Belmont as he jumped into a taxi.
He dashed up theater steps and straight into the outstretched hands of Mr. Stanislas.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in,” Mr. Stanislas said.
“But that’s my daughter in there,” Mr. Belmont replied.
Mr. Stanislas peered at the stage through a glass window in the door.
“The Fräulein?” he asked.
Mr. Belmont raised an eyebrow. “If that’s what you call her.”
“Well, rules are rules,” said Mr. Stanislas with a sickly grin. “I’m not supposed to allow anyone in once the performance has begun.”
Mr. Belmont was silent a moment, then said, “Would you mind getting me a glass of water, at least? I just ran the entire way here.”
Mr. Stanislas sniveled. Mr. Belmont insisted.
“Wait here,” Mr. Stanislas said, slithering from his post.
Once he was out of sight, Mr. Belmont slipped inside.
Often years pass from one to the next and blend without distinction. But every once in a while, you’ll have a year that sticks out. It can be a good thing or a bad thing that makes it so. For Adélaïde, it was her ninth year that stuck out and the reason for this was a bad thing. It all began early one morning with the baking of bread.
♦ THE BAKERY TRUCK & THE LAMPPOST ♦
A baker of bread must wake up early in the morning and a baker of bread must spend those early morning hours shoveling fresh dough in and out of hot ovens. It’s a difficult life but a necessary one as this is the only way the rest of us can enjoy fresh bread. The bread supplier for Belmont Coffee & Café was a baker named Christoph, and Christoph was good at what he did. The only problem was Christoph always woke up late and often didn’t have time to make fresh bread. As a result, he sold yesterday’s bread and sometimes, the day-before-yesterday’s bread.
“Stale again,” said Amaury.
“Not a flake in sight,” said Adélaïde.
Mr. Belmont picked up the phone. “. . . I understand, Christoph, but if you swindle me one more time with these stale croissants, I will find someone else.”
With the looming threat of losing his largest client, Christoph had no choice. He set three alarm clocks next to his bed and started waking up early every single morning to make fresh bread. Eventually, this began to have an odd effect on him. Christoph started seeing things that weren’t really there, and seeing things that aren’t really there has gotten lots of people into lots of trouble.
Early one morning, after spending hours shoveling dough into ovens, Christoph and his partner, Nicolas, loaded their bread truck and set off for the Belmont Coffee & Café. Somewhere in transit, his mind began to play tricks on him. Christoph glanced into his side view mirror and thought he saw a single pigeon chasing the truck. But pigeons don’t chase trucks, so Christoph shrugged it off. A moment later, he thought he spotted five more. He turned to Nicolas.
“Did you see . . .”
“See what?” asked Nicolas.
“Maybe I’m just . . .”
“Just what?”
Christoph shook his head. “Never mind,” he said.
Nicolas raised an eyebrow and the volume on the radio. As Nicolas did this, Christoph was quite certain he spotted no fewer than thirty-seven birds in hot pursuit. No, he couldn’t be crazy! He saw them as clearly as you now see this book.
“We’re being hunted!” Christoph shouted.
“Hunted by who?” asked Nicolas calmly.
“Not who. Pigeons!”
Nicolas peered into his side view mirror. He blinked twice and then once more. The illusive birds did not appear.
“You haven’t been at the crepes and cider again, have you?” he asked with concern.
Christoph adamantly denied the charge. “It’s the bread! They want my bread!” He slammed on the accelerator and went barreling down the street. Nicolas tightened his seat belt.
In truth, the only pigeons to be found were the ones perched atop Adélaïde’s rooftop waiting for her and, more importantly, their breakfast. But the pigeons weren’t the only ones waiting for their breakfast. The night before, Adélaïde had left the rooftop door open a crack and her cat Napoleon had gone to investigate after seeing the morning sunlight slanting down the stairs. He stepped out onto the rooftop and into a delicious situation.
Perched along the edge were countless pigeons, all still half asleep. Napoleon crouched low, trying to decide which one he should eat first. After making his decision, he moved in for the kill. Quick as a whip, the cat pounced. Pigeons flew everywhere, swooping and swarming this way and that. Napoleon was overwhelmed. He leaped into the air to catch one, but in the chaos, caught nothing. The birds regrouped. They swooped clean over the roof’s edge and down into the streets below. The foolish creatures were in such a panic that they flew headlong into the bakery truck now barreling down the street. The pigeons bounced lifelessly off the windshield and plopped onto people who wished they’d stayed in bed.
Nicolas shrieked.
“I told you!” shouted Christoph. He released the steering wheel and covered his face. The truck swerved left and right and out of control.
It was seven A.M. Adélaïde stepped out her front door. The bakery truck screeched sideways down the street. The tires were about to explode. Pigeons swarmed. People shouted. Croissants rolled. Everywhere were feathers. Adélaïde stared with espresso eyes. These sorts of things don’t happen!
The bakery truck smashed sideways into a lamp
post and all fell silent. But the impact dislodged the lamppost from the sidewalk. The lamppost wavered. An eerie moan of metal sounded when, a moment later, the lamppost fell. Adélaïde was too shocked to move in time.
♦ THE QUEEN OF FARCE ♦
“I’m going away for a short while,” Mr. Belmont announced one afternoon.
Two years had passed since the bakery truck incident, and Adélaïde was now nearly eleven. It had been a foggy two years for her, and she emerged from that fog with a wooden leg. She was no longer enrolled at the Paris Ballet Theater but was still tutored at home. She wasn’t sure what to think about all this so she didn’t. She didn’t want to talk about it, either. No matter where she went, people would stare. (The polite ones would pretend they didn’t notice.) So Adélaïde stayed home. And while her father was away, busied herself with Amaury in the café.
One afternoon she was sitting at the bar playing cards with Amaury when a short, disgruntled-looking man approached. He placed his order and proceeded to stare most impolitely at her leg.
“You pick up a bad penny or something?” he asked.
Adélaïde stared at Amaury over her cards. He grinned and leaned against the bar. “You want to tell him or should I?”
“I think it’s best if you tell him,” she replied, choosing a card.
Amaury glanced at the disgruntled man.
“What do you know about crocodiles?” he asked.
“Crocodiles?” the man repeated.
Adélaïde nodded. “Chewed it clean off,” she said, and played her card.
Amaury placed one atop hers. “Nasty creatures, they are,” he said.
“Horrible teeth,” she added.
Amaury and Adélaïde laughed as the disgruntled man left without his coffee. Later that day, Amaury went to the opposite side of Paris to check in on another Belmont café. Adélaïde made a cup of tea and slipped into the back of the shop. She wove through a mountain of boxes labeled “Belmont Coffee” and rogue beans littered across the floor. Against a shelf was a table struggling to support a large ham radio. It looked like something the military would use, but it was only Amaury who used it. The radio was a hobby of his, and he spent most of his breaks sitting before it. The chair squeaked as Adélaïde sat down and took a sip of tea. The machine looked complicated, but she clicked the on switch and twisted the knobs (as she’d seen Amaury do countless times) saying “Bonjour” into the microphone as she did.
“Brochure?” returned the static voice of a boy.
Adélaïde leaned forward. “Oui. Bonjour!” she replied.
“Free brochure?”
“Oui! Bonjour,” said Adélaïde, thinking this boy not too bright for simply repeating what she said.
“Thanks, but I’m not interested in a free brochure.”
At this, Adélaïde realized the boy was speaking English. She quickly said “Hello” but the connection was lost.
♦ A CHANGE OF SCENERY ♦
Mr. Belmont returned home two months later and made a second announcement. “We’re moving across the sea.”
As a general rule, almost anyone who lives in Paris never wants to leave it. But as with most rules, there are a few exceptions. Mr. Belmont was one such exception. He thought Adélaïde needed a change of scenery. His search for a new home led him across the sea to the city of Rosewood, where he purchased house number 376 on North Willow Street. And to give his family a little taste of home, he decided to have it remodeled in a proper Parisian fashion. But when the construction was complete and moving day arrived, Mrs. Belmont was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Belmont was not an exception to the rule. She had no desire to leave her beloved city. So she didn’t.
For her own part, Adélaïde was glad to leave. She didn’t like living in the shadow of the Paris Ballet Theater. She packed the last of her belongings into her suitcase and followed her father to the docks. They walked up a gangplank and stepped onto an ocean liner.
After a few days of sea breezes, Adélaïde saw seagulls and then she saw land. She disembarked, made her way through Rosewood Port, and stepped outside. There was a pleasant breeze at her back and she was glad to be somewhere new. She looked out at the twisting streets leading away from the port. The city wasn’t half as big as Paris but seemed just as old. There was the beginning of a canal lined with tall buildings and she wanted to take a closer look, but her father called to her. They piled their luggage into a taxi and hopped inside.
“Where to?” asked the cab driver.
“To three-seventy-six North Willow Street,” Mr. Belmont said. He raised an invisible glass in the air. “And to a change of scenery.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
♦ GOLDFINCH SPY ♦
Adélaïde was sitting on her balcony eating her breakfast (tea and croissant) and reading a book (Perils for Pearls). But she read the same sentence three times because she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. This was nothing new, of course. But ever since she had moved to North Willow Street two weeks ago, Adélaïde felt it especially so. She lowered her book and saw a goldfinch perched on the railing. It was staring at her.
It’s the bird, she thought. That bird has been watching me.
She kicked her wooden leg at the winged creature until it reluctantly flew off the ledge.
Down below, Napoleon the cat was lurking atop the garden walls in a morning stupor when he spotted Mrs. Murkley asleep in a garden chair. Not far away, also atop the walls, the non-nocturnal opossum looked up as the goldfinch swooped across the gardens and landed on a windowsill of house number 375. Inside that window, Archer lowered his binoculars.
“What did you find out?” he asked.
The goldfinch wouldn’t say a word till Archer gave it some toast. He broke off the crust and tossed it onto the sill, but the bird wanted the good stuff so Archer threw everything he had. The bird greedily pecked away.
“Well?” asked Archer after a moment.
The bird ignored him.
“Who are you talking to?” said Oliver, who was lying on the floor of Archer’s room. He turned his head toward the bed. “And why is there an eyeball under your bed?”
Archer glanced over his shoulder. He’d forgotten about his glass eye. “I’m not talking to anyone,” he replied and, turning back to the goldfinch, pressed for information.
The bird finally spoke between pecks.
“I’ve flown—around the block—once or twice—in my life—but—CAW—excuse me. But never, not once, have I seen someone like that. She has a wooden leg!”
Yes, Archer could see that. “But why?” he asked.
“I’ve not the slightest idea,” the bird replied.
Archer was annoyed he’d given up his toast for this. He swatted the plate at the goldfinch but accidentally let the plate go. Both the bird and the plate crashed to the garden floor. Adélaïde lowered her book. Mrs. Murkley jumped to her feet, fists at the ready. Oliver ran to the window.
“Why’d you kill it?” he asked, staring down at the stunned bird.
“I didn’t mean to,” said Archer, feeling terrible and quickly leaning farther out the window. “But I don’t think it’s dead.”
It wasn’t. Not yet. But Napoleon the cat was quicker than the non-nocturnal opossum.
Oliver sighed. “I guess that’s that.”
Mrs. Helmsley dashed into the gardens to inspect the shattered plate and three golden feathers. She turned up toward Archer’s window just as Archer and Oliver ducked inside. Archer went to his bed. Oliver stayed at the window to watch Adélaïde, who was back to reading her book.
“I wonder what she’d look like with two legs,” he said.
“Do you think it would make any difference?”
“Probably not.”
Archer dug beneath his pillow and found his notebook. “Never mind her,” he said. “We have other things to worry about.”
Two weeks had passed since their conversation on the rooftop, and Archer was still set on Antarctica
despite Oliver’s incessant reminder that he would need someone with experience if he had the slightest hope of doing such a thing. Archer knew this was true. But he also knew there was research he could do on his own—research that required the Button Factory library. Fortunately, school began in three days. But when school did start, Archer was distracted.
♦ THIMBLETON & MURKLEY ♦
On the first day of school, Adélaïde arrived at the Button Factory early to meet with Mrs. Thimbleton, the head of school, who looked just as a Thimbleton should. After her welcome, she asked Adélaïde a series of questions while writing a note.
“I would like you to meet with Miss Whitewood after class,” she said. “I’ll let her know you’re coming. She’ll give you a tour of our school and help with anything you might need.”
Mrs. Thimbleton pointed her pen at Adélaïde’s leg. “You’ll need assistance getting around, yes?”
Adélaïde leaned back in the chair and shook her head, tired of everyone assuming she needed help.
“I’ll be fine,” she replied.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Thimbleton. She finished her note and was about to hand it to Adélaïde when she froze, her eyes fixed on something just beyond the girl’s head. Adélaïde turned and found a brutish woman clogging the doorway. Adélaïde knew this woman. Or at least, she’d seen her in the Willow Street gardens.
“Margery!” Mrs. Thimbleton cried. “How delightful it is to see you again!”
“Of course it’s delightful to see me,” Mrs. Murkley replied. “Let’s not waste time stating the obvious, my dear Mrs. Thimbleton. And please, call me Mrs. Murkley.”
Mrs. Thimbleton smiled. “Yes, well, we were all terribly upset to hear what happened at Raven Wood, of course. But the past is the past, and we mustn’t harp on it. Raven Wood’s loss is the Willow Academy’s gain. Yes, our students are most fortunate you accepted my offer.”
“Of course they are,” said Mrs. Murkley. “Honestly, it’s a wonder you accomplish anything during the day.”
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