by Kate Albus
“Can we come home with you?” The words surprised even Anna, though it was she who said them.
William laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Ehm—Anna’s just upset about Edmund, Mrs. Müller. We don’t—”
“Of course you’re upset about Edmund,” the librarian whispered. She knelt in front of Anna. “And of course you can come home with me.”
The boys watched as Anna dissolved into tears. They watched as the librarian caught her and gathered her up and let her sob into the shoulder of her coat. They knew the decision was made for the night. And both found they felt relief beyond words.
William gave the briefest of glances at his brother before he met Mrs. Müller’s tearful gaze. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Müller,” Edmund echoed, then sneezed.
“God bless you, Edmund,” Mrs. Müller said. “And no thanks are necessary. I had an inkling things were bad for you. I should have screwed up my courage and done this long ago, and not listened to the voices in the village—or in my own head, come to that—telling me you were better off with someone other than me.”
The boys lowered their heads. Anna took the sort of shuddering breath one takes after a great deal too much crying. “Mrs. Griffith’s girls tore up our books.”
Mrs. Müller brushed a wisp of hair from Anna’s face. “Whyever would they do such a thing?”
“For the petty,” Anna answered.
“The toilet,” Edmund explained.
“Oh, how awful,” Mrs. Müller said. “Your special books from home.”
“Not just those, Mrs. Müller,” Anna continued. “One of the books they tore up was yours—I mean, the library’s.”
“Darling girl,” the librarian said, taking Anna’s face in her hands. “I hate to think you spent time worrying I’d be angry about a library book?”
Anna gave another shuddering sigh.
“It was Ferdinand,” Edmund said.
“Hmmm,” Mrs. Müller hummed. “Poor Ferdinand. But you’re not to fret about that, all right?” She glanced around the emptying reception. “I suppose we ought to let the ladies in charge know you’ll be coming with me?”
The children nodded. Mrs. Müller squared herself before taking Anna by the hand and shepherding the Shepherd and the Star back into the nave. Miss Carr was on the altar, sweeping up hay. She didn’t notice the children’s approach until Edmund sneezed.
“God bless you, Edmund,” Mrs. Müller whispered.
Miss Carr turned. “Back to your billet now, children. And we’ll have no more nonsense, will we?”
Mrs. Müller led the children up the altar steps and extended her hand. “You’ll be Miss Carr, then? I’m Nora Müller, and Anna, Edmund, and William won’t be returning to Mrs. Griffith’s.” Her voice cracked a bit. “They’ll be coming home with me.”
Miss Carr took Mrs. Müller’s hand with reluctance. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by another ferocious sneeze from Edmund. Mrs. Müller retrieved a neatly folded handkerchief from her coat pocket and offered it to him, laying a cool hand on his neck. Edmund wiped his streaming nose.
Miss Carr returned her attention to the librarian. “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Müller, and thank you for your kind offer; however, the children’s present billet remains the most suitable.”
Edmund could feel Mrs. Müller’s hand tremble on his neck.
“I am well aware that I’ve been designated an unsuitable billet,” she said. “I am also well aware, perhaps more than anyone, as to why.”
“Yes—well…” Miss Carr hesitated. “I have not been—privy—to those conversations directly. I do understand—have heard—that there is some—concern…”
“Indeed.” The librarian appeared to grow several inches. “I am—again—well aware of Mrs. Norton’s concern, as you put it, but I think perhaps the more pressing concern”—she emphasized the word each time she used it—“is the fact that these children have gone some months now without proper care. I intend to remedy that situation, so you needn’t concern yourself any further.” The children had never heard Mrs. Müller speak so forcefully. The transformation left them spellbound.
While the librarian seemed to have grown several inches, Miss Carr had rather shrunk. “Right.” She faltered. “This is the first I’ve been made aware of any—shortcomings—in the children’s care.”
The suddenly formidable Mrs. Müller softened just a hairsbreadth. “I recognize, Miss Carr, that you have been handed a Herculean task, supervising so many children. Under the circumstances, I cannot fault you for any oversights that may have occurred. Now that the facts have been brought to you, however, I expect you to make it right. My home is small, but I can assure you that the children will be well cared for there.”
Looking out at the gathering dusk, Miss Carr seemed to resign herself to the blackout regulations and the librarian’s will. “Right, then.” She gave a weak smile. “Well, Mrs. Müller, your offer is very much appreciated.” She raised her eyebrows. “I wish I could offer you some advice on how to manage these three, but it sounds as if you are aware of what you are signing on for?”
All three children bristled. A sneeze menaced Edmund’s nose, but he held his breath, not wishing to draw further attention to himself.
Miss Carr gestured toward him. “This one, in particular, thinks himself quite the lord of the manor.”
The librarian somehow looked both amused and angry, which is not a combination one finds very frequently in nature. “By this one, I assume you mean Edmund.” She gathered him, streaming nose and all, to her side. “Frankly, Miss Carr, I rather think we would all do well to have a bit more Edmund in us.”
Unused, as he was, to being complimented on his Edmundishness, Edmund only gaped at Mrs. Müller as she turned to the children and continued. “You’re all three in need of something hot to drink. So, if that’s all, Miss Carr?” When the teacher said nothing, Mrs. Müller offered a perfunctory smile. “Happy Christmas, then.” She turned on her heel and bustled the children down the aisle.
“What a dreadful woman,” she whispered.
Edmund couldn’t help but grin.
Stopping at the ribbon of chill making its way through the closed doors of the church, Mrs. Müller turned to the children. “It’s nearly a mile’s walk to my house. Can you make it?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll manage,” William said.
The librarian gave him a long look. “I expect you’ve already done more than your share of managing.” She fastened the top button of her coat. “I’ll carry Anna, and in two shakes we’ll all be warm and dry at home.”
The very words were like a blanket wrapped around Anna’s heart as they stepped out into the night.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
None of them spoke as they trudged through the snow, crisp with the freezing drizzle that continued to glaze the landscape. Past the library and the village green. Past the graveyard, whose residents no doubt held their own Christmas revels in a manner none of us will know until we join them. On toward the stream that bordered the north side of the village. By now it was nearly dark, and our foursome were spurred on by the encroaching blackness.
On the other side of a hill, Mrs. Müller stopped at the gate of a stone cottage with a tiny front garden, its borders marked by a ramshackle wall of similar stones. She set Anna on her feet to fumble with the gate’s latch, then led them to the front door. “It’s not fancy.” Juddering a key into its lock, she gave the door a push. “But—here we are.”
The warmth that greeted them as they crossed the threshold made the children gasp. They blinked when Mrs. Müller switched on a light in the front hall. She steered them into a wide kitchen where embers glowed in a fireplace nearly as tall as Anna. Pulling logs from a bin and stacking them in the grate, Mrs. Müller poked at the wood, then turned to the children and arranged each of them, like overgrown porcelain dolls, on the hearth.
“Warm yourselves.” She offered a small smile. “Take of
f your wet things while I fetch you some blankets. All right?”
Mrs. Müller disappeared down a hall on the other side of the room, leaving the children to take in their surroundings. The kitchen was quite large for a cottage so tiny. A long wooden countertop flanked a range and a great porcelain sink. A bank of windows must have provided a view into the back garden if the blackout curtains had been opened. The children thought they heard a chicken protesting some injustice in the garden, but, having limited experience with poultry—other than the eating of it—none of them could be sure. On the far side of the kitchen, a wooden icebox stood under a rack of hanging pots and pans, while the wall to the left boasted a cupboard and a great hutch filled with tottering piles of crockery, its top shelf thickly hung with drying herbs gone crisp in the heat of the winter kitchen. In the middle of the room stood a wide-planked table with four mismatched chairs. Four, Anna thought. Just right.
Edmund sneezed.
“Take off the wet coats, both of you,” William advised, removing his own and draping all three of them over kitchen chairs.
As the children sat down on the hearth to take off their shoes, Mrs. Müller returned with woolen blankets. “Here you are,” she said, wrapping one round each child’s shoulders. “The three of you look half frozen. Shall our first order of business be to get something hot in your tummies?”
“Thank you,” William answered.
The librarian retrieved a bottle of milk from the icebox. Pouring a generous measure into a copper pot and bringing one of the stovetop burners to life, she went to the cupboard and withdrew a sugar bowl and a block of something wrapped in brown paper. The children’s eyes went wide. Surely, it couldn’t be chocolate.
And yet it was. Anna nearly wept as Mrs. Müller spooned sugar into the milk, then shaved bits of chocolate off the block with a paring knife and added those. She stirred the potion with a wooden spoon. “What time did you leave your billet this morning, children?”
“Around nine or ten,” William answered.
“Then you’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast?”
William hesitated. “Actually, we sort of missed that as well.”
“Tsk, children.” Mrs. Müller went to a bread box on the counter and extracted a great, crusty loaf. From this she sawed three thick slices, which she laid in the oven. “Let’s get some food in you, and then we’ll find you some dry things to sleep in, all right?”
The blankets and fire, coupled with the promise of hot chocolate and toast, had begun to take the edge off the chill in their bones. William drew his blanket tighter. “Thank you ever so much, Mrs. Müller.”
She surveyed the three of them. “You’re welcome at the table, but under the circumstances, a picnic by the fire seems wise.”
The children accepted steaming cups of chocolate from their huddled heap of blankets by the kitchen fire. All three burned their tongues, but this didn’t lessen the relief as the brew made its way to their groaning stomachs. Mrs. Müller delivered the toast, hot and sopping with melting butter. The children ate in silence, spent with cold and with the consuming fear of the day.
The librarian took this all in, standing by the fire and observing the children for a while, letting the silence be. Somehow, it didn’t feel awkward, the way silences often do. Perhaps librarians are more used to quiet than most.
The children finished their toast and drained the last of their hot chocolates. Anna thought to send her tongue round the inside of the cup but remembered her manners. She was certain she could put her head down on the floor and find sleep in moments. Edmund appeared to be at risk of actually doing so.
Mrs. Müller laid a hand on his forehead. “You are in a bad way, aren’t you?”
Unused to much in the way of tenderness, Edmund pulled away from the librarian’s touch. “I’m all right,” he said as a shiver made its way from his insides out.
Mrs. Müller folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve a notion you’d be all right-er in bed?” Edmund raised his eyes to meet hers in wordless surrender. “Right, then. Upstairs we go,” she said.
William began to gather the dishes from the hearth, but Mrs. Müller stopped him. “Leave all of that. You’ve had quite enough activity. I’ll clear it away after you’re safely tucked upstairs.” She held out her hand to Anna, whose heart swelled as warm fingers enclosed hers and guided her gently from the kitchen. Her brothers followed.
Through the kitchen’s back door, a narrow hallway led to an even narrower staircase. At the top, a landing opened onto two bedrooms. Mrs. Müller steered the children to the smaller of these, where a single bed was dwarfed by a simply carved wardrobe. Opening its massive doors, she withdrew a white garment. She handed it to Anna, who unfolded it to find that it was a nightdress of the heaviest flannel.
“It was meant for my niece in Belfast,” Mrs. Müller explained. “Her birthday is next month, but it seems it’s needed here sooner.” She smiled. “It’s about the right size, don’t you think?”
Anna clutched the nightdress in her hands, shaking her head ever so slightly. “I can’t take it if it’s meant for your niece.”
“Nonsense,” the librarian said, then lowered her voice. “Never really cared for my sister’s daughter,” she confessed. “Besides which, I really ought to send her a book instead. Though she’s not much of a reader.” She paused. “Evidence as to her character.”
Anna smiled. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Müller touched Anna’s chin tenderly. “Now—” She turned to Edmund and William. “I think there’ll be something for each of you in here as well.” She rummaged through a low shelf, where the boys could see what was unmistakably a man’s clothing, neatly folded and stacked. Mrs. Müller emerged with two pairs of pajamas in plaid flannel. “These will be big on you.” She held the nightclothes out to the boys. “But we can take them up. They’re Martin’s.”
“We’re to wear a Nazi’s pajamas?” Edmund said.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out as stark as it did, but one doesn’t measure one’s words when one is ill. To be fair, however, Edmund rarely measured his words when he was well.
William’s breath caught. “Edmund!”
Mrs. Müller faltered. “It’s not a perfect solution, is it?” She grew suddenly quite intent on her own hands. “I—I wish I had something else to offer, but short of wrapping yourself in a bedsheet or wearing one of my nightdresses, I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss for tonight.”
Edmund only briefly considered the possibility of donning a lady’s nightdress.
He took Martin’s pajamas.
Clearly keen to leave the subject, Mrs. Müller led the threesome to the bedroom on the other side of the stairs. An enormous bed stood against the far wall, swathed all in white but for a dove-gray woolen blanket folded at the foot of it. The tables on either side of the bed each bore a lamp, a tiny vase of holly, and a pile of books. A small fireplace filled the space between two windows, whose cheerful white curtains did their best to hide the blackout shades behind them.
“Right,” Mrs. Müller said, choosing bits of wood from a metal pail on the hearth and stacking them deftly in the fireplace before striking a match on the stones and holding it to the kindling. “I haven’t had a fire in here in a good while, but tonight seems the night for it. Change into the dry things, and I’ll fetch some fresh linens.”
William looked around. “Isn’t this your bedroom, though, Mrs. Müller?”
She gave a twitch of a smile. “I’ll be perfectly cozy in the spare room. This will be a bit snug for the three of you, but until we can figure out a better arrangement—”
“Honestly, it’s fine for us,” William said. “We just don’t want to put you out.”
The fleeting smile again. She closed the door behind her.
All thoughts of modesty shelved for the moment, the children each took a spot by the growing fire and changed into the dry nightclothes. William bent to help Anna with the button at the back of her neck.
She turned to face her brothers, eyes shining. “This is where I want to stay forever.”
“I know, Anna.” William hugged himself. “Let’s just be glad we’re here for now and not think about the future, all right?”
Anna nodded, her cheeks now flushed from the fire.
“And Edmund”—William turned to his brother—“please just—you know—just…hold your tongue.”
Edmund wasn’t in any mood for a lecture. “I know I shouldn’t have said that thing about the pajamas, but we were all thinking it, weren’t we?”
“I wasn’t,” Anna said.
William sighed, exhausted. “It’s just—if you could only mind what you say.”
Edmund scowled at him. “Right. Best behavior.”
“Ed, please…,” William began.
“I know, Will,” Edmund said. “You needn’t worry. I won’t muck anything up.” He peeled back the duvet, climbed into the bed, and curled himself into a ball.
At this, Mrs. Müller appeared in the doorway bearing a load of crisp white linens, patchwork quilts, and hot-water bottles wrapped in knitted cases the same dove gray as the blanket. On top of the teetering pile was a book. As she set her load down on the dressing table, she looked at Edmund.
“Lord love you, child.” She went to the bedside, lifted the duvet, and tucked a hot-water bottle at Edmund’s feet. She tested his forehead once again with the palm of her hand. “Perhaps we’ll forgo the clean linens, just for tonight,” she said. “I hate to extract you, Edmund.”
“Yes. I mean—thank you,” he murmured.
The librarian smiled and looked at William and Anna. “If I had someplace else to put you two, I’d keep you out of the sick room, but short of making up beds on the floor somewhere…” She trailed off.
“We’ll be fine,” William said. “Honestly.”
Anna nodded in agreement. None of them wanted to be separated, anyhow.
“In bed, then,” Mrs. Müller said. “All three of you.” She pulled back the duvet on the other side of the bed and laid down another hot-water bottle. Anna climbed into the middle, and William took his place beside her. The librarian tucked the duvet around the three of them and brushed each one’s cheek with a tenderness that even Edmund found acceptable. She retrieved the book she’d carried in with the linens and handed it to William. “Perhaps you’re all too old for bedtime stories, but what sort of librarian would I be if I didn’t provide you with some reading material?”