by Hana Tooke
“No.”
“Theodora.”
I startle at the sound of my name, spoken so sweetly, even though I know it is coming.
A boy stands beside me. His ears have sharp points and tufts of brown fur covering both lobes. His eyes are yellow, and his nose is more of a snout. When he smiles, I catch a glimpse of his dagger-sharp teeth.
“Werewolf,” the faces in the tree growl.
I clutch my heart cage tighter and shake my head. The boy’s face returns to that of a normal boy, and he smiles at me, half boyish, half wolfish, but wholly familiar and comforting.
“Hendrik,” I whisper, as the shadows slither ever further up my legs. “Help me, please.”
As soon as his hand grips mine, the shadows loosen their grip and I am able to kick them away. Hope blossoms inside me, and soon the heart cage in my arms is wrapped in bright, flowering vines. Hendrik and I turn our backs to the Night Tree and run.
Suddenly, we are running along a path made of grave-mud. The Night Tree is gone, and there is nothing left but this vast and dark wasteland besides Hendrik and me, and my beating heart.
I count our steps. Each night, we get two steps further. Last night we made it to 663 steps. With every step the beat of the caged heart quickens. At 665 steps, we come to a halt. I blink until my vision clears, my pulse a staccato in my ears.
Just a pace away is a gate. Huge iron bars painted black, their tips a bright gold. I can see monsters beyond the bars. They are dancing, singing, calling my name. Claws, teeth, talons, snouts, whiskers . . . I see so many grotesques, they seem to blur into one horrifying being. There is music playing, but it is unlike any music I’ve heard before. Sounds clash together, as if each note is battling to be heard. Violins screech, drums thunder, a flute wails in agony. Shadows spill out and wrap around my ankles once more. I want to cover my ears, but I can’t. I want to run away, but I can’t.
This is when I usually wake up again, gasping for breath and batting away invisible monsters, but tonight I can tell the shadows will not let me go. Tonight will be different.
“It is time,” the nightmares call.
Hendrik tugs on my hand, trying to pull me away again, but this time, the shadows only grip tighter, pulling me toward the gates. More appear, reaching out to the heart cage, and I realize that there is only one thing I can do.
I look up at the gates, letting my fear wash over me. Then I uncurl my fingers from Hendrik’s and push the heart cage into his arms, giving him the bravest smile I can muster. He looks at me, confused and scared, but before he or I can speak, a wind rushes at me, tearing me off the ground, pushing me forward, away from him, away from my own beating heart.
I pass through the gates and
An ember popped loudly in the fireplace. Milou’s friends blinked up at her, leaning forward in eagerness.
“And?” Lotta asked eagerly. “She passes the gate and then what?”
Milou turned the page, but the next one was blank. “There is no ending.” She flicked through the remaining pages. “The rest of the book is empty.”
“What?” Egg cried. “But it must have an ending.”
“Fancy not finishing a story,” Sem said. “Surely if you start a story, it must be easy enough to finish it?”
“It’s fine.” Milou smiled. “I shall just make up my own endi—”
Her ears prickled an instant before the sound of rattling at the window.
Milou jolted upright, slamming the book shut in her lap. They all peered around the curtain. A shadow passed the window.
A person-shaped shadow.
“Who was that?” Lotta gasped.
Sem picked up a candlestick and was across the room, into the hallway, and opening the door in just a few long strides. Milou raced after him. They stepped out into the frozen night, snow swirling down in delicate little lumps. The night was black, and the mist hung thickly above their heads, blocking out the moonlight. Sem held the flickering candlelight closer to the snow-laced ground.
Footprints. Under the window, leading off toward the gravel path. Milou followed them, tugging Sem along with her. The prints turned, not toward the front gate, but off the path and down toward one of the smaller canals that lay behind the windmill.
“Who’s there?” she called. “Show yourself!”
The only response she got was a whistling howl from the wind.
Milou bent down to examine the prints. She’d scrubbed enough shoe and clog prints from the Little Tulip’s foyer floor to recognize the kind of footwear that made them. These prints were rounded at the toe, with a thick, wide heel, both of which suggested it was a man’s boot.
The prints were small, however.
A boy, then.
“Show yourself!” Milou called again, anger and panic raging through her.
How much had this boy seen? How long had he been standing there, watching them? After Sem had hung the curtain to shield Puppet Papa? Or before?
She hadn’t expected anyone to come trespassing right up to the window to have a look. The sign on the gate suggested people were scared of the mill; the unbroken lock showed that they kept their distance. But it seemed at least one neighbor was brave enough to venture closer.
It would only take one to ruin everything.
“Let’s go back inside,” Sem said.
Milou made to follow the prints. “But—”
“Whoever it was,” Sem said, pulling her back toward the windmill, “they’re gone now.”
MILOU’S BOOK OF THEORIES
Liesel Poppenmaker
She is a storyteller, like me.
She writes poems for our father.
She writes stories for her friends.
She wears overly frilly aprons.
She is thirty years old now.
She is lucky to have grown up here.
Perhaps Liesel got married and moved away. Maybe my parents went to visit her and her new family and just haven’t come back . . . in twelve years.
Perhaps Liesel got a job writing operas for a theater in Italy. Maybe my parents went to go and see her there and just haven’t come back . . . in twelve years.
It doesn’t make sense.
Nothing makes sense.
Where are they?
SIXTEEN
MORNING BROUGHT BOTH SUNSHINE and gloom. The polder was aglow with a sun-speckled frost, the main canal glittering like a long sliver of diamond. Milou, however, felt as if the world were gray and morose. She was still worried about the spy from the night before, as well as frustrated with her lack of progress in solving the mystery of her family’s disappearance. Deciding that sleep was a lost cause, she climbed out of bed and curled up beside Puppet Papa, her Book of Theories open on her lap. Mozart flew down, in a haphazard spiral, from his wardrobe perch to watch her.
“Oh, Mozart,” Milou whispered, as the bird stared at her from the arm of the rocking chair. “I don’t suppose you have any clever revelations that will help me find my family?”
Mozart blinked. Milou sighed and went to tickle his head feathers.
Screeeeeeeeeech!
Snap!
She whipped her fingers away just in time. The cupboard door opened, and a blanket with legs and a blonde head appeared.
“Morning, Milou, morning, Papa,” Lotta whispered, giving Puppet Papa a kiss on the forehead. A six-fingered hand emerged from the blanket to stroke the owl. “Hallo, Mozartje.”
Screeeeeeeeeech!
Snap!
Lotta’s hand retreated within the safety of the blanket.
“I think he’s hungry,” Milou said, closing her Book of Theories so that Lotta wouldn’t see her failure of an investigation.
“He needs more meat. Gouda knows where we’ll find a
ny. We’ll all be eating worms soon, at this rate.”
“Sem will have some dolls ready tomorrow. I’ll go with him to Amsterdam. Maybe we can buy some meat then.”
Their stomachs growled in unison.
Lotta went over to the window to peek through the kitchen curtains.
“How many?” Milou asked. Lotta held up a hand. “Six!” Milou groaned. “There were only three a few minutes ago. Nosy farmwives. Haven’t they got anything better than to do than just stand there gawping?
Milou walked over and peered out of the window. Six ladies stood by the gate, their winged-bonnet-clad heads together. On the canal, several children slid to and fro on skates, making sure to remain within sight of the mill. Two men had stopped to fix their cycles on the road just a bit further down, but Milou didn’t think bicycle fixing involved staring at the windmill. She had expected people to be curious about the mill being inhabited again, but she hadn’t expected them to gawk quite so openly.
“We need to do something,” Milou said at last.
“What kind of something?” Lotta asked.
“Something normal.”
“Normal?”
“Yes. Normal families do not hide behind curtains. We’re making ourselves stand out.”
“And what is normal?”
They watched as the women by the gate pretended to chat, while sneaking glances at the mill. No doubt hoping to be the first to get the gossip on Bram Poppenmaker’s return.
“Gossip!” Milou said. “Of course!”
These people might have important information that could help Milou.
“I have an idea,” she said brightly.
* * *
Milou opened the door leading from the puppet workshop out onto the high balcony that wrapped around the windmill’s entire circumference. Icy air blew in and a clothless sail groaned just in front of her. She peered out and saw that the farmwives were still watching the downstairs window.
“Quick,” she whispered to the others. “Now.”
Fenna and Lotta carried out the rocking chair, upon which sat Puppet Papa. They had wrapped him up in a thick coat, hat, gloves, and a scarf that covered most of his cotton face. They set him down against the wall, under the window, and Egg added a blanket over the lower half of his body. Milou covertly fed the puppet strings through the top of the window, to where Sem was waiting.
“Oh, Papa,” Milou yelled, casting a quick glance to the spectators below, who all started at the sound of her voice. “Isn’t it a wonderful morning. Look, there are our neighbors. Why don’t you give them a wave?”
The farmwives squinted upward. Puppet Papa lifted an arm and waved. Tentatively, the women waved back. Further away, on the main canal, the skaters came to a halt.
“Now you can watch us skate,” Milou said, her voice carrying across the polder. “And the fresh air will do you such good.”
Puppet Papa nodded, as did Milou to Sem, whose face was only just peeking out from behind the curtain. Then she, Fenna, Lotta, and Egg headed back downstairs. Milou had found three pairs of skates in the wardrobe. They weren’t the booted skates that Milou had seen in Amsterdam, but rather skate blades that strapped to the bottom of shoes.
As soon as the four children stepped out the front door, the gossiping ladies made a hasty retreat. The two men cycled off. Milou frowned. At least the three children on the ice hadn’t run away. Milou hoped they had enough gossip to help her.
“Do you mind if I skip the skating?” Egg asked as they reached the main canal. He had his coal bucket slung over his shoulder. “We’ve been cooped up all morning. I’d like to map the area.”
He sat on the bank and unrolled a piece of parchment. The girls carried on, wobbling toward the canal edge on skate-decked feet. The children on the ice snuck glances their way but made no move to come closer. Spurred on by a gentle ear tingle, Milou took a deep breath and jumped down, swinging her arms to propel herself forward. Her skates landed on solid ice, and her momentum sent her soaring forward.
On.
And on.
And on.
It was both terrifying and exhilarating, as if she were a marionette, being dragged forward by invisible strings. And as her scream died away, so too did her momentum.
The others were still standing at the canal’s edge, staring after her. Milou took a step and wobbled. Her right leg shot one way, the world tipped upside down, and the canal rose up to meet her back. All the air left her lungs and she lay there, gasping, for several long moments.
“That was an interesting skating technique,” Lotta said with a giggle, her face blotting out the sky as she leaned over Milou.
Fenna appeared next to Lotta. They hoisted Milou to her feet. She looked to the skating spectators. They were all still huddled and gawping, hiding their giggles behind mittened hands.
“It’s impossible,” Milou said. “The skates just make it more slippery.”
“It is not impossible, silly. Your mistake was throwing yourself around like a rag doll. Watching you was a lesson in how not to do it. Here, look.” Lotta let go and slid in a circle around Milou and Fenna, swishing her feet and holding her arms out. “Keep your back straight, but lean ever so slightly forward. Find your center of gravity and it will provide you with the necessary equilibrium to stay upright.”
Milou blinked at her. “You can turn everything into a science lesson, can’t you?”
“That is because science is in everything.”
The girls linked arms, wedging Milou in the middle.
“Ready?” Lotta asked.
Milou groaned, then nodded. They set off, feet sliding from side to side in unison, up and down the canal. Lotta suddenly let Milou go and gave her a push.
“Gaah!” Milou instinctively began to windmill her arms again.
“Stop panicking!” Lotta cried.
Milou straightened her back and leaned into her wobble, holding her arms out to balance herself. She grinned, then peered over her shoulder. The other children were skating again, closer to the canal bank this time.
“I’m going to talk to them,” Milou said.
Lotta nodded, then she and Fenna gracefully glided away. Milou’s ears tingled. If she made a mistake, their ruse would be exposed. Wobbling much less than before, she skated over to the children.
The two girls were about Milou’s age, and the boy looked to be a few years younger. One girl was short and dark-haired; the other was nearly as tall as Sem, with hair the color of honey. The boy looked like a miniature version of her, clearly a sibling. They stopped skating as soon as they saw Milou approach.
“Goedemorgen,” Milou said brightly. “I’m Milou Poppenmaker, pleased to make your acquaintance. Those are my sisters, Fenna and Lotta.”
“I’m Sanne,” said the honey-haired girl, as she looked down her long nose at Milou. “This is my brother Arno, and my friend Kaatje. You don’t look like sisters.”
“We’re adopted sisters.”
“Is Meneer Poppenmaker really back then?” Arno asked nervously.
“Of course,” Milou replied. “He’s up there watching us, see?”
She waved at Puppet Papa, who waved instantly back at her.
There was a long silence as the children looked from Puppet Papa to one another, then back again.
“But my mother said the Poppenmakers were dead,” said Kaatje. “She said they died of the White Plague and that their bones are lying in their beds to this day. My brother said he’s heard their ghosts wailing at night.”
Milou smiled through gritted teeth. “Clearly, your mother was wrong.”
If this was the only kind of gossip they had, it would be of no help to her.
“That can’t be right,” Arno said. “My mother reckons Meneer Poppenmaker was in trouble with the law. Our father said he saw the Poppenmaker carriage hurry
ing away in the dead of night, years ago. It was a full moon, so he saw Meneer Poppenmaker’s face clearly. He looked terribly unhappy, apparently. He’s been on the run from authorities ever since; everyone knows that. Liesel too.”
Milou’s ears prickled in warning, but it was too late.
“You don’t know anything,” she spat.
The boy flinched. His sister, Sanne, pulled him toward her and shot Milou a furious glare.
“We know that Liesel Poppenmaker was a lovely, fair-haired beauty,” Sanne said, eyeing Milou from head to toe with an incredulous smirk. “We know that she hung around with undesirables. We know she stopped my father from shooting that huge, beastly dog that terrorized the neighborhood all those years ago. We know this place has been much more pleasant since the Poppenmakers left, because that’s what everybody around here says. And we know that it’s not normal for a family to just disappear one night.”
Milou swallowed, her ears now rushing.
“The only thing we don’t know,” Sanne continued, “is where they’ve been all these years and why Meneer Poppenmaker had repeatedly refused to sell the mill to decent working folks like my parents. Something suspicious must have happened.”
Milou took a steadying gulp of air, her mind swirling with anger, confusion, and a thousand more questions. Questions she couldn’t ask without rousing suspicion.
“It was nothing suspicious at all,” Milou said with a forced smile. “He and my sister just decided to explore the world.”
Sanne scoffed.
“My father,” Milou said, forcing all her conviction into that single word. “My father decided to adopt some orphans from the city and return home to give them a better life, so here we all are. That’s all you need to know.”
Milou and Sanne glared hard at one another, the others glancing nervously between the two of them. They only broke their staring contest when Lotta and Fenna skated up beside them.
“Uhh. It’s nice to meet you,” Lotta said, holding a hand out for Sanne to shake.