by Hana Tooke
Milou was the only one not smiling. She was watching Edda Finkelstein’s copper-roofed farmhouse, certain she could see the polder warden’s curtains twitching.
“I’m glad we decided to stay,” Lotta said. She waved to a passing farmer, who tipped his hat in return. “Our neighbors are lovely.”
Milou knew Lotta was really referring to Edda.
“Not all of them are,” Egg muttered, and Milou gave his hand a squeeze.
“Milou and I can head into the city this afternoon to sell the dolls,” Sem said. “Perhaps we’ll earn enough for a feast like the one we had last night.”
In his lap was a duck doll, wearing a pale-blue puffed-sleeve dress and a lacy winged bonnet. Sem was stitching the bottom of its left foot closed, with Fenna tucking the stuffing in as he went.
“First we’d better return these dishes,” Lotta said gleefully, getting to her feet. “We should all go over and thank Mevrouw Finkelstein.”
“That woman is far too curious,” Milou said. “We should just leave the dishes by the front door.”
“That’s not how normal neighbors behave,” Lotta said. “It would only encourage her inquisitiveness.”
Milou sighed dramatically. Lotta was, of course, right.
No matter how much Milou wished to, there was no avoiding Edda Finkelstein.
* * *
They dressed neatly. Fenna plaited Milou’s hair, and Sem wore one of Bram’s bowler hats to cover his ears, which Milou snatched right off his head again.
“There’s nothing wrong with your ears, Sem.”
Cheeks reddening, Sem nodded. “I just thought . . . well, you said we needed to appear more normal.”
“Milou’s right,” Lotta said. “But I’m not sure bringing Mozart is going to help us appear normal.”
Milou turned to find Fenna tucking the owl into the front of her cloak. Her friend responded to Lotta’s statement by clutching Mozart more tightly and narrowing her eyes in a decidedly defiant manner.
“Suit yourself,” Lotta replied. “I suppose there’s only so much normal the five of us can realistically get away with. Just don’t let him out of your cloak if you can help it.”
Fenna smiled and nodded.
They set off to Edda Finkelstein’s house, passing Sanne and Arno, who were skating on the canal again. Egg pulled his shawl up to cover his face, trying to hide from their outright staring, which only soured Milou’s mood further. She linked arms with him and marched past as if the two siblings didn’t exist.
They passed under the oak tree and skirted around a raised flower bed rimmed with a stone border. Milou led them over a little bridge, and stepped onto a neat stone path that wound its way toward Edda’s farmhouse. The two pigs in the pen were snuffling at the frozen mud, and clucking noises emanated from the chicken hut just beyond.
“It’s really quite inspiring to see a woman have all this on her own,” Lotta was saying. “I didn’t see a wedding ring on her finger, so she must be a spinster.”
Milou looked to her friends and was disappointed to find they were all looking impressed.
Fenna’s smile was almost touching her ears as they approached the polder warden’s brightly painted front door. The doorbell was a small brass peacock. Fenna giggled softly, then pulled the peacock’s legs, and a tinkling of arpeggiated chimes sounded. Milou scowled as a traitorous bubble of awe tickled at her insides.
“Um, Milou,” Egg whispered, tugging her arm urgently. He nodded toward a metal plaque on the front door, upon which was written:
E. FINKELSTEIN
CLOCKWORK ARTISAN
Her friends turned to her, mouths agape, then looked at the pocket watch dangling from her neck. Milou clutched it tightly, suddenly feeling dizzy.
“Do you think she’s your—”
“No,” Milou said, the mere thought of it twisting her insides. “It must be a coincidence. She can’t be—”
“Poppenmakers!” Edda’s voice projected suddenly, from nowhere.
They all jumped, and Fenna made a small gasp of surprise.
“Where’s her voice coming from?” Egg whispered.
“Speaking tube,” Edda’s tinny voice singsonged. “Next to Lotta’s elbow.”
Lotta let out a half gasp, half squeal. She put her face close to a round metal grill. “I’ve heard about speaking tubes,” she shouted. “But I’ve never seen one!”
“Ow,” Edda said. “Clearly not. Come in, the door is unlocked.”
Lotta pushed the door open, and they stepped inside.
Tick-tick-tock-tock-tick-tick-tock-tock.
It sounded like a thousand tiny metal feet dancing a chaotic rhythm. They walked into the middle of a square hallway surrounded by clocks. They were nothing like the plain grandfather clock in the Little Tulip; nor were they like the fancy mantelpiece clock in Gassbeek’s office. Each one was an intricately built sculpture in the form of an animal.
A metal bear, head fashioned from an old saucepan and body made of bicycle parts, loomed in the corner closest to the door. Its jaw was open in a silent roar, and nestled in its mouth was a clock face. A row of metal cats hung in a line along a wall, their metal tails swishing and swooshing and their eyes ticking left and then tocking right.
There were ducks with tiny clocks for eyes; an octopus whose eight arms pointed toward the year, month, day, hour, minute, second, mealtime, or bedtime; a pig in a copper top hat with a clock for a snout; and a windmill, as tall as Milou, whose sails whooshed at a dizzying speed around a clock face made of a metal polished to such a shine she could see her own dumbstruck face reflected right back at her.
“Holy Gouda,” Lotta said, spinning in a slow circle. She and Fenna collided mid-spin as they took in the strange sight. Mozart let out a disgruntled hooOOooOO.
“That’s an odd lamp,” Egg said, pointing to a glowing glass orb that hung from the middle of the ceiling by a thick wire. “It’s like fire, but . . . not.”
“Electricity.” Lotta breathed the word out like a prayer.
“Indeed, indeed.” Edda’s tinny voice sounded from a large speaking tube located in the middle of the bear clock’s belly. “Now close the door, would you; the bear’s cogs squeak most unpleasantly when it gets too cold. Take the first doorway on your right and up the stairs.”
Behind the door was a staircase, lit by more electric bulbs all the way up. Lotta took the lead eagerly, climbing up and around until they finally emerged into a large, open room. More clocks, in various stages of assembly, lined the walls and counters. Tools were scattered on every surface. There was so much stuff everywhere that Milou didn’t notice Edda immediately. Then she saw the familiar streak of silver through light-brown hair, bobbing behind a metal elephant head. Edda peered around the side of it, her face appearing just below its curved trunk.
Milou quickly shoved the pocket watch under her collar. It pressed, cold and seemingly heavier, against her racing heart. She stared at the polder warden, a thousand questions bashing against her skull, though one was much louder than the others:
Could Edda Finkelstein be her mother?
She wasn’t old enough to be her mother, surely?
“Ah, welkom.” Edda’s left cheek had a thick smear of oil across it, and her bangs were sticking up behind a pair of goggles that rested on her forehead. “You have arrived at a most fortunate time. My sleeve is caught in a cog, and I can’t let go of this sprocket or the whole thing will collapse.”
Edda raised one of her eyebrows, which were far lighter than Milou’s black ones.
Not to mention, Milou did not possess the ability to raise a single eyebrow at a time.
“Cogs . . . sprockets . . .” Lotta spoke fervently. “This . . . wow.”
Milou had never seen Lotta look so flabbergasted.
Edda’s bright-blue eyes danced in delight at L
otta’s awed expression.
You look vaguely familiar, Edda had said yesterday.
Milou stared at her, examining every inch of her face.
There was nothing familiar about Edda Finkelstein.
“This is Sem, Egg, and Fenna,” Milou said croakily. “We’re just here to return your dishes. We’ll be immediately on our way, so as not to disturb you.”
Milou set the dishes on a countertop and pulled on Sem’s elbow, intending to drag them all straight back to the windmill.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Edda said. “You’re not disturbing me at all. In fact, I could do with an extra hand here.”
Lotta was suddenly elbowing her way past Sem and Milou, in a hurry to help Edda. Milou reached out to grab her but missed.
“I think I’ve dropped a cog,” Edda said. “If I hold this, can you reach in and find it?”
Lotta nodded enthusiastically.
A large tabby cat was curled up on the windowsill. Fenna used her Mozart-free hand to scratch the cat’s forehead, provoking a grumpy yowl from the beast.
“Ah, Fenna,” Edda said. “That is Meneer Catticus. If you scratch behind his left ear, you’ll earn his adoration very quickly. That’s it, Lotta, that cog just there.”
Fenna beamed.
As did Lotta.
Sem and Egg wandered wide-eyed around the room. Milou stood just stood there, trying to keep the questions from bursting from her lips. She couldn’t just ask Edda outright, not without the polder warden immediately realizing Milou hadn’t been telling the truth about who she was. If she wanted answers, she’d have to ask careful questions.
Milou gave Edda a bright, dimply smile. “Do you make these clocks for your children?”
The Eyebrow of Curiosity shot upward.
“There are no children here.”
“Elsewhere then?”
The clock maker sighed.
“I do not have any children,” Edda said. “How’s your father feeling today?”
Milou hid her frustration at Edda’s deflection by brightening her smile further.
“He’s resting in bed with a book.”
“I’m glad to hear Meneer Poppenmaker is feeling well enough to read,” Edda said, the left side of her nose twitching slightly, as if she were trying to stop a sneeze. Or a sneer. “Perhaps if he’s well enough tomorrow, I could visit—”
“Got it!” Lotta said, holding a small metal cog.
“Excellent work,” Edda said. “You have twelve exceedingly nimble fingers! You would make a fine clock maker.”
Lotta grinned so delightedly it made Milou grimace.
“Do you make watches too?” Egg asked, with a pointed look at Milou. “I only see designs for more clocks.”
“Hmm? Oh, no. I’ve always preferred making larger pieces of clockwork— Oh dear. I seem to have torn my sleeve again. I never seem to learn.”
This time it was Sem hurrying across the room to Edda’s rescue, a needle and thread already in his hands. “Here, let me.”
“Oh no, really, it’s—”
“It’s the least I can do after the wonderful meal you cooked us.”
“In that case, you are my hero, Sem. My sewing abilities leave a lot to be desired, if I’m honest. My, you’re very adept. I have plenty of mending work for you, if you wish to earn some extra coin?”
Sem beamed.
Milou turned away, walking up and down the narrow gap between the work counters. She picked up a small clock face and pretended to examine it, trying to think of what questions she could ask Edda without it sounding like she was asking questions.
“That’s an interesting shawl you have there,” Edda was saying to Egg. “Such an unusual shade . . .”
“It’s . . . uh . . . a little stained,” Egg said, clutching it protectively. “Charcoal—”
“Ah yes,” Edda said. “Quite a nasty stain, too. As someone who works with various oils and grease, I’ve seen my fair share of those. I have a special cleaning concoction I could try, if you’d like?”
“Oh,” Egg said, clutching the shawl more tightly. “No, really—”
“I promise I won’t damage it,” Edda said gently. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see it restored to its former glory?”
Milou set the clock face down a little too hard. It rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor.
Everyone looked at her.
“Sorry—”
She bent down to pick it up, crawling under the worktable as it continued to roll away from her. As she finally managed to grab it, something sharp caught her finger. She stifled a hiss of pain as she plucked a splinter out. Then she saw what had caused it.
Four deep, large lines had been gouged into the wooden floorboards.
Claw marks. Far too big to be from Meneer Catticus.
And as with the ones in the theater, Milou was certain they were a match for the gouges on her coffin basket.
She looked a little further along the floor, noticing more and more of the scrapes. Along the skirting boards, up the workbench legs, and poking out from beneath various clocks.
They were everywhere.
Milou swallowed hard and shuffled backward out from under the worktable, crashing into a coat stand. It fell down beside her, its contents covering her. Cheeks flaming in embarrassment, she scrambled to her feet and set the stand right, gathering the coats and hanging them back up. She looked up at Edda, who looked back at her with a small frown.
“Are you all right?” the polder warden asked. “You seem a little . . . flustered.”
Milou’s heartbeat matched the tick-tick-tock-tock-tick-tick-tock-tock of the clocks around her. Edda was still staring. As were her friends.
Milou forced herself not to look at the claw marks.
Edda was connected to the Poppenmakers somehow.
Milou’s Sense prickled in agreement.
She wasn’t entirely certain what a werewolf would look like in human form, but Edda Finkelstein’s gentle appearance was not what she would have expected.
“I feel sick,” Milou lied. “Let’s go.”
She turned and fled, down the stairs and out the door. She was halfway to the canal that separated the windmill and Edda’s house when Fenna and Egg caught up with her. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Lotta and Sem were still hovering on the doorstep, talking to Edda.
“Hurry up!” Milou yelled to them.
Lotta’s shoulders seemed to sag in defeat.
“What was that all about?” Sem whispered when they’d caught up. “Are you really feeling ill?”
Milou hurried toward Poppenmill. “Of course not—”
“Wait!” Edda called, suddenly just a few paces behind them.
Milou silently cursed those long lamppost legs of hers.
“Egg,” Edda said breathlessly. “Your shawl . . . ?”
Egg blinked at her. Then, he hesitantly unwrapped it from around his neck and handed it over.
Edda smiled. “I’ll bring it back soon, I promise. And Lotta, I need an apprentice. I could do with a pair of hands as nimble as yours.”
Lotta’s grin stretched out toward her pigtails. “Oh, I’d love—”
“We’ll have to ask our father,” Milou said, grabbing Lotta’s hand and pulling her away. “Goodbye, Mevrouw Finkelstein. Thank you again for the food.”
Dragging Lotta along with her, Milou sped toward the mill.
MILOU’S BOOK OF THEORIES
Edda Finkelstein
Approximate age: early thirties.
The local polder warden—even though she’s a woman.
Lives alone and works—even though she’s a woman.
A clock maker, but not a watchmaker.
Unmarried and says she’s ne
ver had children.
Claw marks all over her workroom.
Is far too curious about us. Probably spying on us too.
Is far too kind to us. What does she want?
She doesn’t seem to like Bram much, despite what she says to the contrary. Every time his name comes up, there’s a little twitch in the side of her nose. An almost-sneer that she never quite stops in time for me to notice.
She’s connected to my family’s disappearance. I just know it.
The claw marks and the clockwork—it’s too much to be a coincidence.
Perhaps they discovered she was the werewolf, and she tried to kill them?
Perhaps it is her they are hiding from?
NINETEEN
“WHAT ON EARTH WERE you thinking, agreeing to work for her?” Milou growled. “We should be keeping our distance!”
“She’s nice,” Lotta snapped back. “You’re being para-noiac.”
“No, I’m not. She knows more about my family’s disappearance than she’s letting on. I found claw marks all over her workroom floor.”
Lotta shrugged herself free. “If you try suggesting she’s the werewolf from your Book of Theories—”
“What other explanation could there be? The claw marks were huge. There’s no way that cat of hers could have made them.”
Lotta opened her mouth, then shut it again.
“We need food,” Egg said. “We can’t survive forever on the small amount we took from the Little Tulip. If she’s offering to pay Lotta . . .”
Milou growled inwardly. She should be focusing on finding her parents, not arguing with her friends. “I’m trying to keep us safe.”