by Hana Tooke
“It’s a calculated risk,” Lotta said, softening slightly. “And I’m sure there’s a logical reason for the claw marks, Milou. If I work for her, I could ask her—”
“No,” Milou said. “You’re definitely not asking her any questions. If she realizes we’re on to her, we could be in even bigger danger. And we already have a plan to make money. Sem and I are going to Amsterdam right now to sell the dolls. We don’t need that woman’s help.”
Before Lotta or Egg could argue the matter any further, Milou marched into the kitchen toward the wardrobe, rifling through Liesel’s dresses until she found something that no one would recognize her in: a lilac dress with an obscene amount of frills on the apron. She chose a matching bonnet, tucking her ebony hair into it, then covered the bottom of her face with a silk scarf, just as Sem walked into the room.
“Have you come to tell me off as well?” Milou asked. “I’m only trying to keep us safe.”
“No,” he said. “I just came to say we should take Puppet Papa. That way, no one will mistake us for orphans.”
* * *
Milou and Sem took a three-wheeled cargo bicycle that had been stashed at the back of the puppet theater. It had a large crate at the front, perfect for carrying fake fathers.
“Do you know how to ride this thing?” Milou asked.
Sem shrugged. “We’ve watched millions of people cycle,” he said. “It can’t be that difficult.”
It took Sem a few attempts to get the pedals going, but the extra wheel helped to keep the bike from toppling over. They sat Puppet Papa in the front crate, his face swaddled in a thick scarf, with a hat that covered most of the rest of his head. They positioned him carefully, making it look like he was reading a book. Milou squeezed in the crate in front of him.
It was far quicker, it turned out, to cycle to the city than it had been for them to walk. As it was, they had to go only as far as the outskirts, discovering there a market street full of shoppers and traders. They found a small space next to a cheese stall, in the shadow of a tall oak tree that Milou felt was perfect. They parked the cargo bike under a branch, and Milou covered Puppet Papa with a blanket, right up to his hat, giving the impression of a sleeping figure. Then, arranging the dolls on a blanket on the ground, the two of them sat and waited, hoping to make their fortune.
But hours passed, and they sold only one doll. The cold was seeping into every inch of Milou, making her irritable. The crowds kept stepping over them, trampling their blanket and pushing them farther back toward the oak tree.
“People keep just walking past,” Milou complained, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. “We need a table.”
“We can’t very well carry a table all this way,” Sem replied. “Perhaps we need to ask Egg to make us a fancy advertising board or something.”
A small girl wearing a winged bonnet and with cookie crumbs around her mouth suddenly appeared at Milou’s feet, sitting down in a rumpled mass of skirts. She grinned up at Milou expectantly.
“What’s her name?” the girl asked, pointing toward a mouse doll. “And why is she dressed like a pirate?”
“Her name is Theodora,” Milou said, smiling. “And, actually, she’s dressed like a werewolf hunter. See this sword? It’s made of solid silver, forged in moonlight. All it takes is a single nip”—Milou slashed the doll mouse’s sword at the girl’s nose, eliciting a giggly shriek of surprise—“and it will turn a werewolf’s blood into solid stone.”
Two boys sat on the ground in front of Milou, their mittened hands cradling hot, oozing stroopwafels.
“What happened next?” asked one boy, licking a glob of syrup from his wrist. “Did the werewolf eat her?”
Milou smiled, the cold suddenly gone as she picked up another doll and made the two face each other.
“Oh, he certainly tried to eat her,” Milou said softly and menacingly. “But let me tell the story from the beginning.”
* * *
Clink-clunk-clink-clunk-clink-clunk.
Milou’s unexpected audience, now twenty-something strong, began to throw coins into the bucket Sem had set out to collect their doll-selling earnings. Milou grinned as Sem carried the bucket back to the bicycle.
“Puppet shows, Sem! That’s how I could earn money for us,” she said. “Did you see how I made them jump and squirm? I’m telling you, audiences love to be scared. I think I might add some decapitations next time . . .”
“You did very well,” Sem said. Then he peered into the bucket and frowned. “You made thirty-four cents, three buttons, a fingernail, a used handkerchief, and a half-eaten cookie.”
Milou’s smile faltered slightly. “It’s a start, at least,” she said. “I could come back tomorrow, and the day after. It’ll soon add up.”
“I sold two more dolls while you were performing. It’ll keep us going for a while. Maybe another good meal will cheer everyone up, so you, Lotta, and Egg can make up. I just need to fix a spoke on the back wheel, then we’ll go.”
As Milou bent down to put the money bucket in the crate next to Puppet Papa, a familiar smell tickled the inside of her nostrils. An oily, smoky smell.
She stood, heart kicking against her rib cage, and scanned the market street. She’d made a half turn when she spotted a familiar swirl of pipe smoke rising about the heads of the crowd. A gap appeared amongst the sea of people, and Milou saw a gray wool suit and sealskin boots.
Rotman.
Milou froze, the backs of her legs pressing tightly against the bicycle, as Rotman limped past. She quickly pulled the scarf right over her nose and kept still as the sugar merchant ambled her way, smiling toothily at those he passed and stopping to say “hallo” to a baby in a perambulator. Milou lowered her eyes, hoping she’d be invisible enough that he would walk straight past her.
She felt his gaze land on her a mere instant later.
Instinctively, she looked up through her lashes. He was still smiling that big, fake smile: all teeth and no soul. But he did not appear to recognize her.
Heart galloping, she ducked her head in greeting. Rotman’s smile remained fixed, then looked past her to Puppet Papa. His eyes narrowed.
Then he dipped his head again. “Goedemiddag, Meneer.”
Milou’s heart came to a shuddery stop—she watched in surprise as Puppet Papa returned the nod, and then a familiar, slightly squeaky, not-quite-baritone voice said, “Goedemiddag.”
Without a second glance, Rotman leaned on his cane and disappeared into the bustling crowd, a cloud of fishy pipe smoke trailing behind him. Sem appeared from behind Puppet Papa, his face paler than the moon.
With a thud—thud—thud, Milou’s heart slowly started to beat normally again, but her palms were sweaty, and her legs felt like they might crumple beneath her.
“Let’s go home.”
* * *
Dusk seemed to be creeping in from all directions by the time Sem pedaled over the bridge to Poppenmill. Edda Finkelstein emerged from her house, dressed in full polder warden uniform once more, and waved to them.
Milou mustered up a small smile, then lifted Puppet Papa’s arm to wave back.
Edda nodded once, then set off down her path toward her own gargoyle-gated canal bridge. Milou waited until the polder warden was walking down the road, her back to them, before stumbling wearily from the cargo bucket. She helped Sem carry Puppet Papa quickly into the mill.
Fenna was standing on the kitchen table, dangling a worm from her fingers, her lips pursed.
Milou frowned. “What are you—”
Fenna let out a sudden sharp whistle, in response to which there was a loud screech and a flash of white. Milou ducked as Mozart spiraled over her head, his wing flapping past her forehead. He swooshed down to Fenna’s outstretched arm, took the worm, then landed on her shoulder and swallowed it in one gulp.
Standing at a safe dist
ance by the walls, Egg and Lotta clapped. “Bravo!”
Fenna’s responding giggle sent delighted shivers down Milou’s spine.
They all turned to Milou and Sem, who set Puppet Papa down in his rocking chair and then presented the basket of food they’d bought.
Their smiles brightened.
“You did it,” Lotta said.
“It’s not all good news,” Milou said, as Sem set the food down on the table. “Rotman’s still in Amsterdam.”
Egg frowned. “But I thought you said he had a tight shipping schedule to keep to?”
“He has no crew,” Sem spat. “And I don’t suppose he’s very happy about that, or the fact he’s still limping after our last encounter.”
“Rotman’s not our problem anymore,” Egg said. “Not if we keep out of his way.”
Milou sighed, every inch of her filled with weariness. “I’m sorry I was so awful earlier. I’m just scared that this will all be taken from us. And I’m scared Edda will be the one to take it from us.”
“We’re all scared,” Lotta said softly. “But look at how far we’ve come already. It was a risk to leave the Little Tulip like we did. But we’re making it work, and we’ll continue to do so.”
“You’re right,” Milou said. “I think I’m going to go to lie down before dinner. My head is spinning.”
She climbed into Puppet Papa’s cupboard bed, too tired even to make it to the next room. She’d just settled in when there was a sharp rap at the front door. She heard footsteps, then the creaking of hinges, followed by four startled gasps.
Milou peered through the cupboard-bed doors. Sem was standing by the windmill’s entrance, and she could tell by the way his left leg was shaking that something was wrong. A woman stood on the threshold, and Milou could tell right away that it wasn’t Edda Finkelstein.
“Goedenavond,” Sem said overbrightly. “How can I help you?”
Milou squinted at the visitor. She was tall, wearing a long red coat, and her blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun on top of her head. In her arms she carried a large leather book and she seemed to be struggling under the weight of it.
“Goedenavond,” said the woman, as she peered into the gloom of the windmill. “I’m sorry for the late hour, but it took me a while to find this address.”
The woman didn’t look like a farmer, Milou decided. She was far too tidy looking; Milou doubted that her clothes had ever gotten within sneezing distance of a cow. Additionally, she doubted that farmers were known for carrying unusually large books around with them. Milou tried to read the writing on the cover. It looked familiar.
“We are not quite prepared to receive visitors at this hour,” Sem said, leaning over slightly in an attempt to block the woman’s wandering gaze.
“I am here to speak to Meneer Poppenmaker,” she said. “Is he in?”
“Might I ask what your business is with our father?” Sem said curtly. “He is not feeling very well at the moment.”
The woman tapped a gloved hand on the book. With the lettering no longer obscured, Milou’s heart stuttered. The book was familiar. Egg had written in it just a few days ago.
“My name is Rose Speelman,” the woman said. “And I am here on behalf of the Kinderbureau.”
TWENTY
MILOU SHUFFLED BACKWARD AND peered over the edge of the half-closed cupboard-bed door. Her friends were all frozen to the spot, and Milou didn’t need to see their faces to know they were as horrified as she was. Why was the Kinderbureau here? Had they made a mistake with the paperwork?
“Is Meneer Poppenmaker in?” the woman said, trying to peer over Sem’s shoulder into the kitchen. “It’s awfully cold out here.” She made an exaggerated brrrr noise to emphasize her point.
“I, um . . . you,” Sem stuttered. “He . . . you . . . well . . .”
“Good evening, Mevrouw,” Lotta said, bumping Sem aside with her hip. “I am Lotta Poppenmaker. How may I help you?”
“Ah, yes,” Speelman said, peering down at a sheet of paper in her hand. “Lotta. The clever one with more fingers than is usual. It is a pleasure to put faces to names. I do not usually get to see the faces. Yours is particularly pleasing. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I need to speak to your adoptive father urgently.”
“Father is asleep. How about you come back another—”
“Is that him there? Meneer Poppen—”
“Shh. You’ll wake him.”
“I’m afraid I must insist on speaking with him.”
Rose Speelman pushed past Lotta and Sem. Milou reached out and pulled the corner of the curtain they’d hung above the cupboard bed, hiding Puppet Papa fully behind it.
There was a sharp whistle, followed by a screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech! Mozart flew from his nest, spiraled down to block Speelman’s path, and grabbed a piece of meat from Fenna’s outstretched fingers before swooping back into the shadows.
“What is that?” shrieked Rose Speelman, clutching the record book tightly to her chest.
“That is Mozart,” Lotta said. “It is his hunting time. He’s hungry.”
Speelman’s eyes widened behind her glasses. She sidestepped cautiously toward the kitchen table and sank into a chair. “How peculiar,” she said, eyeing Mozart’s wardrobe-top nest warily. “Does he bite?”
Fenna smiled sweetly and nodded, holding up a bloodied fingertip.
HooOOooOOooOO!
“I really must speak with your father,” Speelman said, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on Mozart’s hiding place. She waved a hand in Milou’s direction. “Please wake him.”
Milou groaned silently. The woman wanted to speak to Bram. There was clearly only one way to get rid of her. Quietly and carefully, Milou took Puppet Papa’s cross strings and lifted his head slightly.
“Lotta, liefje,” Milou croaked as deeply and huskily as she could. “What is all the commotion about?”
She fake-coughed, heaving, wracking coughs that burned her throat. Peeking over the door, Milou saw Speelman hastily cover her nose and mouth with a handkerchief. The Kinderbureau agent shuffled her chair farther away from Puppet Papa.
“Meneer Poppenmaker,” Speelman said, her voice slightly muffled by the handkerchief. “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you, but I am here on official orphan business.” She tapped the record book again. “I was sent to audit the Little Tulip’s adoption records and found an anomaly.”
“But the paperwork was perfect,” Egg cried. He was sitting himself in the chair beside the cupboard bed.
Milou grimaced; Egg did too. Speelman gave him a curious look under her spectacles.
“I mean,” he spluttered, “Matron Gassbeek always prides herself on perfect paperwork. She says it’s ever so important.”
Milou let out another stream of coughing. She shook Puppet Papa’s strings, making his shoulders shake. “And what—cough—anomaly—cough cough—would that—cough—be?”
Over the top of the door, she watched Rose Speelman curl her lip.
“It seems you did not pay the adoption fees.”
Milou’s blood turned to ice.
In their haste to leave, they had forgotten all about the fees.
Balancing the record book on the table, Rose Speelman flipped it open, shook her head until her spectacles fell onto her nose, and then cleared her throat.
“The items payable are as follows. Five orphans at a rate of ten guilders each. Payable upon receipt of the goods, which was several days ago. That means the final outstanding sum is fifty guilders, sir.”
Rose Speelman snapped the record book closed again.
Fifty guilders.
That was more money than Milou had ever seen. How on earth were they going to get that sort of money together?
“I apologize for your having to come all this way,” Milou said gruffly, coughing. “However, the matron and I had an underst
anding—”
“Elinora Gassbeek is . . . um . . . no longer at the Little Tulip Orphanage,” Speelman said. “I am afraid that we really do need to settle this affair right here, right now. Perhaps one of your new children can go and fetch the money. I will wait a while to rest my feet.”
Milou’s heart stuttered. Lotta looked up at her with wide eyes of panic. The others were trying their best to not look at anything.
“Um . . .” Milou said, clearing her throat. Her mind was racing, but she knew she had to keep talking. “I am afraid to say that I do not have the money just yet. This sickness, it has stopped me from—”
“With all due respect,” Speelman said sternly. “You have taken five children without paying. Raising orphans is an expensive business, and we must recoup the costs if we are to keep the orphanages running. Business is business, Meneer Poppenmaker, and our records must be updated and in full order, or I wouldn’t be doing my job properly, would I now? Regardless of your current condition, I must insist that you pay me today, or I will have no choice but to take the children back with me.”
Lotta gasped. Fenna curled into a tight ball on her seat. Sem’s left knee began to shake. Egg shot Milou a panicked look. Careful not to jostle the puppet strings, she opened a small wedge of curtain so that only Egg could see her. Then she pointed, with her nose, to the paper and quill beside him. Egg looked confused.
Speelman leaned forward, squinting at the alcove. “Did you hear what I said, Meneer Poppenmaker?”
Milou’s stomach twisted painfully. She tried to speak but couldn’t. This was it; there was no way out of it.
Lotta stepped in front of Speelman. “Forgive my manners, Mevrouw Speelman, for I have not offered you a refreshment. Can I get you a drink of water? Or perhaps some warm milk?”
“No thank you, dear,” Speelman said, waving her away. “Not with this sickness around. Meneer Poppenmaker?”