The Unadoptables

by Hana Tooke

  “No,” Milou cut in. “We don’t want our fortunes told.” She tried to keep her voice strong-sounding, but it came out all rough around the edges. “We’ve lost someone. Can you . . . can you find people?”

  The girl stopped smiling. “Is this person alive or dead?”

  “Alive,” Sem said. “He went missing about an hour ago. Not far from here.”

  “I can pay you,” Milou added. She uncurled her fingers from the pouch and held it up. “Please. It’s urgent.”

  “I’m much better at finding the dead than the living.”

  Sem let out an angry breath. “Can you tell us where he is or not?”

  The girl was silent for a moment, then nodded her head once. “Probably.”

  “Good.” Milou grabbed her hand, shoved the coin pouch into it, then pushed past into the tent.

  The inside was just big enough for a table and three chairs. There were animal skulls hanging from the frame above their heads. Candlelight flickered and incense burned, making a hazy effect that left Milou feeling somewhat dizzy. She collapsed into one of the chairs and took off her gloves. Sem followed. He took off his hat and stared openmouthed around the room. Milou fidgeted nervously. How many more minutes had it been now? Would Egg be locked away somewhere dark and cold and alone? Was he frightened? Was he hurt?

  The girl sat opposite them and dropped the coin pouch on the table. “It’s mostly for show,” she said, as Sem continued to gawk. “People only seem to believe me if I add all this theater and pomp.”

  Milou sucked in an angry breath. “Is this all just an act then?”

  “I think you know it’s real, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I don’t know anything about any of this,” Milou spat, her voice cracking.

  The girl gave a pointed look over Milou’s shoulder, like she had done earlier that day, and cocked her head. “Don’t you?”

  Milou glowered, her ears tingling unpleasantly, but she didn’t look behind her this time. She knew there wouldn’t be anyone there. Doubt gnawed at her. Had she just handed over their money to a charlatan? Was she wasting precious time that Egg didn’t have? Milou didn’t know what to believe anymore. Had it been any other time, she would have wanted to ask this girl a thousand questions about ghosts and fortune-telling and that long-dead boy’s eyeball. She’d have marveled at the theater and pomp, filled with curiosity and intrigue. But in that moment, Milou didn’t feel curious or intrigued. She felt scared and desperate, because Rotman had Egg, and this strange, unsettling girl might be the only hope Milou had of getting him back again. The air seemed to chill as the two girls stared at each other.

  “What’s your name?” Sem said nervously. “We never introduced ourselves properly.”

  The girl reached up and pulled her hood down, shaking her long silvery hair loose. “My name,” she said, “is Emiliana.”

  Sem’s nose turned bright red. “I’m S . . . Sem Poppenmaker. This is my . . . uh . . . this is Milou.”

  “The puppet makers. Yes, I saw the posters you put up. Everyone seems very excited about it. If I weren’t leaving Amsterdam tomorrow, I would have loved to come see your show. It sounds like just my kind of thing.”

  “I’m sorry, but we really are in a hurry,” Milou said gruffly. “How does this work? How can we find Egg?”

  “Have you got anything that belongs to him?” Emiliana asked. “It might help me to locate him.”

  Milou reached into her own cloak to where her Book of Theories was nestled. She rifled through it until she came to a page with a charcoal sketch of two people fighting a werewolf.

  “He drew this for me,” Milou said. “Will that work?”

  Emiliana took the book from Milou, her eyebrows raised as she looked at the picture, then at the scribbled notes of her werewolf-hunter theory. “I guess we’ll find out,” she said finally. Then, reaching into her collar, she pulled out the eyeball necklace and held it over her left eye.

  Sem let out a cry of surprise. Milou covered his mouth with her hand and shook her head at him. Emiliana began to speak again, but in no language that Milou recognized. Her words were hurried and clipped; she kept pausing for a few moments, then starting up again. It was almost as if she was talking to someone.

  An invisible someone.

  The hairs on Milou’s forearms stood on end. She snuck a subtle glance around her, but other than the three of them, there was no one else in the room. Sem began to fidget, scrunching his cap in his fists.

  “Just sit still, would you?” Milou whispered. “You’re making me nervous.”

  Sem looked taken aback. “I’m making you nervous? She’s speaking in tongues!”

  “Shh!”

  They watched Emiliana for several long minutes. A draft whistled in through the gaps in the tent’s fabric, making the skulls rattle. One candle puffed out, its smoke curling upward.

  “He’s on a ship,” Emiliana said at last. “A big one.” She squinted behind the eyeball. “But also . . . old and battered. Sorry, the image I see is somewhat blurry. It’s . . . eighth . . . no . . . ninth along the dock.”

  “Which dock?” Milou asked.

  Emiliana spoke a quick fire of that foreign tongue again, then smiled. “There are locomotives nearby. Lots of them. Cargo trains too.”

  “The eastern docklands.”

  Milou started. It hadn’t been Sem or Emiliana who had spoken, but Lotta. She and Fenna were standing in the tent’s entrance.

  “The eastern docklands are a short distance from Amsterdam Centraal Station,” Lotta said. “It’s not that far. Let’s go. Now.”

  Milou grabbed her Book of Theories from the table and tucked it back in her breast pocket. Its familiar weight felt reassuring. “Thank you, Emiliana,” she said. “Truly.”

  She and Sem stood. Lotta and Fenna were already outside, waiting. Emiliana picked up Milou’s coin pouch and followed them to the doorway, grabbing Milou’s arm just as Sem stepped outside.

  “A shadow follows you, Milou,” Emiliana whispered, her face grave and those catlike eyes full of seriousness.

  “What kind of shadow?”

  “The dead kind.”

  Milou’s breathing stopped; her pulse roared in her ears. She tried to shake her arm free, but the girl held it firmly.

  “I hope you find all that you are looking for, Milou. Not just your brother.”

  Emiliana let go of her elbow, and Milou noticed the coin pouch was no longer in her hand. Most likely, she had stashed it in the folds of that strange green cloak. Still, if Emiliana’s directions really did lead them to Egg, and even if it meant she had to wait longer to get that message to her parents, it would be worth the sacrifice.

  Milou hurried out into the darkening dusk, trying not to think of dead things lurking in the many shadows that surrounded her. It was only when she and the others were halfway down the road that she realized Emiliana had called Egg her brother.

  The thought of what Rotman might do to him sent a fresh wave of despair coursing through her. It was more terrifying than anything Milou could have imagined. Worse than anything the matron had ever inflicted upon her. As bad, even, as not knowing where her own family was.

  Was this what it felt like to love a brother?

  Perhaps. But right then, the only thing Milou knew for certain was that she would set the world on fire if that’s what it took to get Egg back.

  Her fear mingled with something new, something both fiery and sharp, something like fury.

  Fury at Rotman for taking someone so precious to her.

  And fury at herself for letting it happen.

  TWENTY-SIX

  THEY ARRIVED AT THE eastern docklands just as the sun had finally dipped below the watery horizon. Steam billowed from huge smokestacks, giving the impression that the dusk-reddened sky was melting into the vast expanse of the North S
ea Canal. Milou’s eyes darted in every direction as she tried to take in the sight of it all. Men in woolen coats and flat caps carried sacks up and down planks and walkways. Horses and mules pulled carts piled high with crates. Cargo was hoisted up by steam-powered cranes onto ship decks. Dogs barked, horns blew, and the smog-thickened air reeked of burnt oil and smoked fish.

  “Holy Gouda,” Lotta breathed, her wide eyes reflecting the fiery red glow. “Those are paddle-wheel steamships. Edda told me they were big, but . . . wow.”

  “That smaller ship,” Milou said, extending a gloved finger toward a more shadowy area further down the dockyard. “The one with all the sails and the questionable mast.” She counted its position. “It’s the ninth along.”

  Compared to its neighbors, De Zeehond really was the runt of the litter. And, aside from the canal barges, it was the only vessel made of wood rather than steel. It looked, Milou decided, like a pirate ship that had been hauled up from the bottom of the ocean floor.

  “A clipper, I believe,” Lotta said, squinting. “It must be at least a hundred years old and have been battered by a thousand storms. If Rotman really is a wealthy sugar merchant, then I’m a three-legged peacock. The witch girl was right then.”

  “Milou was right,” Sem said darkly. “Everything Rotman told us really was a lie.” He flexed his fingers. “The ship looks unguarded. Let’s get this over with.”

  He started to step out of their hiding spot beside a warehouse, but Milou grabbed his arm. “No,” she said. “We need to be careful.”

  “But there’s no one anywhere near the ship!”

  He and Fenna looked ready to burn a path through anything that stood in their way.

  “I want Egg back too,” she said softly. “But we can’t help him if we get caught, and we can’t walk along the dock without being seen.”

  Lotta frowned. “Perhaps we could wait until there’s fewer people—”

  “Egg could be hurt,” Sem seethed. “It’s already been over an hour. We need to get him now.”

  Milou studied the shipyard again. Each ship had a warehouse at the end of its dock, but the gap between each warehouse was wide open and well lit. The only cover they would have was the odd crate or wagon. They’d have to be very quick, and very careful.

  “We’re cold and tired,” Milou said. “If Rotman sees us and gives chase, we won’t make it far. Stealth is the key. We need to be long gone before Rotman even realizes we’ve taken Egg.” She pointed toward a ramshackle shack within throwing distance of Rotman’s ship. “We need to get to that warehouse and assess the situation from closer up.”

  Fenna led the way, crawling under wagons, leaping over fences, and slipping through uncomfortably tight spaces between stacks of crates. They paused behind a stack of burlap sacks filled with eastern spices, waiting for a nearby dockworker to finish smoking. Milou tucked her face into her scarf to still her ragged breathing. They had reached the last of the sprawling warehouses and needed to cross an almost empty patch of ground to make it to the shack opposite De Zeehond’s mooring. After what felt like an age, the dockworker flicked his cigarillo into the shadows, where it soared over Lotta’s head and landed in the dirt.

  “Go!” Milou whispered, as soon as he disappeared around the corner.

  Fenna was up on her feet in an instant. Like a circus acrobat, she rolled three times beside a low wall, sprang to her feet, and was across the empty clearing within seconds. Lotta went next, crawling like a panic-stricken spider. Milou copied Lotta’s approach. Then, from the shadows behind the shack, they waited nervously for Sem to follow. Milou half expected him to trip over and knock over one of the teetering sacks, but within a few long-legged, determined strides, he had made it across the wall and into the cover of darkness beside her.

  Rotman’s warehouse was larger than it had appeared from a distance, with a window that not even Sem could reach. It glowed dimly from within, and, as they tiptoed underneath it, muffled voices drifted out.

  “I think Rotman’s in there,” Milou whispered, looking up at the window. “With any luck, that’s where he’ll stay.”

  She and Fenna moved to carry on, but Lotta tugged them both back.

  “Wait. We should listen.”

  “We don’t have time,” Milou whispered.

  “Lotta’s right.” Sem sighed, then crouched down beside Milou and patted his shoulders for her to climb on. “We need to know what we’re up against. Come on, hop up.”

  “Why do I have to climb up there?”

  “Lotta’s too short, and Fenna can’t tell us what she hears. Just hurry, would you?”

  Milou clambered up, managing to get a firm hold of the window ledge with her other hand and heave herself up enough to look inside. The window was practically opaque from a coating of grease, but Milou found a small hole through which to peer. She pressed her eye against it.

  A single oil lamp hung from the middle of the ceiling, illuminating a room stacked full of crates. In the middle was a small space, in which there were a desk, two chairs, and two men. Rotman sat behind the desk, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. He was wearing an expression of utter disdain, as if his nostrils were under attack by an unpleasant smell. His eyes were as cold and angry as black ice. Opposite him, with his back to Milou, sat his apprentice, Pieter.

  Milou put her ear to the hole.

  “Has the boy spoken yet?” Rotman said.

  “No sir,” replied Pieter, in a voice so quiet Milou could barely hear it. “He won’t give them up.”

  “We’ll see if he still feels that way in the morning. A cold night in the hold under the watchful eye of Dolly should convince him how serious I am.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Don’t give him any food or water either.”

  “No sir.”

  “Is he securely tied up?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. I want to be out of this stinking city by the week’s end, and I intend to leave with the crew that woman promised me. One way or another I’ll find them.”

  There was a brief pause, then Pieter spoke another quiet “Yes sir.”

  “I have these blasted logs to finish,” Rotman said. “Get my cabin ready for me. I’ll be aboard shortly. Maybe I’ll have a word with the boy myself . . .”

  A chair scraped noisily across the floor. Milou quickly put her eye back to the peephole, just in time to see Pieter leaving through the warehouse door and Rotman returning to his paperwork. Milou tapped Sem’s shoulder, and he bent to let her down.

  “Egg is tied up. He’s in the hold,” she whispered. She turned to Lotta. “What does that mean?”

  “Belowdecks,” Lotta replied quietly. “It’s where they store the cargo.”

  Milou told them the rest of what she had heard. The children looked at each other in quiet despair.

  “We’ll just have to be clever about this,” Lotta said. “First of all, getting onto the ship will be tricky. We can’t go up the main plank without the entire dockyard seeing us, so we’ll have to see if we can climb up the mooring ropes on the other side. There are portholes all along the hull. Perhaps one of us can draw this Dolly person away from the hold so that another one of us can free Egg.”

  “At least one of us will have to stay by the shack and keep watch,” Sem added. “We should have a signal in case Rotman leaves the warehouse, and some way of causing a distraction to give us time to get off the ship again.”

  Lotta smiled suddenly and rummaged in her bag, pulling out one of the fireworks she’d bought earlier that day. “Will this work? A signal and a distraction all in one.”

  “Perfect,” Milou said. “Okay. Sem and I will go aboard and get Egg. Lotta, you’ll be on lookout and distraction duty. Fenna, you’ll draw Dolly away. Everyone agreed?”

  They all gave a curt nod, then crept along the side of the warehouse, into the waiting shad
ows.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THERE WAS ONLY ONE rope tied to the rear walkway of De Zeehond, and it was as thick as Milou’s arm. Sem went up it first, like an upside-down squirrel. Milou watched as he reached the side of the deck, then turned and gave her a thumbs-up. She peered down at the black water lapping just a few inches below. She could feel the iciness radiating off it. It held her there, like a statue, unable to move.

  Fenna gave her a little nudge and a small, sympathetic smile.

  “Egg,” she rasped gruffly.

  And that was all it took for Milou to reach up to the rope, with her hands and then her legs, and start shimmying up. Hanging upside down, she found herself watching the cloudless, star-bright sky instead of the water. And then Sem’s strong hands were hauling her onto the deck. They crouched behind a barrel and peered around either side of it.

  The ship’s sails were rolled up tightly, and the masts looked like giant crosses. The deck reminded Milou a bit of a graveyard. Cold, dark, windy, haunting. Every shadow seemed as if it might contain a monster. Every ghostly creak and groan of wood sent uncomfortable shivers up her spine. And the way the ship swayed gently from side to side made Milou feel as if the world wasn’t quite substantial. There were lights on inside the cabin under the poop deck and the occasional thin silhouette of Pieter as he prepared Rotman’s abode. Other than that, the deck was clear.

  “There’s a hatch there,” Milou whispered, pointing toward the bow of the ship. “That should take us belowdecks.”

  Milou and Sem made their way to it. Hinges squeaked as Milou lifted the hatch, but the sound blended in with the whistling wind. She looked in and, seeing nothing in the gloom, stepped onto the ladder, which groaned loudly under her weight. She descended as quickly as she could. Sem followed, pulling the hatch to a squeaking close above their heads and plunging them into complete darkness.

  The air was thick with the smell of oil and salt, which clung to her skin and throat. Milou’s pulse roared loud in her ears, and her breath stuttered. She reached out to steady herself on the wall, only to find it was greasy with grime.