The Unadoptables

by Hana Tooke

  A moment later, Lotta reappeared from the side of the stage, grinning maniacally. “Well?”

  Milou and Egg shared a look of awe.

  “It’s perfect,” Milou said finally, her cheeks aching with the smile that wouldn’t leave her lips. “Absolutely perfect.”

  “I found a barrel organ too!” Lotta said, pulling back a smaller curtain at the side of the stage. “It was under all that junk at the back of the barn.”

  The organ was the size of a handcart, with lots of brass tubes erupting from the top. A pile of concertinaed paper was stacked on a ledge next to the ivory keys, one end protruding from a post-box-type slot. Lotta turned a crank on the side and organ music filled the room. As soon as she stopped turning the crank, the music disappeared.

  “Have you finished the story?” Sem asked.

  Milou’s smile faltered. She’d spent all the previous day wracking her brains for ideas to end the story, but she’d been too consumed with thoughts of her underwater nightmares. Each time she’d drifted off to sleep, the nightmare returned, and Milou felt as if she were dying. It was hard to concentrate on writing stories when you were scared of falling asleep and never waking up.

  “Well,” she started, wondering whether they would be disappointed with her, and fearful that she would spoil the mood. All their efforts would go to waste if she didn’t do her share of the work. “I—”

  “It looks just like how I imagined Theodora’s nightmare world,” Egg said suddenly. Then his voice turned quiet. “It’s quite a bit like the nightmares I have, as well.”

  Milou snapped her attention to him. He was right. Theodora’s nightmare world had dragged her in every time she fell asleep too, like Milou’s had. Theodora had been scared to fall asleep. Perhaps Theodora’s nightmares had been about her fear of—

  “Milou?” Sem asked.

  Milou looked up at the ghosts and the cobwebs. Like Lotta’s talk of cogwheels, the answer to her problem was slotting into perfect place.

  “Milou?” Sem repeated.

  “Yes,” said Milou, her heart fluttering like the wings of a bat. “Yes. I know how the story will end.”

  The others grinned at her.

  “Then the Poppenmakers are truly all set to go,” Lotta said. “The Theater of Terrors will be ready.”

  Milou smiled. “And our own nightmare will end.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  TWO DAYS LATER, THE night of the show arrived, heavy with a low-lying mist that curled up the canal banks and wrapped around ankles. The full moon hung like a giant opal in the star-dappled dusk, and the sky had turned a ghostly shade of purple. Halfway up one of the windmill’s sails, Milou drew the frigid air in through her nostrils to try and calm her nerves, but her heart refused to slow to anything less than a gallop. She watched, breathless, as a procession of swaying lanterns wove its way toward Poppenmill. The neighing of horses and scraping of carriage wheels mingled with the hum of voices. Behind the iron gates, a crowd was swelling.

  Their audience had arrived.

  Milou wondered which one of those flickering lanterns belonged to her parents. Just thinking about being reunited with them made her hands shake so much she nearly fell from the sail twice. She gave the moon one last nervous smile and then hurried down to join her friends at the windmill’s front door. They all wore matching blue cloaks, spattered with silver paint, and identical expressions of panic-stricken excitement.

  “It’s time,” Milou said. “Let’s open the gates.”

  Lotta’s eyes widened in eagerness above the top of her scarf, and she nodded. They all put their hoods over their heads, their faces disappearing into shadow, and hurried to the gated bridge. Milou heard several gasps of surprise from beyond the iron bars, then a few more as the five of them heaved the protesting gates open. Metal groaned and scraped, then the crowd surged forward, a sea of curious faces and red-tipped noses.

  “Milou,” Lotta whispered. “Meet me at the theater in no more than five minutes, all right?”

  Milou barely registered her words but nodded anyway. Lotta and Fenna disappeared, leaving the boys and Milou to sell tickets. The first couple stepped up to Milou and smiled. They were smartly dressed and bright-eyed. The man had a tidy mustachio under his long nose, and the woman had dark curly hair, tied up elegantly atop her head. They were, however, far too young to be her parents.

  “Fifty cents each, please,” Milou said impatiently, trying not to snatch the silver coin they offered her. She gave them two tickets and a forced smile. “Follow the lantern trail to that tree over there.” She pointed to the oak tree, which was twinkling prettily with lanterns hung from every branch. “You’ll be able to buy warm stroopwafels while you wait. The theater will open shortly.”

  “Thank y—”

  But Milou had already nudged them along, eager to see who was waiting behind them. She snuck a glance at Sem’s customers, but they looked nothing like her. Neither did the small family buying tickets from Egg.

  The line slowly made its way in through the gates, ticket after ticket leaving Milou’s hands. Her money pouch began to grow heavier and heavier. There were more people arriving than she’d have dared dream. Young families, old couples, ladies wearing silk bonnets, men in tall top hats, children with nervous smiles. Milou’s smile slipped slightly with each person who did not have midnight-dark hair or eyes that were almost black. Her ears tingled slightly, but she ignored it. Her family would be here somewhere. She’d find them.

  “You should go and help Lotta,” Sem whispered after a few minutes. “Egg and I can handle this.”

  “Just one more minute,” Milou replied as another figure stepped toward her.

  It was a tall cowled figure in a bright green cloak, with a face just as hidden in shadows as her own.

  “Fifty cents, please,” Milou said, holding up an open palm.

  There was a pregnant pause. Milou had the feeling she was being stared hard at, but it was too dark to see even the faintest outline of the person’s face. Then a white glove emerged from the green cloak and dropped a guilder into her hand.

  “Follow the lanterns to that tree,” she said, rummaging through her coin purse for change. “The theater will open in just—”

  She looked up to find the cowled figure had swept past her and disappeared into the crowd. Lotta emerged, scowling hard.

  “It’s been twelve minutes,” she said crossly. “We’re behind schedule. Fenna’s nearly run out of waffles, and everyone is cold and growing impatient.”

  Milou looked back at the line, which still meandered out of the gate and onto the main road. Lotta tugged at her arm.

  “I’ll keep an eye out for them,” Sem whispered. “I promise.”

  Milou let out a shaky breath and nodded, following Lotta down the crowded gravel path to the theater, which stood tall and dark and empty-looking in the distance.

  It was too dark to see people’s faces clearly, and Lotta tugged Milou too quickly for her to get a closer look. They snuck around the side of the theater to where Lotta had installed a smaller side door. Next to the door, on the wall, was a brass mouthpiece. One of Edda’s speaking tubes. Lotta pushed Milou toward it.

  “We need them sitting in their seats in four minutes,” she said. “It will only work if we time things perfectly.” She tapped Milou’s pocket watch pointedly. “Four minutes exactly. Be ready.”

  Lotta slipped off around the back of the theater barn. Milou stood there, trembling in the cold, trying to quell her growing panic. Her parents would come. Wouldn’t they?

  She checked the time; a minute had passed already. She was going to ruin the entire show if she didn’t pull herself together. All these people would demand their money back, and all their hard work would have been for nothing. They’d have to leave the windmill.

  Milou cleared her throat. Sem would find them and it would all be fine, sh
e told herself. She pressed her lips to the mouthpiece and, in the deepest, boomiest voice she could summon, she addressed her audience.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

  Her voice projected loudly outward in a tinny crackle. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the shadowed mass of people straighten.

  “BOYSSSSS AND GIRRRRLS.”

  The hum of voices dropped completely.

  “IT IS MY DELIGHT TO WELCOME YOU TO THE GREATEST, MOST GHOULISH EVENT OF THE CENTURY.”

  Milou heard a small child whimper.

  “WELCOME, FIENDS, TO THE THEATER OF TERRORS!”

  There was an earsplitting screech of hinges as the theater doors slid open. The sound stretched upward in pitch. Milou saw hands reach up to cover ears, and several people clung to each other. A thrill ran through her.

  “STEP INSIDE . . . IF YOU DARE.”

  No one moved. Milou could picture what they were seeing, because it was exactly as she and the others had planned it: a large open doorway that appeared to lead into nothing but foreboding darkness.

  A sudden, dramatic discord sounded from the barrel organ inside the barn. Egg had clearly taken his place. Milou checked her watch. She had one minute to get into position, and yet the crowd was still staring at the theater in apprehension.

  “TICK TOCK. YOUR DOOM AWAITS YOU.”

  A giggle rose. Then another. And another.

  She was about to speak again when the crowd surged forward into the theater. Counting down the seconds in her head, Milou allowed herself a small smile, then slipped in through the side door, emerging in the small space behind the stage. The curtains were tightly closed, and the area was drenched in darkness. She felt her way to the ladder that led up to the puppeteering platform above the stage, still counting down.

  Thirty seconds left.

  She heard the side door open and close, then Sem appeared on the platform next to her. They each shuffled on their bellies to take the cross-sticks of their puppets.

  “Ten seconds,” Sem whispered.

  Through the small grill next to their faces, which looked out into the main seating area, they could just about make out the shadowed lumps of people settling in.

  “Well?” Milou asked, her voice full of pleading. “Did you see them?”

  She couldn’t see Sem’s face, but she heard him sigh softly, and her heart dropped to her stomach.

  “No—”

  A long whistling sound came through the large hole in the barn’s roof, then the theater exploded with color and light. Lotta’s fireworks lit up the night sky in bright bursts and wriggling lines. The audience all gaped upward, their faces glowing red, yellow, blue, green. Milou pressed her face against the grill, searching each illuminated face. She spotted Edda by the door, and that strange cowled figure, which still had its hood up and white-gloved hands folded neatly on the lap.

  No midnight-dark hair, though.

  And no eyes that were almost black.

  A lump climbed up her throat and lodged at the back of her mouth.

  The audience cheered as the fireworks display came to a loud, dramatic end. Then Egg’s harsh, discordant organ music began again, as pleasing as nails on a chalkboard. Milou felt like she might be sick, but for a very different reason. Why hadn’t she seen her family? Why hadn’t Sem seen them?

  Lotta’s mechanical ghosts began to swirl across the ceiling, trailing ripped cloth over the heads of the startled and delighted crowd. They circled the room once and then came to a stop. Below her, Milou felt the clunking of cogs being turned, and the stage curtains squealed open. Several electrical lights popped into life on the stage ceiling, illuminating a life-sized girl puppet. In her arms was a rusted cage, a blood-red heart suspended in the middle of it.

  A particularly loud chord sounded, Milou’s cue to start, and the sound echoed. The crowd’s cheers died away, and they all looked on expectantly, waiting for the show to begin. In the light that spilled up from the stage, she saw Sem smile encouragingly at her.

  Egg repeated his cue chord, and Milou put her lips to the speaking tube set up beside her.

  All that came out of her mouth, however, was a deep, strangled croak.

  THIRTY-THREE

  MILOU SQUEEZED HER EYES closed. The deathly silence crackled in her ears. Panic clung to her skin with tiny, ice-like needles. She’d never frozen like this before, not once. And yet, despite the urgency of the situation, there was nothing she could do to get words to leave her lips. She just couldn’t do it.

  “Milou?”

  Sem’s voice was quiet but enough to make Milou’s eyes snap open again. Lotta’s head had appeared at the end of the puppeteering platform. They both looked at her in urgency.

  Another discord rang out.

  More awkward silence followed, winding its way around Milou’s throat and squeezing tight. Someone in the crowd booed. Again, Milou tried to speak into the speaking tube but couldn’t form words.

  Where were her parents?

  One person stood to leave, and Sem gave her a little shake.

  “Milou,” he urged. His face was lined with worry. “Please—”

  Milou felt a hot, sticky tear slide down her cheek. Her chest was too heavy.

  Then a whistle sounded; high and melodic, like birdsong. Through the gaps in the platform, Milou saw Fenna standing on the stage, one hand held up in the air.

  Milou’s breath hitched at the sight. She didn’t have to look at the audience to know that all eyes were fixed on Fenna, who just weeks ago would have been more likely have jumped into a pit of hungry snakes than to stand on a stage in front of over a hundred strangers.

  She could tell by the stiffness of Fenna’s shoulders that her friend was anything but comfortable. And yet, there she stood, as brave as a warrior, with the sole purpose, no doubt, of giving Milou a moment to gather herself before their entire plan fell to bits.

  Fenna whistled again, the opening two bars of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Although her new voice was rough and wary, her whistling was smooth and assured, as if she were part songbird herself. She whistled the tune once more, and as soon as the last note tapered off, a screeeeeeeeech responded from the theater barn’s hole-riddled rafters.

  A collective gasp sounded around the audience, and then Milou heard the rustle of wings. Mozart emerged against the night sky, spiraling down into the theater. He screeeeeched as he flew, making his way to Fenna’s outstretched hand.

  Mozart hooOOooOOed from the stage, and the crowd clapped. Fenna cast a glance upward, and even though Milou knew she couldn’t see her, she nodded down to her friend and pressed her lips to the speaking tube once more.

  She banished all thoughts of her parents and sister, holding the faces of her friends in her mind’s eye. They were counting on her, and she refused to let them down.

  “EVERY NIGHT, THE NIGHTMARES COME.”

  Her voice was raspy and dry, but steady. She kept her eyes locked on Sem, who smiled in encouragement.

  “THERE IS NO STOPPING THEM. NOT WHEN THEY SINK THEIR CLAWS INTO YOU, ONCE THEY’VE DRUNK FROM YOUR SOUL AND TASTED YOUR FEAR.”

  Milou tilted the puppet’s head, so that Theodora looked out across the audience. Egg had painted her face in eternal sadness; her long red hair hung limply down her cheeks, and her knees were drawn up to her chin.

  A soft tinkling of music emanated from the barrel organ, and the ghosts dropped on invisible strings to glide in circles over the audience once more. Under Milou’s deft control, Theodora walked to the front of the stage, her limbs moving oddly but somehow elegantly, matching the beat of the sad symphony that filled the barn.

  “MY NAME IS THEODORA TENDERHEART, AND TONIGHT THE NIGHTMARES WILL COME FOR ME ONCE MORE.”

  The plain backdrop fell, revealing the gnarled and twisting Night Tree on the back wall.

  “THEODORA TENDERHEART
,” the Night Tree said, in Milou’s raspy voice. “IT IS TIME.”

  “LEAVE ME BE!”

  Sem’s werewolf puppet walked onstage, lunged forward, and grabbed Theodora. Milou howled into the speaking tube.

  “ARROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOOO!”

  The audience’s gasps turned into strangled yelps.

  Milou and Sem guided the puppets on their journey through the nightmare realm. Even though she didn’t look at the audience, Milou could hear their gasps and cries. As the iron bars of the carnival’s ghastly gates slammed down onto the stage, Milou couldn’t help herself; she leaned forward to get a peek at the crowd. Their eyes were wide and unblinking. Milou smiled, puppet sticks dancing in her hands.

  “YOU MUST GO THROUGH THE GATES!”

  Egg’s music started again. This time it was livelier, though still tuneless, as if someone were dancing on the keys of an organ. More puppets appeared onstage, behind the iron gate. Monstrous ones. Mechanical, like the ghosts. They danced and frolicked behind the gate, calling Theodora’s name again and again, as Milou dragged the puppet toward the gate, seemingly against its will. Theodora was just one step away when the curtains whipped closed and the oil lamps extinguished simultaneously, throwing the theater into sudden darkness. But before the audience had a chance to respond, the curtains squealed open again, and a single electric light bulb lit the stage.

  It was time for Milou’s ending to Liesel’s story.

  It was time for Theodora Tenderheart to die.

  That, Milou had realized, was what the nightmares represented: Theodora’s fear of dying. It was why Milou had had nightmares herself, about drowning beneath Rotman’s burning ship. Milou had not stepped through those ghastly gates, but Theodora had. She had entered the carnival, but that didn’t mean she had to suffer. Milou knew there was only one antidote to nightmares.