The Unadoptables

by Hana Tooke

  Theodora was back in her bed, her head in her hands and her shoulders heaving. Slowly, she climbed out of the bed and walked to the edge of the stage.

  “I CANNOT REFUSE THE CARNIVAL MUCH LONGER.” Milou paused for a long moment, keeping the audience waiting and wanting. “NEXT TIME I FALL ASLEEP, THE NIGHTMARES WILL HAVE ME. I WILL BECOME ONE OF THEM: A SPIRIT BOUND TO THE SHADOWS. I WILL BE LOST . . . FOREVERMORE.”

  The crowd was silent, except for the creaking of seats as they leaned forward. Milou adjusted the puppet’s strings. A steady thud-thud-thud filled the room as Milou tapped the speaking tube’s mouthpiece.

  Theodora’s heartbeat slowed.

  Thud—thud—thud.

  And slowed.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  And slowed.

  Thud . . . Thud . . . Thud.

  “I AM DYING,” Theodora said quietly. “AND I AM SCARED.”

  There were sniffs from the front row and a wail from the middle. Milou heard the distant clunking of a crank being turned. The curtains closed once more, then opened again to reveal Theodora standing in front of the carnival’s gates. Hendrik emerged from stage left; a cotton wolf’s head on cotton boy’s body. The audience gasped as Sem guided the puppet in a creeping walk toward Theodora.

  “THEODORA,” Hendrik said, stalking ever closer. “THE CARNIVAL AWAITS.”

  The monsters danced to the wailing organ, their grotesque shadows swaying behind them. Their faces were terrifying: blood-red eyes, long teeth emerging from hideous snarls. And the music . . . it set teeth on edge; each clashing discord was like listening to the screaming brakes of a steam train. The music came to an abrupt halt.

  “IT IS TIME,” Hendrik Longtooth said, holding out a cotton hand to Theodora. “THERE IS NO NEED TO BE SCARED.”

  “NO NEED!” Theodora cried. “THOSE MONSTERS WILL EAT ME! THEY’LL TEAR MY FLESH FROM MY BONES. THEY’LL SLURP MY EYEBALLS. THEY’LL—”

  “MONSTERS?” Hendrik said, quizzically. “WHAT MONSTERS?”

  An unpleasant, high-pitched minor chord punctuated his sentence.

  “THOSE MONSTERS,” Theodora said, nodding toward the gate.

  “WHAT MONSTERS?” Hendrik repeated, looking behind him and then back at Theodora.

  Milou smiled at Sem. She moved her mouth away from the mouthpiece. “Any moment now,” she whispered to him.

  “Behind you!” someone shouted.

  Milou’s grin widened, and she nodded to Sem. It was just as they’d rehearsed.

  Sem twisted Hendrik Longtooth’s head to face the audience.

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” Hendrik said, cocking his cotton head.

  Someone giggled. “The monsters are behind you!” a girl cried out.

  “Behind the gates!” shouted another.

  More shouts and laughter erupted from the crowd. The music rose with it. Hendrik Longtooth leapt to the front of the stage in one huge jump and snapped his teeth. The shouts and laughter stopped, and so did the music.

  “MONSTERS, YOU SAY?” He turned and approached the gate. It swung open, and the monsters behind it stopped dancing. “YOU THINK THERE ARE MONSTERS IN THERE?”

  “I CAN SEE MONSTERS IN THERE!” Theodora shouted. “AND I WON’T LET YOU FEED ME TO THEM!”

  “FEED YOU?” Hendrik said. “TO MONSTERS?” He shook his cotton head. “THEY ARE NOT MONSTERS, THEODORA.”

  “LIES!”

  “COME NOW, I’LL SHOW YOU.”

  He held out a hand. Theodora clutched her heart cage to her chest.

  “NO!” she cried out.

  Members of the audience began to repeat her cries. Theodora Tenderhart took a wobbly step toward the gate. She moved forward, her limbs moving in a disjointed way.

  “No!” someone called out again.

  Theodora stepped inside the gate, and the shadow monsters lunged for her.

  The lights blinked out and the stage was swathed in utter darkness. The organ fell silent. The shadows were so deep that no amount of squinting or leaning forward would help the crowd see what was on the stage.

  And then a screeeeeech sounded at the back of the barn. Milou saw the audience twist in their seats. Standing atop a crate was Fenna, red curls spilling out from the shadows of her hood. Her left arm was outstretched, with Mozart perched up on it.

  The owl’s head turned mechanically around the room. Milou whistled, just as Fenna had taught her. Mozart flapped his wings frantically for a few moments and then launched into the air, a piece of string dangling from his claw. The bottom of the string was sparking, tiny little flames shooting out of it. As Mozart spiraled toward the stage, small sparks sprayed over the crowd. He flew over the stage and dropped the string. It fell like a feather, but as soon as it hit the stage floor, more silvery sparks erupted, and then what seemed like a thousand tiny oil lamps erupted into light. The stage shimmered brightly, revealing that the monsters were gone. Mozart settled on the platform beside Milou, chewing happily at the piece of meat she’d just handed him.

  “WHERE ARE THEY?” Theodora Tenderhart asked, performing a shaky pirouette.

  “SHH,” Hendrik said. His head had twisted around in a half rotation, revealing an entirely plain-looking face. “LISTEN.”

  There was a squeak from the side of the stage, and then music began to tinkle into the room. Edda’s music box emitted light, flighty notes, projected through another hidden speaking tube.

  “BUT . . . THE NIGHTMARES . . .”

  Hendrik shook his head. “THERE ARE NO NIGHTMARES HERE.”

  More stars appeared, lowering down from the stage ceiling, and twinkled merrily.

  “AM I DREAMING?” Theodora asked.

  “YES,” Hendrik replied. He caught a star and held it out to her. “A DREAM THAT WILL NEVER END. NO MORE FEAR, NO MORE PAIN. A DREAM IN WHICH YOU CAN BE HAPPY AND AT PEACE. FOREVER.”

  Theodora took the star from him and held it to her chest, where her heart cage had been.

  Then the curtains fell closed.

  Silence settled like a blanket over the crowd.

  Nervously, Milou peered through the grate to see their reaction. A woman three rows from the front was on the verge of bawling, snot bubbling from her left nostril. Edda’s cheeks looked damp. The cowled figure sat more rigidly, gloved fingers entwined tightly together. A man in a bright-blue tailcoat stood and began to clap. Another person stood and did the same. Then another. Milou felt the lump in her throat loosen as the entire audience got to their feet to clap and cheer.

  She did not notice the cowled figure slip quietly away.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THE POPPENMAKER CHILDREN PEERED through the closed curtains as the crowd slowly made its way out of the theater, some of them still clapping, many of them still wiping tears from their cheeks.

  “Isn’t that the Fortuyns over there, the ones who adopted little Jan?” Egg said. “And there’s the doctor who set Sem’s broken arm last year.”

  “Where’s Edda?” Lotta asked. “I wanted to ask her what she thought of it all.”

  Milou was searching the crowd too, still desperately hoping to spot a trio with hair as dark as midnight and eyes that were almost black. She saw no one who matched that description, though. The glee she’d felt when performing was gone, snuffed out by overwhelming despair. Milou looked for the cowled figure she’d seen earlier, but that person seemed long gone as well. There was no one lingering in the theater. No one making their way to the stage to find her.

  Where was her family?

  “Are you all right?” Sem asked quietly.

  Milou couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even shake her head. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. All was not lost. It was just a setback. If they weren’t here, then they obviously hadn’t seen her advertisement. Milou would just have to wait until they did the next show—she’d sen
d advertisements out to France, Belgium, and Germany too.

  “Milou?” Sem repeated.

  “I’m okay,” Milou said, trying to believe her own words. “They’ll come, one day. I just need to wait a bit longer.”

  There was a tinkling behind her, and Milou turned to find Lotta now sitting on the stage, running her fingers through a basket full of coins.

  “How did we do?” Egg asked.

  The others all crowded around Lotta, but Milou couldn’t make herself let go of the curtain. Perhaps, when she looked around again, she’d see her family waiting.

  Lotta grabbed a handful of silver coins. “It will take a little while to count it all to be certain, but . . .” She let the money slip through her fingers and tinkle into the basket again. “This looks like more than double what we’d hoped for.”

  Milou smiled, thoughts of her family buried beneath a deep sense of achievement. “We did it,” she said breathlessly. “We’re fr—”

  There was a sharp pinch at her ear and a screeching of curtain rails above her. The curtain was wrenched from Milou’s fingers, and someone grabbed her hair. She was pushed forward, her neck pulled backward, and found herself looking up a large nose, a thick mustachio sprouting out from underneath it. Her blood turned cold.

  Rotman.

  Milou caught a glimmer of metal in her peripheral vision. A cold, sharp point pressed against her collarbone. Sem straightened to his full height, his gangly limbs poised to move. Lotta staggered to her feet, clasping Fenna and Egg tightly. Milou’s scalp was burning where Rotman held her hair in his fist, and she felt certain her neck would snap if he pulled it any further back.

  “Nice show,” Rotman growled. “It seems I underestimated just how profitable you lot could be,” he continued, eyeing their money basket. “I suppose that might cover some of the damage you did to my ship.”

  “Go!” Milou cried to the others, struggling to get herself free. If she could hold Rotman off for just a few moments, the others would have time to flee. “Run!”

  The others remained unmoving.

  “Leave!” Milou repeated.

  Sem shook his head. “No.”

  Egg coughed, his face pale. He shook his head too. “We’re not leaving you.”

  “How sweet,” Rotman growled in Milou’s ears. “I have some delightful plans for the five of you.”

  Sem took a step toward Milou, his fists clenched.

  “Ah-ah!” Rotman said, bringing the tip of his knife closer to her neck. “I’ll have no nonsense. Especially not when I have such a lovely surprise for you. There’s someone I’m very eager for you to meet again.”

  Milou’s first thought was Dolly. The image of those sharp fangs and Sem’s still-healing wound flashed in her mind. Was he going to feed them to that beastly dog?

  “She should be here any moment now,” Rotman said. “As for the the rest of you, behave yourselves, or little Milou here will no longer have a head attached to her neck.”

  Click-clack.

  Milou’s heart seemed to stop.

  Click-clack-click-clack.

  “It can’t be,” Lotta said, her eyes turning to the curtains.

  Rotman smiled gleefully. “She’s been ever so keen to see you again.”

  Click-clack-click-clack.

  Milou’s mind conjured the image of blank, staring eyes.

  “No,” Egg choked.

  Click-clack-click-clack.

  Milou knew that sound as well as she knew the faces of the four terrified children in front of her, but her mind still refused to believe it.

  Click.

  Clack.

  Click.

  Milou was just contemplating whether Rotman was playing a cruel joke on them, when the curtains were wrenched open. A large, rotund silhouette stood on the edge of the stage, face hidden in shadows. The five of them stared up at it.

  Clack.

  Click.

  Two steps in, and the small lantern behind the stage illuminated the figure’s hawk-like face and furious beady eyes. Milou’s legs went completely limp, and she sagged against Rotman.

  Gassbeek was back from the dead.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE MATRON’S FACE LOOKED pale and sickly, but her expression was just as brutal as it had always been. Her chest heaved up and down as she glared at the orphans, fury radiating from every inch of her. Milou felt bile climb up her throat. What she was seeing couldn’t be true; and yet . . . it was.

  Gassbeek was alive, and Milou was certain she’d die herself, right there and then, from the horror of it.

  “Hallo, kindjes.”

  Sem shook his head. “You’re dead.”

  The matron clucked her tongue. “You really should have checked more carefully. I was no deader than you are right now.”

  “How?” Lotta asked.

  “An acute episode of terror-induced catatonia. That’s what the doctors in the asylum called it. I spent twelve days in a lumpy bed, staring at a gray wall, unable to talk or move. I did, however, have a lot of time to think about how much I’d like to rip each one of your limbs off.”

  Her friends fell silent. Milou was starting to lose feeling in her legs.

  “Pleasant reunions aside,” Rotman said, addressing the matron, “is she here yet?”

  She? Who else could there be?

  Gassbeek nodded. “You keep a firm hold of that one.” She reached out and grabbed Lotta by a pigtail. “I’ll take this one. The other three can carry our money between them.”

  She twisted her fingers, and Lotta whimpered in pain. Fenna let out a deep growl, right from the chest. Gassbeek paused, cocked her head, and then laughed. Fenna launched at Gassbeek, grabbed her arm, and shoved her away from Lotta. From the stage roof, Mozart let out a shrill, angry shriek.

  Gassbeek gaped up at the owl, then down at Fenna.

  “These children aren’t very bright, are they?” Rotman growled. He pressed the blade closer to Milou’s throat, and she gasped as a sharp sting bit just below her chin. “If you do not do as we say, I will spill more than just a droplet of this one’s blood. Four orphans would be enough for my ship. I’d just have to work you all a little harder to make up for losing the fifth, that’s all.”

  Fenna lowered her gaze and stepped away from Gassbeek.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Rotman said, dragging Milou to the steps beside the stage.

  She staggered along with him, her feet barely touching the floor. What did he mean by “get this over with”? Was he going to kill them? How had they found them? And who else were they waiting for?

  The air was bitingly cold as they made their way to the windmill. The crowds were gone, and Milou could see a trail of swaying lanterns making its way down the road, back to the city.

  As they rounded the corner, Milou saw a horse and carriage pulled up outside the front door—with Rose Speelman stepping out of it. She was carrying the enormous Little Tulip record book in her arms and wearing an impatient frown. It was the second figure, however, that made Milou bite back a scream of fury.

  Edda Finkelstein was standing there, arms crossed, and wearing her polder warden uniform.

  She’d betrayed them.

  “Goedenavond!” Rotman said cheerfully. Milou’s hair was suddenly released, and the knife disappeared from her throat. Rotman put a heavy hand on her shoulder. “I was just retrieving the little darlings, so sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “I’m still not sure why you asked me here,” Speelman said. “And I am entirely confuddled as to why this couldn’t have waited until morning.”

  “Let’s get inside so we can explain,” Gassbeek crowed. “The children can get us each a nice mug of warm milk while we talk.”

  “My father is still not well,” Milou said hastily. “He’ll be upset if we disturb him.”

 
Speelman shifted the record book onto her other hip.

  “Yes,” Edda said, to Milou’s surprise. “Perhaps it is a little late in the day—”

  “Nonsense!” Gassbeek squawked, elbowing her way to the door. “Meneer Poppenmaker doesn’t mind at all.”

  Before Milou could think of anything else to stall the inevitable, Gassbeek shouldered the door open, and they were all marched inside.

  “Matron Gassbeek,” Speelman sputtered, staggering in behind them as Edda closed the door. “It is polite to knock first—”

  Gassbeek whirled from her spot in the middle of the kitchen, a delighted smirk on her face.

  “Mevrouw Speelman,” she said. “I have already checked with Meneer Poppenmaker here”—she nodded toward the chair in the corner where Puppet Papa sat—“and he really doesn’t mind us intruding. Isn’t that so, Meneer?”

  “Stop!” Milou shouted, but Gassbeek click-clacked across the room and stood next to Puppet Papa. “Just stop, please.”

  “Stop what, Milou?” the matron said, feigning innocence.

  Milou squeezed her lips together and scowled. This shouldn’t be happening. They had been free just a few minutes ago. And now Gassbeek was going to take everything from them, like she always had done. Milou realized she had no fight left in her. Beside her, she saw her friends’ shoulders droop in resignation.

  Their escape, the ship, the show. It had all been for nothing.

  Edda Finkelstein had lived up to Milou’s suspicions.

  And, on top of it all, her parents hadn’t come home to her.

  “Matron Gassbeek,” Speelman said, looking between Milou and the matron with a look of confusion. “What is going on here?”

  “Let me show you,” Gassbeek cawed, patting Puppet Papa on the shoulder. “These little orphans have woven quite the deception for you, and it needs exposing.”

  Then with a smirk aimed straight at Milou, Gassbeek wrenched Puppet Papa’s cotton head from his grass-filled body.

  THIRTY-SIX

  SPEELMAN’S SHRIEK RICOCHETED OFF the walls. She dropped the record book and held her hands over her mouth to hide her horror. Milou sank into a chair by the table, too distraught to cry. She barely listened as the matron began to explain to the Kinderbureau agent that the children had left her for dead, stolen from her, forged documents, and run away like petty criminals. Instead, Milou glanced at Edda, who was showing no signs of shock at seeing Puppet Papa for what he really was. In fact, her face was completely blank, except for the tiniest crease of her brow.