“No?” Claude sputtered.
“No,” Bertie repeated. “Because I’m leaving.” He stood up taller. “I’m going to find my mom. I don’t care if she’s sick. I don’t care if she’s lost her mind! I’ll take care of her. I’m not a little boy anymore!”
“Your mom?” Claude burst out laughing.
“Yes,” Bertie said defiantly. “My mom. My real family.”
Claude shook his head. “You’ll do no such thing, boy.” He moved closer to Bertie, until Bertie could smell the cocoa on his breath. “Because your mom is dead.”
Bertie took a step back. He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach by Lord Jest, like he’d had the breath stomped right out of him. “What?” he whispered.
“Your mom is dead,” Claude repeated matter-of-factly. “She has been for years.”
“B-but my money . . .” Bertie stammered. “You’ve been putting it away so I can visit her!”
Claude chewed another fingernail, spitting it out at Bertie. This time, Bertie let it tumble to the ground. “That’s the beauty of it. I haven’t. All along you’ve been working for me for free, and you were too worthless to realize it.”
Bertie couldn’t breathe. The world was upside down and inside out and he couldn’t tell anymore if he was standing or falling. “No,” he said again. “No!”
Claude smiled thinly. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
A New Purse for Chrysanthemum
“I’m feeling goooood,” Buck said, scuffing a hoof against the floor of his cage. “A full stomach from something other than slop! I haven’t felt this good in ages. I bet I’m looking pretty good too, aren’t I, my little nuzzle bunny?” He puckered his lips at Tilda, revealing his very pink gums.
Tilda, who was on her fifth round of her sixteen-step grooming process, looked up with a grimace.
“Too bad we can’t share a cage,” Buck continued. “Then you could show me just how good I look.” He made a kissing noise, then pretended to blow it over to Tilda. “Mwah mwah mwah, my beautiful butterball.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Wombat exploded. He glared furiously at Buck. “She’s my girlfriend! What don’t you understand about that?” He raised his voice until it boomed through the caravan, rattling the cages. “MINE!”
“Stop it, Wombat!” Tilda’s shout took every animal in the caravan by surprise. All heads turned in her direction. “Both of you stop it RIGHT NOW!”
“Tilda?” Wombat gasped.
“Bunny love?” Buck gasped.
Tilda fluffed out her freshly cleaned fur. “Yes,” she said. “It’s me, and I want both of you to listen and listen closely. My name is Tilda. Not ‘sweet thing,’ not ‘honey bunny,’ not ‘butterball—’”
“You tell him, Tilda!” Wombat interrupted.
“Silence!” Tilda bellowed. “I am talking now.”
“Fine,” Wombat muttered, sulking to the back of his cage.
“As I was saying,” Tilda went on. “I am Tilda, not ‘nuzzle bunny,’ not ‘bunny buns,’ and not ‘girlfriend.’ Tilda. And I don’t belong to anyone!”
Wombat’s head snapped up. “Not even to me?” he asked softly.
“Not even you.” Tilda lifted her fluffy white head in the air. “I am my own bunny. I speak for myself. And most importantly, I make my own decisions! And here is my decision.” She cleared her throat. “Buck?” she said loudly.
“Yes?” Buck stuck his nose eagerly through the bars of his cage, giving his tail a seductive swish.
“Buck,” Tilda continued bravely. “My heart belongs to someone else. His name is Wombat, even though he seems to think it’s Fred, and he’s the kindest, smartest, most wonderful animal I’ve ever known.” In his cage, Wombat perked up. “You, on the other hand,” Tilda continued, “are nothing more than a buffoon!”
“That’s right!” Wombat burst out. “You tell him, Tilda! He’s nothing but a big, tall, striped buffoon!”
“Enough, Wombat,” Tilda said angrily. “You know I love you, but you’ve been acting pretty buffoonish yourself lately. Now let me finish!”
Wombat snapped his mouth shut, looking shaken.
“A buffoon?” Buck asked indignantly. “Look at my stripes, sweet thi—ahem, Tilda.” He ruffled his black and white mane. “I’m no buffoon. I’m a purebred zebra!”
“You are,” Tilda agreed. “But you’re also a buffoon. And I would never, ever, in a million, trillion years, even if we were the last two animals on earth, even consider dating you!”
* * *
On the other side of the grounds, while Tilda was busy yelling, Claude was busy grumbling. “No,” Claude muttered to himself as he stalked back to his caravan. “The boy actually said no to the great Claude Magnificence. And then he just ran off!” He paused to bite off one of his nails, spitting it onto the ground. “Of all the gall! I’m going to have to think long and hard about a punishment for this one . . .”
He began ticking off possibilities on his fingers. “There’s the cabinet . . . no.” He shook his head. “Not nearly severe enough. There’s always sleeping with the animals . . . no, that worthless boy would probably like that.”
“Excuse me?”
At the sound of a woman’s voice, Claude fell abruptly silent. He turned around to find a pale-faced woman in an expensive-looking suit and a young girl in a poufy yellow dress walking toward him. The girl had wild brown curls and was swinging a small dollhouse between her hands. “Are you Mr. Claude Magnificence?” the woman asked.
Claude adjusted his gold top hat. “He is I,” he said grandly.
“Oh, Mr. Magnificence, I’m so glad to meet you!” the woman gushed. “I’m Mrs. Toddle, and my daughter and I were at your, uh, very interesting show tonight.”
Claude threw his shoulders back, making his torn vest pop open. “Very good,” he said in his most formal voice.
“And you see,” Mrs. Toddle continued, “my daughter seems to have formed an attachment to that dirty little rabbit that fell out of your top hat.”
“She’s an Angora rabbit,” the girl informed her mother.
“Lauren Nicola showed me her picture in the paper the other day and she has the most beautiful white fur in the world, prettier than even my prettiest silk coat! When he isn’t covering her in mud, that is.” She shot Claude an accusatory look.
“I assure you, the mud was quite accidental,” Claude said quickly. “I’m actually not sure how it got there in the first place . . .” He trailed off, looking puzzled.
“It doesn’t matter,” the girl cut in impatiently. She gave her dollhouse an angry shake. “I want her, Mother! I’m going to carry her everywhere with me instead of a purse. I will be the most fashionable girl in the world.
I will be more fashionable even than Lauren Nicola!” She paused to smooth down her yellow dress. “You said if I ate all my broccoli today, I could have whatever toy I wanted. And this,” she went on, her voice rising shrilly, “is what I want!”
“Yes, yes, Chrysanthemum.” Mrs. Toddle coughed nervously. “Just please don’t shriek.” She turned to Claude. “Tell me, Mr. Magnificence. How much for the rabbit?”
Claude stroked his beard as he stared at her. “You want to buy my rabbit?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Toddle said. “I’ll pay top dollar for her. My little girl only eats her vegetables if we give her a new toy every day. Usually she simply takes one from our store—we own Toddle’s Toy Emporium, you see, I’m sure you’ve heard of it—but when she saw your rabbit tonight, she just had to have it. We were almost home when she made me turn the car around to come back here.” She laughed, patting Chrysanthemum on the head. The girl quickly swatted her hand away. “Such a strong-willed girl, my Chrysanthemum is! So tell me, Mr. Magnificence. How much for the rabbi
t?”
“You’ll pay top dollar, you say?” A greedy look crept onto Claude’s face. He pulled a napkin and pen out of his pocket and scribbled down a number. “This is my price,” he said, slipping the napkin to the Mrs. Toddle.
“That’s very high,” she gasped.
“She’s a very valuable rabbit,” Claude replied. “Purebred Antorka, just like your daughter said.”
“Angora,” the girl corrected rudely.
Claude waved a hand dismissively through the air. “Potato, patato. That’s my price,” he said. “Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll take it,” Chrysanthemum proclaimed. She grabbed the napkin from her mom and tossed it onto the ground without even looking at it. “Won’t we, Mother?” she added, her voice rising shrilly again.
“Yes,” Mrs. Toddle said quickly. “Just please don’t shriek, Chrysanthemum.” She pulled a checkbook out of her purse and quickly wrote a check out to Claude. “We want the rabbit,” she said, handing it to him.
Claude bounced excitedly on the toes of his shiny gold shoes as he looked down at the check. “Magnificent,” he said. “I’ll be right back. I must get the keys from my caravan. And,” he added under his breath, “put this check where no one will find it.” He took off at a sprint without looking back.
Inside his caravan, he opened his cocoa urn and slid the check inside. “You should be safe there, my sweet,” he told the check lovingly. Placing the top back on the urn, he hurried through the crystal beaded curtain to his bedroom. He paused in front of his night table, eying his chain of keys, which hung a little crookedly from the knob. “Something looks different,” he murmured. For a second, he just stood there, stroking his beard. Finally he shrugged. “Who cares? I’m rich!” He grabbed the chain off the nightstand. “Rich, rich, rich!”
The mother and daughter were in the middle of an argument about what vegetable Chrysanthemum would eat tomorrow when Claude reached them. Chrysanthemum had put down her dollhouse and was gesturing wildly as she told her mom that it didn’t matter what toy she bought her, she was never, ever eating brussels sprouts.
“Good choice,” Claude said magnanimously. “The brussels sprout is a very unfortunate vegetable.” He clapped briskly. “Now, follow me to your new rabbit. I have plenty of other animals for sale too, if you’re interested,” he added as he led the Toddles to the animals’ caravan.
“I only like Angora rabbits,” Chrysanthemum sniffed. In her excitement, she forgot about her dollhouse, leaving it abandoned on the ground.
“Here we are!” Claude announced, flinging open the door to the caravan. He stomped over to Tilda’s cage, where Tilda had, at that very moment, just finished yelling at Buck. He snatched her up, cringing as she let out an ear-piercing squeal. “Don’t worry,” he said, tossing Tilda to Chrysanthemum. “She’s not usually this loud.”
Chrysanthemum squeezed Tilda tightly in her arms. “You are going to be my very favorite toy,” she announced. “I’m going to braid your hair and give you a million baths and bring you over to Lauren Nicola’s house to show her that I’m the most fashionable girl in the world!”
“As I was saying, my other animals are for sale too,” Claude said. He ran his hand temptingly down the row of cages. “For only double the price of the rabbit!”
Mrs. Toddle wrinkled her pale nose as she looked around the caravan. “No thank you,” she said primly. “Come on, Chrysanthemum. Let’s bring your new toy to the car. It smells like manure in here!”
Chrysanthemum squeezed Tilda tighter as she followed her mom outside. “And best of all,” she went on, ignoring Tilda’s strangled squeaks, “I’m going to tie a string around you and carry you around as my brand-new purse!”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Better Than Spoons or Jewelry
Susan sat in her cubby, staring down at the box. On the other side of the caravan, she could hear the Nilling cousins jabbering away in their language as they tossed the occasional shoe at her curtain. But for once, she didn’t care.
She gave the box another shake. It didn’t clatter like spoons. It didn’t jangle like jewelry. And it was much too light to be holding coins. What if it was nothing? Claude’s receipts, maybe, or an extra reserve of cocoa powder? “Then it’s nothing,” she said out loud. “It’s not a big deal.” But her hand was shaking as she slid the key into the lock.
The box creaked a little as it opened. Inside were envelopes, dozens and dozens of them, jammed into every inch. Susan pulled one off the top. It was still sealed. Susan Ward, it said across the front. She pulled out another one, then another. They were all unopened, and they were all addressed to her.
She could barely breathe as she tore open one of the envelopes, yanking out a thin sheet of paper. Dearest Susan, she read. Her eyes jumped instantly to the signature at the bottom of the letter.
All our love,
Mom and Dad
Quickly, she opened up several more letters. The same signature stared back up at her each time. Susan felt like a horse was galloping across her chest. All those envelopes were letters. And they were all from her parents, for her. She rifled through the box, blowing out a breath as she checked the postmarked dates on the envelopes. Her parents had written her a letter almost every day she’d been at the circus. But why in the world would Claude keep them all, just to hide them from her? She shuddered at the thought of what he might be saving them for—some kind of awful bribe, most likely. But it didn’t matter. Because she had them now, and she was never giving them back. Pulling her blanket around her shoulders, she began to read.
Dearest Susan,
It’s been a month now, and we’re starting to doubt that our letters are reaching you. We can only hope that they are and that, although you don’t write back, one day you will show up on our doorstep, returned to us. You have to believe us that when we gave Mr. Magnificence our permission for you to work at the circus so we could pay off our debt, we knew nothing of his plans to take the circus on the road. For as long as we could remember, the Most Magnificent Circus had been right down the road from us! If we had known, oh, how quickly we would have rejected his offer! But by the time we learned of his plans, the circus was gone, and we were left with only a post office box to write to. Every day we save a little more, and one day we hope to have enough money to come find you and bring you home. Until then, know you have—
All our love,
Mom and Dad
Tears were brimming in Susan’s eyes as she finished reading the letter. Blinking them away, she rummaged through the dates on the envelopes again. She found what she was looking for stuffed into the very back of the box: an envelope postmarked only days ago. Pulling it out, she eagerly tore it open.
Dearest Susan, she read.
We believe we’ve made a new stride in finding you! We’ve learned of one of the venues the Most Magnificent Circus stops at each year, several hours north of us. Soon we should have enough money saved up to travel there. If we find you, we are not leaving without you—we promise you that. We don’t care if we have to give up our farm or our home or anything else. We don’t want any of it if we can’t have you. Until then, know you have—
All our love,
Mom and Dad
The letter slipped out of Susan’s hands, fluttering to the ground. Her parents wanted her. They’d always wanted her. They still wanted her. She closed her eyes. Her whole body was trembling, but she’d never felt better. It was like for months she’d been in the dark, and suddenly the sun was shining again.
“They want me.” It felt even better to say it out loud. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out another envelope. She’d stay up all night if she had to; she was going to read every last letter in that box.
Chapter Thirty-nine
A Buffoonish Wombat
“Buffoon?” Buck ruffled his mane. “I can’t believe
that itty-bitty bunny called me a buffoon! Who needs her anyway?” He kicked the wall with his hoof. “Not us! Right, Fred?”
Wombat stood motionless in his cage, staring blankly ahead of him. “She’s gone,” he whispered.
Smalls leaned against the wall that separated him from Wombat. “Are you all right, Wom—Fred?”
“Buffoonish,” Wombat repeated. “She called me buffoonish. And my first thought was, ‘Buck’s the buffoonish one, not me!’” He gasped. “I have been acting buffoonish!” He shook his head dismally. “Tilda was right. I was childish and cantankerous and worst of all, jealous. I was completely buffoonish! And now she’s gone. And I can’t even tell her I’m sorry.” With a sad growl, he slumped down in his cage.
Smalls sat back on his haunches, rubbing at the yellow horseshoe on his chest. That terrible girl in yellow had called Tilda a toy, as if she was something to be played with, to be locked up in a trunk at the end of the day. An image of Tilda, locked at the bottom of a trunk, amidst cobwebs and dust bunnies, flashed through Smalls’s mind. Until now, the one thing that had kept Smalls going was that they were all in this together, the four of them. But now, they didn’t even have that. The idea of Tilda all alone tore at his heart.
“We have to find a way to get her back,” he said.
“How?” Wombat asked miserably. “We’re trapped.”
Rigby swished his tail nervously across his cage. “We’d have to escape to do that,” he said with a weak laugh.
Across the way, Buck stomped impatiently against the floor. “I’ve been talking to you over here, Fred. There are plenty more bunnies in the sea for us, right?”
Wombat looked up at Buck. “No,” he said. “There aren’t. At least not for me.” He paused, his ears flicking forward. “And from now on, the name is Wombat,” he decided. “Not Fred. If it’s good enough for Tilda, it’s good enough for me.”
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 14