I look at the bell on my desk.
I find myself fantasizing that the raven-haired woman is about to ring it and ask for my help. I’d like that. And I’d jump straight to it, too, and be amazing, and help her out, and Mr. Mollusc would grind his teeth because she would smile and say, for all to hear, “Oh, Herbie, you are the greatest Lost-and-Founder I have ever met” and “This year will be different, Herbie, I promise you that,” and I like this daydream so much that I can almost see her slender hand reaching out and ringing my bell with a bright and cheery . . .
TING!
My bell rings sharply, and I slide off my elbow, blinking at it in surprise.
There is indeed a hand there, but it’s far from slender.
TING! goes the bell again as a podgy red finger hits the ting-er once more with a short, bad-tempered poke.
“Are you open?” says a voice. “It says on the sign that you are open.”
I look up. Instead of the mysterious raven-haired woman, the stout man with the homburg hat is glaring at me. It’s such a shock to see him there that my cap slips over my eyes.
“This year will be different!” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I push the cap back onto my head. “I mean, yes, I’m open. Herbert Lemon, Lost-and-Founder, at your service.”
“Hmm,” says the man. “Not much to look at, are you?”
I’m not quite sure how to answer that, so instead I take a moment to do a bit of looking of my own. The man is even more red-faced than I realized, and he wears a dark-gray suit that stretches across his belly thanks only to three waistcoat buttons under enormous strain. He looks nothing like an actor in town to put on a show. He looks more like a banker, here to close down the show and throw everyone out for not paying rent.
“I try my best,” I say eventually. “I could stand up, if that would help.”
“It would,” says the man briskly. “I have been sent to summon you. I . . .”
But before he can say more, Mr. Mollusc slides into view beside him.
“Excuse me, sir, but is the boy bothering you?” says the hotel manager.
“No, not yet,” the man in the hat replies.
“Are you sure?” Mollusc is clearly disappointed. “He’s good at hiding it.”
“Yes, he seems the type.” The man narrows his eyes at me as if his worst suspicions have just been confirmed. Then he turns. “And you are?”
“Mr. Mollusc. I run this hotel.”
“Ah,” puffs the man in the hat, brightening a little. “And I am Mr. Mummery, theatrical agent. How do you do, Mr. Mollusc?”
“And how do you do, Mr. Mummery,” replies the manager, and Mollusc and Mummery shake hands and nod at each other, and I have a bad feeling that I’m watching the birth of a horrible double act. Sure enough, once the greeting is over, the two men turn and fix me with exactly the same expression of doubt and disdain.
“Um,” I say, because I think it’s about time I said something. I raise an eyebrow at Mr. Mummery. “Did you say I was being summoned?”
“Indeed,” Mummery replies. “Against my better judgment, I must say. You are to come with me to the sixth floor, Herbert Lemon, to Lady Kraken’s private rooms. It is time for your interview. Everybody is waiting.”
“Interview?” I can feel the cap slipping over my eyes again. “But . . . how . . . ? What . . . ?”
“There’s no need to look so alarmed,” says Mr. Mummery. “I’m sure you’ve prepared thoroughly. Now, come along.”
“Is the boy . . . ?” Mr. Mollusc gasps, a look of desperate hope in his face. “Is the boy in some kind of trouble?”
“That”—Mr. Mummery glances down his stubby red nose at me—“remains to be seen.”
And with this he sets off at a brisk walk toward the great brass elevator of the Grand Nautilus Hotel, clearly expecting me to follow.
And what else can I do?
Under the gaze of a triumphant Mr. Mollusc, I scuttle after him.
I’m in a daze as I get into the elevator. I’m still in a daze as I get out of it. What’s happening? What interview? I haven’t done anything!
Or have I?
At least, I tell myself, Lady Kraken will be there. My employer may be as loopy as a bowl of spaghetti, but she won’t let anything happen to me.
Or will she?
Oh, bladderwracks!
As I follow my mysterious companion down the coral-pink and sea-blue corridor that ends at the door to the Jules Verne Suite, I finally find enough of a straight line in my brain to speak to him.
“I haven’t prepared,” I say. “I don’t know what any of this is about!”
“You haven’t?” Mr. Mummery stops and turns. “You don’t? But you are Herbert Lemon, are you not? Lost-and-Founder at the Grand Nautilus Hotel?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“You are the boy who washed up on the beach at Eerie-on-Sea in a crate of lemons? The shipwrecked boy who has no memory of his past?”
I nod, wide-eyed.
“Then there is no mistake,” Mr. Mummery replies. “You are the claimant.”
“Claimant? But I haven’t claimed anything?”
“Maybe not,” Mr. Mummery sniffs impatiently, as if that is merely an inconvenient detail, “but you have been sought for many years. My employer has corresponded with your employer these last few weeks, and now, finally, we are here to cross-examine you in person. Kindly try to be a little more convincing, or our journey will have been wasted.”
And with this he turns and continues down the corridor.
“Who . . . ?” I ask as I run to catch up. “Who is your employer?”
“As for that,” Mr. Mummery responds, with a tone that suggests he’s tired of my questions, “you are about to meet her. I suggest you straighten your cap and stop twitching, boy.”
And with this he pulls the cord beside the great doors to Lady Kraken’s private suite, causing the ding of a distant bell. A moment later, on the panel beside the door, a light bulb flickers on, illuminating tiny curly letters that say:
The doors swing open, and I am faced with the gloom beyond.
Mr. Mummery propels me inside.
The first thing I see is the large circular table that Lady Kraken keeps in the dead center of her sitting room. It is usually covered in a layer of dust, like much of its owner’s possessions, but today there is a patterned tablecloth over it. And on the cloth there are teacups, an ornate teapot, and a plate of untouched golden pastries, just like the ones Chef makes. Despite everything, my tummy manages a blurble of hunger at the sight of them.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Lemon,” says a creaky old voice, and Lady Kraken—the owner of the Grand Nautilus Hotel—trundles her antique electric wheelchair into the lamplight. “What have you got to say for yourself, eh?”
“Um . . .” I flap my mouth open and closed until I find an answer. “Happy birthday, Lady Kraken?”
“Good lad.” The old lady bobs her wrinkly head. “I trust you enjoyed the special breakfast? The fancies? The trifle? I’m a hundred and something today!”
And she creases her wizened face into a turtle smile.
I’m about to exclaim, “What breakfast?” but there’s something in Lady K’s face that I’ve never seen before. And a similar something in her voice. And though I don’t know what that something is, it leaves me with a sudden sense that everything has changed.
“Come closer, Herbie,” Lady Kraken continues. “No need to fiddle with your buttons, boy. There is someone here to see you.”
And so I come forward. Then I turn.
The woman with the raven hair is sitting in a high-backed armchair across from Lady Kraken. She’s still wearing her coat, which is in iridescent raven shades itself and embroidered in complex ways that make it hard to look at. Her face, which is proud and pale, reminds me of a fairy-tale queen, and her dark eyes shine bright. She doesn’t take them off me as she gets to her feet.
“The Lemon boy,” says Mr. Mummery, indicating yours t
ruly, as if there can be any doubt. “Would you like me to conduct the questioning, Caliastra?”
“No,” the woman replies. “Wait for me downstairs, and take Rictus and Tristo with you. I can handle this from here.”
I look around the gloomy sitting room in growing alarm—why are the curtains closed? Then I notice that the two men I saw carrying luggage earlier are sitting together in the shadows. They are still dressed in identical tight black outfits, their faces unnaturally white and horrible, their eyes fixed and staring.
“Very good, Caliastra,” says Mr. Mummery, with a final inscrutable glance at me. Then he indicates for the two men in black to follow, and all three leave.
Caliastra.
I say the word over in my mind, rolling its strange syllables from side to side. If that’s the raven-haired woman’s name, then I’m certain I’ve never heard it before. So this—whatever this is—must be a mistake, after all. I decide to get some excuses in early, just in case.
“Can I just say, I’m really sorry?” I begin, backing away. “I didn’t mean to do it. And I won’t ever do it again. And I’ll tidy up the mess and/or apologize, as required. Also, it wasn’t really me. I wasn’t even there!”
And I trip backward into an empty chair, sending up a cloud of dust.
“But my dear boy!” cries the woman called Caliastra. “You aren’t in any trouble.” And she smiles a dazzling smile that is every bit as wonderful as the one I imagined downstairs. “Maybe this is too sudden,” she continues, turning to Lady Kraken. “Maybe I should have waited a day or two before presenting myself to him? But I’ve waited so long already.”
“Maybe.” Lady Kraken shrugs in response, making the wicker back of her wheelchair creak like a haunted house. “But I find the best way with dunderbrains is to just get it out and tell ’em straight.”
Caliastra nods. She tugs flat the front of her coat and brushes imaginary crumbs from its immaculate black surface as she rises. I do the same thing when I’m nervous and want to make a good impression. I take the chance to get a good look at her then—at her strong features, her long nose and high cheeks. It’s the face of someone who is used to commanding people. So why would someone like that care what a scrappy-haired and slightly crumpled Lost-and-Founder like me thinks?
“Herbie,” she says. “May I call you Herbie?”
I nod, holding my cap in place.
“I am Caliastra,” the woman continues. “But that is not my real name. It is my stage name. Perhaps you have heard of it?”
I haven’t. I try to look polite, but I think I’m probably blinking too much for that.
“No matter.” Caliastra seems genuinely unconcerned by this. “That is the name I am known by in London, Paris, New York—wherever I perform my act. I’m pleased to say I enjoy some success with my little magic show, even if my fame hasn’t yet reached the basement of the Grand Nautilus Hotel.”
“Magic?” I gasp. “You’re a . . . a . . . ?”
A change comes over Caliastra as I struggle to get the word out. She fixes me with a crafty eye. Then she holds out one hand, palm outward, pale fingers splayed. She flips her hand over, then back again, so that I can see that both sides are empty. She allows her sleeve to fall away, revealing a bare wrist.
Then she snaps her fingers.
A playing card appears from nowhere—the queen of hearts—held between her slender fingers. She snaps again and now the card is flying, spinning furiously. It makes a neat circular flight around the room—once, twice—before returning to Caliastra’s hand, which hasn’t moved at all. She plucks the card from the air and snaps one more time, and there is a flash of explosive light.
I blink as a sulphurous smell assaults my nose.
When I can look again, the card . . .
is gone!
Caliastra presents her hand for inspection, and it’s as empty as before. Then she raises an eyebrow at my Lost-and-Founder’s cap.
Really?
I reach up, disbelieving, and take off my cap.
There’s something inside.
It’s a playing card.
“Goodness me!” croaks Lady Kraken.
“The queen of hearts,” I whisper as I stare at the card in my hand. Then I look up at the raven-haired woman with the dazzling smile. “You’re a magician!”
“I am,” Caliastra replies. Then she gives an elaborate bow. “But just as Caliastra is not my real name, so, too, is Herbert Lemon—Herbie—not yours.”
I can’t speak. I try to put my cap back on my head and miss.
“But I know your real name, Herbie,” she says. “I know who you really are because . . .”
Caliastra stops, her words stumbling over a choke of emotion.
She takes a moment to compose herself before continuing.
“Do you have any memory of your life before, Herbie? Do you have any memories of your mother?”
My mother.”
I say the word blandly, forgetting even to add a question mark, as if the word mother—which goes so well with almost any word in the dictionary—doesn’t have anything to do with me, even though my mind is exploding and my vision tunnels in on the woman standing in front of me with a look on her face that I can’t describe.
“Yes,” that woman says in a whisper.
“What?” Lady Kraken gasps. “What!”
I start to shake.
“I mean, yes, I knew her,” Caliastra adds hastily. “I . . . I knew your mother, Herbie. Because we . . . were very close. Yes, as close as can be. She was my . . . sister.”
My world spins a little less dizzyingly as a different realization dawns. But it’s still an extraordinary one.
“That means . . .” I start to reply.
“Yes, Herbie,” Caliastra says, glancing at Lady Kraken as if for assurance. Lady Kraken’s eyes are nothing but slits of suspicion now. “That would make me your aunt.” Then she hits me with that smile again. “I’ve tracked you down, at long last, my boy. I’m here to take you home.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, shall we?” Lady Kraken cuts across my silence. And that’s when I recognize the “something” in my employer’s voice, the something I noticed earlier. Lady Kraken has ruled this hotel for years, and her word holds sway over everyone within it, all the way down to me. But now, suddenly, there is someone with a claim on me that supersedes hers.
If, that is, the claim is true.
“Herbert Lemon has been my Lost-and-Founder since the day he washed up in Eerie,” Lady Kraken declares. “No matter that he is the most dunderous of dunderbrains, and a ninnyhammer, to boot, he is my responsibility and not to be claimed by just anyone. At least,” Lady K adds, as if conceding the point, “not without proof.”
“Of course,” says the magician, sitting back down in her chair and crossing her legs. “And I wouldn’t dream of coming here and telling you this without some way to back it up. If we were in a story right now, I suppose this would be the moment I would mention his strawberry birthmark.”
“I have a strawberry birthmark?” I cry. I scan my body with my mind’s eye, trying to remember if I’ve seen such a thing in the bathroom mirror. I’m pretty sure I haven’t. Unless it’s tucked away somewhere I never think to look. I feel my face going as red as a whole basket of strawberries.
“No!” Caliastra says with a bright chuckle. “But you do have a V-shaped scar on your left forearm. Don’t you, Herbie?”
I stare at Lady Kraken. She bobs her head at me. Then both our eyes swivel down to look at my left arm, which is covered by the sleeve of my uniform. Lady K twists her lamp so that light falls on it. I pull the sleeve back.
There, on my arm, is a little white V of scarred skin.
“Or maybe it’s an L,” Lady Kraken says. “L for Lemon.”
But she suddenly sounds less sure.
“How did you know about that?” I ask Caliastra. “I’ve always wondered how I got it.”
“It happened many years ago,” the ma
gician replies, suddenly serious. “A silly accident.” Then she looks into my eyes. “Your mother said it would scar you for life. And she was right.”
“Have you ever shown this mark to anyone, boy?” Lady Kraken demands. “Think, now. This is important.”
I shake my head.
“Pah! This is hardly proof of anything.” Lady K swings around to confront Caliastra with a whir of electrical motors. “You could have found out about the scar from someone at the hotel. Is this really the best proof you have? From your correspondence, I was expecting a birth certificate, at least.”
“Sadly, I don’t have that,” Caliastra admits, holding up her open hands. I wonder for a moment if she is going to do another magic trick, but this time it seems the empty hands are purely metaphorical. She turns to me.
“Herbie, what do you remember of the day you arrived in Eerie-on-Sea?”
I call up the vague recollections I have of clinging to a crate as the waves tossed me around, all those years ago. If you’ve been to Eerie-on-Sea before, it’s possible that you’ve heard the story of the shipwrecked boy yourself—of the boy who washed up on the beach in a crate of lemons, with no memory of where he came from. I’m a bit of a local legend myself, I suppose. But what I remember of the event is such a wispy, overused memory that I could add any detail I like at this point and probably believe it was true.
“The only thing I know for sure,” I reply, “is that I was alone. I was the only survivor of a shipwreck.”
“No, Herbie.” Caliastra’s eyes flash. “Not the only survivor. There were others.”
“There were?”
“A few, yes,” the magician continues. “Some people were pulled out of the sea by rescue ships before they could be eaten by . . . before they were lost, I mean. And some managed to swim to a lifeboat. Like me.”
“You!” My cap nearly flies off my head. “You were on the ship? The same ship as me?”
Caliastra’s face becomes resolute, as if she is mastering her emotions.
“I will never forget that night,” she says, “the screech of the iceberg as it peeled back the hull, the sound of the water flooding the corridors, the screams . . . but I should spare you the details. It’s proof of our connection that you need right now, not horror stories. Herbie, what can I tell you to prove that I am who I say I am?”
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