The Adventures of Lettie Peppercorn

by Sam Gayton

  “Lettie, you could pay an alchemist to cure Periwinkle!” he said suddenly. “Stop him turning back into a pebble, somehow. You could afford it; you’re rich now.”

  “Maybe,” said Lettie, and a tiny hope flared inside of her, like a flame. She felt a little warmer for a moment. “But . . . it’s one of those laws of the universe, isn’t it? Nothing stays the same. Things change.”

  She fell quiet and gazed out of the window, to the town huddled against the Wind. A place of brine and blubber and beer. A place she had promised Da never to go. There was mystery in that town. There were ships setting off for faraway places and others coming back with wonder and miracles . . . but Lettie wasn’t allowed near them.

  And now a miracle has finally come to me, she thought. At long last, just when I needed it most.

  “The tea is ready,” said Noah.

  Lettie jolted from her daydreaming and turned around. The heat of the kitchen had changed him a little. With his coat off and his hood down, she felt like she saw him more clearly. She saw his goodness, his kindness and wisdom. And suddenly, she thought: I want Noah to be my friend. And Lettie wondered how she could make that happen, because she had never made friends with someone before.

  Did she just ask? Is that what she had to do? She didn’t want to just say it outright, for what if he said no, what then?

  Lettie Peppercorn, you stop going red this instant.

  “Well,” she said, all of a sudden. “I’m Lettie Peppercorn and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Noah looked at her, puzzled. “I know,” he said.

  For a second, Lettie thought about boiling her head in the saucepan. It had all gone terribly wrong! But Noah smiled at her in his shy way, and she knew he understood.

  “Lettie Peppercorn,” he repeated. “I’m Noah, and I’m pleased to meet you too.”

  Lettie nodded, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to the mugs.

  “Well,” she said. “I’m thirsty.”

  Lettie brought the mugs and Noah brought the spoons, and together they took them to the table. The room was dark and, it seemed to Lettie, full of secrets. No one had bothered to relight the fire. The Walrus and the Goggler were huddled, deep in whispers. The Snow Merchant stood by the rug, watching the snow glitter. It struck Lettie as strange that he was so fascinated by something he had just given away as if it were nothing.

  Then Lettie lit the lamps, and the darkness fled, taking the secrets with it. The guests clustered around the steaming tea.

  “This better be hot,” sniffed the Goggler, big eyes blinking in search of her spoon.

  “Have a sip and see,” said Lettie.

  She was expecting compliments, so she was very surprised when the old ladies started to scream.

  “Outrageous!” shrieked the Walrus.

  “Scandalously outrageous!” shrieked the Goggler.

  “Scandalously, OUTRAGEOUSLY AWFUL!” shrieked the Walrus, not wanting to be outdone.

  “Is it too hot?” asked Lettie, embarrassed.

  In reply, the two ladies stood up and threw their spoons across the room.

  “Not the tea!” gasped the Walrus. “The spoon! The spoon!”

  She pointed. Lettie’s eyes followed her finger.

  Two brown sticks lay on the floorboards.

  “Oh, yes,” Lettie said at last. “That’s been happening for a while.”

  “What sort of inn is this, where they give you sticks instead of spoons?” spat the Goggler, magnifying her scopical glasses to examine them.

  “Calm down,” said Lettie. “They’re just sticks. You don’t need to scream at them.”

  “But they were spoons,” said Noah, blinking his green eyes at the stick he held. “I carried them from the kitchen. This one had a horse’s head on the handle.”

  “Well, now it’s just a stick. Don’t worry, the same thing happened last autumn to all the knives.”

  “This is not the standard of service to which I am accustomed,” said the Walrus. “I demand an apology! And an explanation! And a replacement spoon!”

  “All we have left are forks,” said Lettie. She sighed, looking at the sticks and the tea splattered everywhere. It was going to be a nightmare to clean up, let alone explain.

  “Then where is my apology and explanation?” the Walrus grumbled.

  Lettie was too preoccupied with the spoons. She shook her head and frowned at them. “It doesn’t usually happen like this,” she said. “I wonder what it was that changed them back so quickly?”

  “It was the boy,” said the Snow Merchant suddenly, and everyone turned to look at him.

  “Me?” said Noah.

  The Snow Merchant chuckled. “You were carrying them, weren’t you?”

  “But I didn’t do anything!” he protested.

  Lettie suddenly realized. “Of course you didn’t. It was your stalk.”

  “You’ve worked it out at last!” said the Snow Merchant. “The boy held them too close to his stalk, and all those spoons suddenly remembered they used to be twigs.”

  “So that’s why it happened so suddenly,” said Lettie. “I never knew that.”

  She thought of poor Periwinkle, and decided to keep him in the kitchen until she found a way to stop him perching on any slate roofs: he might petrify in an instant!

  “I’m sorry I ruined your spoons, Lettie,” said Noah, looking guilty.

  “Don’t be,” said Lettie. “It just happens. My ma made these spoons, like she made the whole inn: she used alchemy. All that cutlery came out of a cauldron.”

  “I see,” said the Walrus.

  “It’s quite a long story,” sighed Lettie. “Years long in fact.”

  “At twelve o’clock, the æther will wear off and the room will no longer be cold,” said the Snow Merchant, looking up at the clock hands as they twitched toward midnight.

  “Tell us the story, Lettie,” said Noah. “If it can make us forget the cold for ten minutes, it’ll be a tale worth telling.”

  “All right,” said Lettie, “as long as you listen and don’t interrupt. Da told me this story. He used to tell it all the time. It’d be better if he was here, because he tells it perfectly. I can just remember the words.”

  Lettie began drawing up the story from her memory, like a bucket from a well. Da’s words were hazy at first, but they became clearer and clearer, until she could almost hear him. It was the Da of long ago, the Da who used to sit by her bed and tell Lettie about her incredible ma; her incredible ma who was coming back, any day now.

  Da never told stories anymore. And he had stopped saying that Ma was coming back.

  Lettie Peppercorn, stop dithering and start talking.

  “It all begins with a girl who just couldn’t make up her mind,” said Lettie. “Her name is Teresa. She’s my ma.”

  The Making of the White Horse Inn

  Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, Teresa fell in love. It was always with the same boy: the one who lived on Gutter Street, mending nets for sixpence a day. He had a bow tie and a stammer. On those three days he came to her house every evening at six. He brought flowers.

  The boy and Teresa would go to the taverns, and he would drink beer and she would drink apple juice, right until the end of the night. Then they would search Barter for a patch of stars among all the clouds to sit under, and then the boy would ask, “C-c-can I kiss you?” and Teresa would say, “Yes, Henry, but do it quickly,” and then the boy would kiss her and say, “Can I m-m-marry you?” and Teresa would say, “Yes, Henry, but do it quickly,” and then they would say good-bye and promise to meet tomorrow in whispers, because saying it too loudly might stop it from happening.

  The other days of the week, she spent ignoring Henry Peppercorn.

  “Put those flowers in a pot and go away,” she said. “I’ve got work to do for Master Blüstav.”

  “But my d-d-darling—” began Henry.

  “I’m not your darling,” said Teresa. “I can’t be Master Blüstav the alchemist
’s apprentice and your darling at the same time. There’s just not enough days in the week.”

  “But the m-marriage—” began Henry.

  “The marriage is off !” said Teresa. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to be a wife; I’m going to be an alchemist.”

  Alchemists, Henry had realized over the past few months, were always changing things. Especially their minds.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he declared.

  “It won’t matter,” said Teresa, shutting the door. “I’ve made my choice.”

  But come the next night, Teresa would be back under a patch of stars, head over heels in love with Henry Peppercorn. That was the way it went; a day in love and a day out of love (apart from Sundays, of course, which they both spent in church, stealing furtive glances at each other while Reverend Gumpfrey droned on about the saints). On and on it went, for months and months. And if it had kept on going that way, Lettie Peppercorn would never have been born. But luckily for Lettie, Henry Peppercorn came up with a plan.

  One Tuesday, as they walked arm in arm through the grim dark, trying to find a patch of stars to sit under, Teresa and Henry came upon a chessboard.

  “How about a g-game?” Henry asked.

  “This makes a change,” said Teresa. “You usually ask if you can kiss me.”

  They sat down on either side of the chessboard.

  “H-how about a bet?” Henry asked.

  “What are we betting on?” asked Teresa.

  “A question,” said Henry, fighting his stammer. “And the question is: w-w-will you marry me? If I win, you have to answer once and for all, and then you can never change your m-mind again.”

  “And what if  I win?” asked Teresa, who thought this outcome more likely, seeing as she was considerably luckier than Henry, and considerably smarter.

  “Then I’ll n-never ask again,” said Henry with a gulp. “I’ll l-l-leave . . . on a b-boat for B-Bohemia in the morning.”

  “That would make my life much easier. I’d have my Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings free to study,” said Teresa, although she sounded far from convinced.

  And so they began. Teresa played black and Henry played white. It started badly for Henry. He never was much good at gambling (or chess), and before he knew it he was down to his king and two knights on horseback.

  Then Teresa looked at her opponent in his bow tie, flowers wilting in his hand, and she realized that she didn’t want to win, not if it meant never seeing her dear Henry again. And as she realized this, her pieces began to fall off the board, along with all her cares, and the more she began to lose, the lighter and happier she felt.

  “Checkmate!” said Henry. “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes, but do it quickly!” said Teresa, laughing.

  They ran to the church on Steeple Street, woke Reverend Gumpfry, and were married at two in the morning.

  As soon as the sun rose, Teresa went straight to Master Blüstav’s laboratory, as usual. But when he tried to give her a lecture about alchemy, she just sighed and looked out the window. Then she showed him her ring and said:

  “I can’t be your apprentice anymore, Master. I’m Mrs. Peppercorn now. I quit!”

  Blüstav, the Master Alchemist, was not happy. Teresa Peppercorn was his greatest ever pupil and, truth be told, she had more talent in her little finger than Blüstav had in his whole body. He might have his library, his laboratory, and his rows of neatly labeled alchemicals on shelves, but Teresa had imagination, which is by far the most important and useful thing for an alchemist to have.

  Blüstav begged and pleaded for Teresa to stay. He admitted that he was a talentless old fool of an alchemist, that without her he couldn’t even change a caterpillar into a butterfly. When that didn’t work, he threatened and cursed. And finally, as she walked out the door, he promised her he would have his revenge.

  But threats, curses, and promises of revenge had no effect on Teresa. She was in love. She dragged her small cauldron to the top of Vinegar Street, where she met Henry. He had just sold his house and net business for two shillings and sixpence.

  “What shall I buy?” he asked, showing her the money.

  “A place to put my cauldron,” said Teresa. She looked down at the patch of stony ground beneath them. “Right here will do.”

  So Henry Peppercorn bought the patch of land at the top of Vinegar Street from old Mr. Pity, the woodsman. He had chopped down the trees years ago, and was just waiting for them to grow again, so he was happy to sell it.

  The land was covered with rocks, pebbles, and boulders; twigs, sticks, and tree stumps; seaweed, shells, and a rusty anchor; silt, sand, and seagull poo; a broken chair, a chimney pot, and the skeleton of a horse.

  “It’s a d-d-dump!” grumbled Henry.

  “It might be a dump, but it’s got potential,” said Teresa. And she began to work her alchemy.

  In Teresa’s cauldron, the rocks turned to armchairs, and the pebbles turned to plates. The boulders became four-poster beds; the twigs and sticks turned to beams and bricks that Henry arranged into bedrooms, hallways, and a kitchen. The seaweed turned to rugs with designs woven in the stitching. The shells made washbasins and a bath; the rusty anchor became the hearth; and the sand and silt became tiles that Henry nailed to the roof. There were a few things that stayed the same: the chimney pot stayed a chimney pot and went on top. The horse skeleton, they buried.

  When they’d finished, Teresa looked up at the new house, and couldn’t help but think that Master Blüstav would be very proud, and just a little jealous.

  “That’s why, every now and then, bits and bobs change back,” Lettie explained. “In another few years, this place will be nothing but a pile of old rubbish again. No alchemy lasts forever.”

  “Ridiculous,” said the Snow Merchant. “Ridiculous nonsense.”

  “It wasn’t,” said Noah. “It made the time go faster.”

  Lettie looked up. It was midnight. The ten minutes had flown by, as if the clock was eager to rub its long and short hands together for warmth. Just as the Snow Merchant had predicted, Lettie felt the last of the æther drain out of her. It left behind nothing but a dull, aching tiredness. She looked around and saw the last, faint shades of blue leave everyone’s lips and faces. Except for the Snow Merchant, who was still frozen with æther. He had taken three drops, after all.

  “It’s good to be warm again,” said Noah.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said the Snow Merchant. His blue eyes were locked on the snow. He whispered something to himself, lips curling into a smile.

  The Goggler spoke in Bohemian to the Walrus, and she nodded back.

  Lettie looked at them both. Something wasn’t right.

  She spotted what it was.

  This time, it was her turn to point and yell. “You’re melting!” she gasped at the Walrus.

  “What?” snapped the Snow Merchant.

  The Walrus put her hand to her head and screamed.

  Something must have gone wrong with the æther, because from beneath the Walrus’s wig, big drips were dribbling down her forehead.

  “She’s right, she’s right!” cried the Goggler.

  The Snow Merchant let out a yell of anger, and the old ladies shot from their chairs. The Walrus thrust a hand under her wig and brought out a handful of snow diamonds. Lettie’s snow diamonds.

  “Hey! They’re mine!”

  She had told the Goggler no, twice! But the old ladies had teamed up to take some snow anyway!

  “Quiet!” barked the Goggler as she heaped a few snow diamonds on the tip of one finger and held them up to her eyes. She goggled for a long moment. There was a dreadful feeling in the air. Everyone looked furious, the Snow Merchant most of all: his teeth ground together and his face turned a deadly shade of blue.

  “What’s going on?” said Lettie. “Did you steal those?”

  The Goggler yelled out in Bohemian, and whatever she was saying didn’t sound very polite. She flicked away the sn
owflakes as if they were nothing, and even without scopical glasses Lettie could see why. The æther had worn off and the snowflakes were melting. They weren’t diamonds at all, just water. Ordinary water.

  Follow Those Frostprints!

  “Swindler!” bellowed the Walrus, pulling off her powdered wig, tearing it in two, and throwing it into the fireplace. The handful of snow dribbled down her bald head, nothing but slush now.

  “Charlatan!” growled the Goggler.

  “I prefer the term ‘fraudster,’ ” the Snow Merchant replied, edging toward the door and Lettie. “Out of my way, useless girl!”

  But Lettie wasn’t moving. She took her broom from its place by the door, and gave the whole room her sternest stare. “Somebody better explain what just happened. Before I start boxing everybody over the head with my broom.”

  “The diamonds melted!” said Noah, shaking his head in disbelief. “They’re fake.”

  Lettie looked at the spreading puddle of water. It was true: she’d been made a fool of. Worse, she was back to having nothing.

  It made her sick to her stomach.

  “So I’ve been tricked, and I’ve been robbed,” she said. “Who do I bash with my broom first?”

  “Them!” said the Snow Merchant. “They’re thieves!”

  “Him!” said the Goggler and the Walrus together. “He’s a liar!”

  “All of you!” shouted Noah, and the inn went silent. “You old crones are despicable. Lettie needed those diamonds more than you ever will. She’s got debts to pay, and new spoons to buy, and a hundred other things besides, and you stole snow just to wear it.”

  Lettie was speechless, just like everyone else. She had never had someone stick up for her before. Noah wasn’t finished, either.

  “And you,” he said to the Snow Merchant. “You did the worst thing of all. You filled Lettie up with hope. You told her the snow was diamonds . . .” Noah trailed off and shook his head in disgust.