The Unadoptables

by Hana Tooke

  “Maybe she’s fallen into the North Sea Canal,” Milou said hopefully, gazing out the laundry-room window toward the smog-blurred docks to the north. “She could be floating off to some faraway ocean as we speak.”

  “Doubtful,” Lotta said, as she retied a blonde pigtail that had come loose. “Her buoyancy would be compromised by those heavy dresses she wears. It wouldn’t take her long to sink.”

  The grandfather clock continued to dong in thunderous tones, and Milou heard the hurried footsteps of orphans spilling out of rooms and hurrying upstairs. She closed the laundry-room window and then rubbed at her tingling ears.

  “Come on,” Lotta said, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “Let’s get you to bed before your ears convince you that the matron is plotting your murder.”

  Milou followed her out of the room, worry twisting her insides. When they reached the dormitory, there were ten children elbowing each other for room around the single bucket of water, into which they dipped their toothbrushes and hastily scrubbed their teeth. When the children moved on, Milou peered into the bucket. Its contents were now slightly yellow, with bubbles of spit floating on the surface.

  She went to the open window and plunged her toothbrush into the snow on the window ledge. Egg was sitting on the roof, his charcoal pencil scratching away on a corner of an old pillowcase. He lifted a makeshift telescope, made of metal piping and recycled spectacle lenses, and pointed it toward the horizon, seemingly unaware Milou was there. She put her toothbrush in her mouth, shuddered as the cold touched her gums, scrubbed, then spat into the bucket.

  “You’re letting even more cold in, Egg.”

  “Yes, but I’ve nearly finished adding the eastern dockland. Look.”

  Milou peered over his shoulder at his pillowcase map. “The tiny ships on the river look wonderful. With your leg shaking like that, it looks like they’re bobbing up and down on the water.”

  Egg beamed at her, then shivered again. “I suppose it is rather cold. I’ll finish it tomorrow.”

  He carefully handed her his mapmaking supplies, climbed back in through the window, and closed it behind him. She tucked them into his coal bucket, then wriggled through the narrow gaps between the beds to the rear of the room. Bedsprings creaked as their inhabitants clambered in. Milou tucked herself in between Lotta and Fenna, then pulled her Book of Theories out from her sleeve.

  “Could we have a cheerful story tonight?” Lotta asked. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for ghouls or werewolves.”

  Pale faces emerged from beneath bedsheets all around the crowded room to nod in agreement. Beside Milou, Fenna shivered, then snuggled in closer, and Milou felt the tickle of rat fur against her arm as her friend cuddled the creature to her chest.

  “I have been working on a new theory.” Milou smiled, all thoughts of the matron vanishing the instant she opened her homemade notebook, flicking through its worn, scribble-filled pages. “In it, my father, Bram Poppenmaker, is a puppet maker by day, air-balloon aviator by night.”

  As murmurs of interest rippled across the dormitory, Milou licked her dry lips and began her story.

  “On a moonlit night, twelve years ago, a family of three sailed the skies above Amsterdam. They flew higher than the hawks, smoother than the starlings, and faster than the falcons.”

  Lotta coughed pointedly. “I’m not sure that’s how balloons work—”

  “It’s how this one worked.” Milou turned the page and resumed her storytelling voice: half raspy whisper, half singsong. “The balloon was midnight black, speckled with silver stars. Below hung the grandest gondola there ever was. At its bow, a snarling wolf, carved from ebony, with giant emeralds for eyes. At its stern, dangling from a horizontal pole, was my basket, placed there so I could watch the stars twinkle above me.

  “The Poppenmakers had just flown past Centraal Station and over the royal palace, when, suddenly and unexpectedly, a storm began.” Milou’s voice deepened. “Lightning forked and thunder boomed. From the east came a swirling vortex of furious winds. My mother lowered the balloon, hoping to escape the worst of it, but the wind knocked the gondola into the rooftops. My basket caught on a chimney stack, wedging so firmly that as the air balloon carried onward, the ropes holding me snapped, and I was left behind.”

  Milou paused for dramatic effect, then grinned behind her notebook at the sounds of breaths being sucked in and then held. The rat in Fenna’s embrace gave a little squeak as if it had just been squeezed. She let them wait another few heartbeats, then continued.

  “There was nothing my parents could do. As the wind blew them further and further away from me, my mother did her best to turn the air balloon around, while my father considered jumping out to get to me as soon as the balloon got low enough. But the storm had other ideas.

  “The air balloon was blown higher and higher, across oceans, spinning and turning until, a few days later, they crash-landed at the North Pole, surrounded by a family of very confused polar bears. The balloon had a huge tear in it and lay, deflated and limp, alongside the upturned gondola. My parents, with their quick wits and excellent survival skills, built a house out of ice. My father used old puppet strings as fishing lines, and my mother befriended the bears by singing them lullabies.

  “But it is hard to find balloon-fixing supplies in the Arctic. To this very day, they are still patching the balloon up and desperately trying to make their way back home.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you were in a coffin,” Sem said in a slightly muffled, disembodied voice from beneath the covers of the bed opposite hers.

  “Well, yes, I’m still working on that bit, but—”

  “Nor does it explain the claw marks,” Egg added.

  “I’ll admit, it’s not my most convincing theory, but—”

  Milou’s words died away as her left ear began to tingle wildly. She looked at the closed dormitory door. A heartbeat later, a familiar sound echoed in the hall beyond it.

  Click-clack-click-clack.

  There was a collective rustle of bedsheets as the orphans tucked their heads under the covers again. Tiny rodent feet scampered up her arm and over her head as Fenna’s rat darted away. Milou heard a puff of air blown from small lips, and the single candle that lit the room hissed and died.

  Click-clack-click-clack.

  The beds creaked and squeaked beneath shivering bodies.

  Click-clack-click-clack.

  The matron entered the room, and made her way past each bed, pausing every now and then.

  Click-clack-click—

  Through a hole in her blanket, Milou saw the pointed toes of the matron’s boots stop, adjacent to her bed. Her ears tingled as the boots turned, one at a time, to face her.

  “Get up,” Gassbeek hissed, tearing the blanket from Milou’s grip. “Lotta and Fenna, you too.” The matron whacked the two lumps shivering in the bed opposite. “Sem and Egg as well.”

  “Why them?” Milou asked, her heart thudding in double time as she staggered out of bed.

  The matron merely smiled her signature smile, all teeth and no soul, then click-clacked out of the room.

  In the pale light of the moon that streamed in through the threadbare curtains, her friends climbed out of bed with matching expressions of dread.

  What was the matron up to?

  * * *

  Gassbeek was waiting in the foyer. There were dirty footprints leading across the marble floor, toward the dining hall. The same floor Sem and Egg had scrubbed clean earlier. Surely, they wouldn’t have missed such obvious marks. Was this what the matron had called them down for?

  The five of them assembled in a line, shivering in their nightclothes under the matron’s glare. A strange oily smell hung in the air, tickling Milou’s nostrils in an unpleasant way.

  “Your behavior earlier today was unforgivable,” Gassbeek said, her gaze boring down on
each one of them.

  Milou frowned. “But I’m the only one who misbehaved, Matron.”

  The matron’s eyes hardened. “The five of you have been here twelve years. I have never had an orphan stay beyond ten before. No matter how hard I have tried to convince potential parents that you might make suitable adoptees, you have persisted in presenting yourselves as the unadoptable little brats that you are. And you, Milou, are the most irredeemably monstrous child I have ever had the misfortune of knowing. It’s little wonder your real parents didn’t want you.”

  “That’s not true—” Milou began, feeling for the reassuring lump of her Book of Theories—and all the evidence that showed her parents had loved her—before realizing it was still under her pillow.

  She took a shaky breath. Arguing with Gassbeek now would only make things worse. Her friends looked terrified, and this was all her fault. The matron was going to punish them all, just to spite her.

  Milou held out her hands. “Please, just cane me. I am the one who behaved badly, they’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Gassbeek sneered. “Oh, there won’t be any caning today. I’ve realized that won’t solve my problem at all. No, I have another plan. I’ve decided that the five of you have outstayed your welcome.”

  Milou’s heart thudded. “What do you mean?”

  “The law states an orphan can remain until adulthood,” Lotta said. “You can’t just throw us out. The Kinderbureau would not allow it.”

  “They care only about paperwork,” Gassbeek snorted. “To them, you are nothing but names and numbers in a book. As long as the paperwork adds up, they will not look too closely. I can do whatever I please.”

  “But that’s illegal!” Lotta cried.

  “I will offer you one final chance at redemption,” the matron said, ignoring Lotta. “I will allow you to attend one more lineup. Whoever is not chosen during the next inspection will find themselves nameless and homeless.”

  “You can’t do this,” Egg pleaded. “We’ll starve, if we don’t freeze first.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought about that sooner.”

  “It could be weeks before the next lineup,” Lotta said, turning to the others. “Egg could paint some freckles on our faces, perhaps? We’ll just have to try harder.”

  Milou kept her eyes on the matron. She knew there was something else coming before the matron spoke. She could see it in the way Gassbeek’s mouth twitched in the corner. Milou looked at the footprints again. She realized then they were far too large to be a child’s and not pointy enough to be the matron’s. She also noticed there were two sets of prints.

  “Actually, Lotta liefje,” Gassbeek said. “The lineup will begin right now.”

  FOUR

  THE STRANGE SCENT OF oil mingled with the ashy smell of smoke as Gassbeek led them down the dark corridor toward the dining hall. Adopted or banished, they would all be leaving tonight. Milou’s parents would arrive one day and find her gone.

  Milou clasped her cat puppet over her heart like battle armor, pretending that the pulse she felt through it was its heartbeat returning, not just her own, pounding hard enough for the two of them. Would it be better to go with this new family, to live who-knew-where? Or should she allow herself to be banished and try to find her parents herself?

  She followed Gassbeek and the others meekly into the dining hall, where long, narrow tables lined the walls.

  “Here they are,” Gassbeek announced to the visitors that Milou still could not see beyond the matron’s tall form. “Kindjes, form a line.”

  A fire crackled at the far end of the room, and Milou wondered who these adopters might be, to warrant such a welcome from Gassbeek. The unexpected fire did not, however, explain the oily smell of smoke that hung in the air, tickling Milou’s nostrils unpleasantly.

  “Quickly now.” Gassbeek grabbed Milou’s arm and shoved her into place before spinning with a rustle of her silk dress toward the visitors. “The oldest orphans I have, as you requested.”

  With the matron now out of the way, Milou saw that two men stood beside the fireplace. The taller one was wearing a finely tailored gray suit, with a fur-trimmed overcoat and a tall top hat. His face was half-covered by a huge mustachio, which erupted from under his nose in two long curls and spread out toward his thick muttonchop sideburns. There were rings on almost every finger and a long tobacco pipe hanging from his mouth. A younger man, barely into adulthood by the looks of it, was dressed in simple black trousers and woolen coat. A bowler hat rested on his head, tipped down so that the top of his face was in shadow, leaving only a pointed chin on display.

  “At least she’s bettered our odds by keeping the little ones upstairs,” Lotta whispered. “We each have a twenty percent chance now.”

  “Kindjes,” the matron crooned. “This is Meneer Rotman.”

  She rolled the r in Rotman far longer than was necessary. Milou’s ears tingled, and she squeezed her cat puppet more tightly.

  “Goedenavond,” the man with the mustachio said, his voice a deep baritone. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances. My name is Bas Rotman, and this here is my apprentice, Pieter.”

  Pieter nodded his head once, his face still hidden, and his arms crossed behind his back. He did not speak, nor did he look up from the floor.

  “Say hallo,” Gassbeek cooed.

  Four croaked hallos sounded. Milou had never seen her friends look so worried before. Their expressions stabbed at her. If only she hadn’t angered the matron, they’d perhaps have had enough time to find families that loved them for who they were. They’d at least have a chance.

  The five of them stood, straight-backed and trembling, waiting for the matron to take out her clipboard and begin listing their sellable qualities, but Gassbeek merely crossed her arms. They would be getting no help from her, Milou realized. If Milou wanted to be adopted, she’d have to make it happen herself.

  “Meneer Rotman is a very wealthy sugar merchant,” Gassbeek said. “And he is looking for an heir to join him on his many travels aboard his ship.”

  In the flickering firelight, Milou saw her friends’ faces waver between hope and despair. Their hands reached out toward each other, forming a line of solidarity.

  A realization settled over her. It wouldn’t be right to take this one last opportunity for herself. They all deserved a fair chance at being adopted, of being happy. This was her chance to make things right by one of them.

  She had to do something.

  Something bold.

  “Good evening, Meneer Rotman,” Milou said, giving him a small curtsy.

  The others looked at her in surprise. The matron’s eyes narrowed, but Milou knew it didn’t matter if she angered Gassbeek further. The damage was already done.

  “We are honored to meet you,” Milou continued. “Might I introduce us all?”

  The merchant’s mustachio twitched. “That would be . . . delightful.”

  He took a long drag on his pipe, then blew a cloud of pipe smoke. As the smoke curled around them, Milou’s ears began to tingle again. She looked down as she rubbed them and noticed that her shadow seemed to be . . . quivering. She frowned, wafted the smoke away, and cleared her throat.

  “This is Lotta,” Milou said, pushing Lotta forward a step. “The cleverest girl in all of Amsterdam. She’s a mathematician and an engineer. She once made a telescope for Egg out of some old reading glasses and a metal pipe.”

  “It’s amazing what you can find in a canal,” Lotta said, beaming. “I found a working compass in there once too.”

  “Her parents were undoubtedly well-regarded scientists from Bavaria,” Milou continued. “It’s the only explanation for her cleverness. And with her extra fingers, there is no knot that she cannot tie or untie. She would make a fine merchant’s daughter, sir.”

  Rotman’s only response was more mustachio twitching and
a short nod. Behind him, Pieter shifted slightly on his feet, his gaze remaining downcast.

  Milou pushed Sem forward. “This is Sem. The kindest boy in all of Amsterdam. He always puts others before himself, and those ears of his are a testament to how good he is at listening. What he lacks in grace, he more than makes up for with his sewing skills. I’m convinced his parents are dressmakers from Paris who make magnificent haute couture designs out of the most mundane materials. He fixes all our clothing and once even gave me stitches when I split my chin open. He would make a fine son, sir, if you ask me.”

  “She’s being a little too complimentary,” Sem said quietly, his cheeks flushed. “I can fix clothes fairly well, though. And sails too, probably.”

  The matron clucked her tongue. Rotman’s eyes narrowed. He nodded again, and Milou stepped quickly over to Egg and nudged him forward.

  “Egbert is the most talented boy in all of Amsterdam,” she said. “He has drawn an entire map of the city on an old pillowcase, just from sitting on the roof. It is remarkable, and covers the north of the city, all the way from Centraal Station, the city docks, the Amstel river, and down to the watery flatlands of the polders to the south. No doubt he gets this talent from his parents, who were most likely traveling painters from the Far East. Surely a merchant like yourself would delight in having a son with such promising skills in cartography. He could help you explore the world.”

  Egg made a small noise, half giggle, half gasp, and Milou saw he was holding the corner of his shawl with a white-knuckled grip. He shot Milou a quick, grateful smile.

  Rotman took another deep puff on his pipe and blew out a large cloud of smoke that hit Milou right in the eyes. As she fanned the smoke away, she noticed her shadow elongating. It stretched across the floor until it hit the merchant’s sealskin boots.

  Milou frowned. Was it pointing at him?

  She looked behind her, but there was nothing there to cast such a shadow. Then she looked back down. The shadow was still there, wavering in the last strands of smoke, like a long shadowy finger pointing straight at Rotman’s toes. Her ears tingled so suddenly and sharply she let out a little gasp.