by Hana Tooke
Arno and Kaatje gasped at Lotta’s fingers. Sanne recoiled. They all turned their attention hastily to Fenna, who, to Milou’s surprise, held the blonde girl’s gaze with a steady one of her own. She did not, however, smile.
“Who is that?” Arno asked.
Milou turned to see Egg standing behind them at the canal’s edge. His head appeared from behind his map, and he pulled his shawl away from his face to offer them a small smile.
The polder children stared at him. Milou could almost hear the hinges of their jaws as they dropped.
“Where did Bram Poppenmaker find a child like that?” Sanne asked, not quietly in the slightest. “Clearly he’s not from Nederland.”
Egg’s smile disappeared; he hid once more behind his map. Milou’s anger flared.
“That’s our brother Egg. He’s a cartographer,” she said proudly, squaring her shoulders. “Sem, our other brother, is inside, making dolls.”
Sanne narrowed her eyes at Milou. “I suppose it does make sense that a man as peculiar as Meneer Poppenmaker would adopt an entire circus of freaks.” She grabbed her brother’s hand and turned away from them. “Come on, Arno, let’s go skate further down the canal.”
“Hey!” Milou yelled, ignoring the sudden prickling on her earlobes. She bent down and picked up a handful of snow from the canal bank, squashing it into a ball.
“Milou, don’t,” Lotta whispered.
Sanne turned. “What—”
Milou’s snowball caught her right in the face.
Sanne spluttered and gasped, scraping the snow from her face. She blinked at Milou with a mixture of surprise and fury. Milou’s ears tingled, but she didn’t regret what she’d done. She wouldn’t let anyone speak about her friends that way.
The two girls stared each other down again.
Then Arno giggled, and a snowball caught Kaatje’s chin, then one hit Lotta’s chest.
An eyeblink later, more were flying in every direction, hitting shoulders, heads, and legs, and punctuated by shrieks of delight. Even as Sanne started laughing and slinging snow at her friends, Milou stood rigid, her fury still gripping her tight. Something cold and hard hit her on the cheek.
“Hey—”
Milou suddenly found a snowball in her mouth instead of words.
She spat it out, coughing, and found Fenna grinning before her. Milou gathered a handful of snow from the side of the canal and launched it at Fenna’s head, but she ducked just in time. The snowball flew right over her and hit Lotta on the forehead instead.
“Oops,” Milou said.
Lotta charged for her, a wild grin on her face.
Milou flapped her arms in a panic trying to turn and run. She made it three desperate steps before her feet slipped beneath her. She flew forward and slid across the ice on her stomach for what felt like an infinity, snow spraying into her face.
On.
And on.
And on.
And on.
Her squeal of delight was cut short as she slammed into two adjacent lampposts.
“Oof!”
There were not usually lampposts in the middle of canals, as far as Milou was aware. Her eyes were blocked with snow and ice, so she reached out a hand and gasped when she realized the lampposts were both warm and seemed to be wearing trousers.
Milou pushed herself up to her knees, blinked snow from her eyelashes, and found herself face-to-shin with a tall figure, silhouetted by the bright winter sun. Her gaze followed the long lamppost legs up, noticing the outline of a tailcoat and a stiff, peaked cap. Milou’s own hat had fallen off, and as she reached down to pick it up, she noticed the figure’s boots: men’s boots, small, with rounded toes and a wide heel. Her heart leapt up her throat.
The spy.
SEVENTEEN
THE FIGURE LOOMED ABOVE her. As she struggled to her knees, Milou noticed silver buttons on the jacket, military style, and a belt wrapped around the middle with a baton wedged firmly in it. A uniform, she realized in horror.
“I’m so sorry . . . uh . . . Meneer,” Milou spluttered, staggering up onto her skates.
“I am not a Meneer,” said the tall figure in a stern, but decidedly female, voice.
“Oh, goedemiddag, Mevrouw,” she spluttered, her ears prickling steadily. “I’m so sorry I bumped into you.”
Milou looked down at the woman’s boots again. She couldn’t be a hundred percent certain, but they looked like a match for the prints she’d seen outside the house.
“That was a remarkable impression of a dancing octopus,” the uniformed woman said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Milou rubbed at her ears. “I, um—”
She blinked up at the woman, who gazed down at her with an amused expression. She wasn’t an old woman, perhaps in her early thirties, but her eyes did crinkle in the corners, and she had a thin streak of gray in the middle of her light-brown bangs. A large gold locket hung from her neck, and in the crook of her left elbow hung a wicker basket, its contents hidden beneath a double hatch lid. The woman arched a single eyebrow high up her forehead, and Milou realized she was gawping. She shook herself and held out a gloved hand.
“My name is Milou Poppenmaker. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
The woman’s raised eyebrow twitched. A hand clad in soft black leather shook Milou’s, firm and strong. Milou couldn’t help looking at the uniform again.
“Edda Finkelstein,” the woman said, tipping her peaked cap in greeting. “Polder warden for these parts. I’m sure your father has mentioned me.”
Polder warden.
Was that like a police officer?
Milou gulped down a mouthful of nervousness and stretched her smile even wider.
“Of course he’s mentioned you,” she said, her mind clunking like a broken clock. “He’s said such wonderful things about you, Mevrouw Frankenstein.”
The woman’s eyebrow rose higher.
“It’s Finkelstein. So, Milou Poppenmaker,” Edda Finkelstein said brightly. Milou knew a new question was coming. It was the woman’s unwavering eyebrow that told her: an eyebrow of curiosity. “Where has the elusive Bram Poppenmaker hidden himself away all these years? I’m dying to hear all about it.”
Milou was opening her mouth to spin her wild but convincing tale, when a warm, herby smell tickled at her nostrils. A growl thundered out from the vicinity of her belly button. The deep, rumbling type of growling that can only be made by the emptiest of stomachs.
Edda’s other eyebrow rose.
Milou felt a blush burn at her cheeks. “Pardon me,” she said, the belly grumble still rumbling on and on. “I’m afraid we were so excited about skating that we forgot to have lunch.”
With a final gurgle, the belly rumbling stopped. The herby smell lingered, making Milou feel suddenly, overwhelmingly dizzy.
The warden narrowed her eyes slightly. “You look vaguely familiar, Milou. Have I met you before?”
Yes, Milou wanted to say, you spied on us last night. That’s why I look familiar.
Instead, she smiled brightly and said, “I am Bram’s youngest daughter. No doubt that is why I look familiar.”
“I see,” Edda said, the Eyebrow of Curiosity rising once more. “And the other four, are they the long-lost offspring of Meneer Poppenmaker as well?”
Four. She knew exactly how many of them there were. It must have been her. Milou’s ears prickled again.
“Those are my best friends,” Milou said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I asked my father to adopt them.”
She summoned what she hoped was a confident smile, and held it in place as Edda Finkelstein cast a curious glance at the windmill. Milou took a calming breath in through her nose. If the polder warden had seen them assembling Puppet Papa, then surely she’d have arrested them by now?
“And where,
um, where is Liesel?” Edda asked, her smile tightening slightly.
“Traveling,” Milou said. “With her friend. She’s quite the adventurer.”
“Yes, of course.” Edda’s smile faltered and faded completely. Her gloved hand reached up to the locket, then lowered again.
Milou inhaled deeply to quell her nerves, but that warm, rich aroma was still in the air.
“Why are you dressed like a policeman?”
Milou started. She hadn’t heard Lotta skate up to them. Milou peeked behind her quickly to find that Fenna and Egg had both gone back indoors. Up on the balcony, Puppet Papa appeared to be looking at them, his head tilted toward the canal, face covered with a scarf.
“I’m dressed as a polder warden, actually,” Edda said, matching Lotta’s scrutinous expression.
“But you’re a woman.”
“Correct.”
“That’s impossible. They don’t let women join the force.”
“It’s improbable,” Edda said. “Not impossible.”
“How did you convince them? Were you a soldier once too? Have you—”
“This is Lotta,” Milou interrupted. “Lotta Poppenmaker.”
“You’re very curious, Lotta Poppenmaker. Tell me, is that oil I see on your hands? And a waistcoat over your dress?”
“It seems you’re also curious.” Lotta crossed her arms, but Milou could see a glint of awe shining in her friend’s eyes. “As you avoided my question by asking more questions.”
Edda smiled. “It seems there are lots of questions in the air today.” She patted the basket in her arms. “I made some food as a homecoming offering. How about we go inside? Your father can tell me all about his wild adventures.” Edda skirted around Milou. “The food won’t stay warm out in this cold.”
The woman’s legs were exceedingly long and quick. She was halfway toward the canal bank before Milou had even managed to turn and take a single step.
“No!” Milou cried. “Stop!”
A sharp warning prickled her ears, but Milou didn’t need her Sense to tell her she’d made a mistake. Edda stopped midstride, one leg already up on the bank, and turned. The Eyebrow rose once more.
“He’s contagious,” Lotta blurted.
“Contagious?” The Eyebrow of Curiosity rose higher. “Then why was he out here in the freezing cold?”
Milou shot Lotta a worried look.
“I have the situation perfectly in hand,” Lotta said confidently. “He’s wrapped up warm, and our brother Sem is up there with him.”
“And what ailment is it Bram is suffering from?”
“Bacterial tuberculosis,” Lotta said. “Or, as many laymen call it, consumption. He was seen by a fantastic microbiologist in Berlin who performed groundbreaking treatment to weaken the offending bacteria. We think he’s over the worst of it and should be well again come spring.”
Milou tried not to gawk. What was Lotta doing? What was she saying? Half the words didn’t even make sense.
“I don’t suppose you know what a microbiologist is, or the nature of bacteria,” Lotta continued animatedly, “but I assure you, a little fresh air will do him good.”
“It’s best you don’t come too close,” Milou interjected. “We wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
Edda’s mouth twitched again. “No, we wouldn’t want that at all.” She sighed, then lowered her eyebrow. “Well, I suppose you’d better take this. Perhaps it will help make Bram feel better.”
Edda opened the lid of the basket and held it out for Milou and Lotta to see. The smell was so intoxicating, Milou felt dizzy again. Beside her, Lotta made a low groan of longing.
“Smoked sausage with plenty of potatoes, some carrots, and an aubergine I bought at the market.” She slipped the basket from her elbow and handed it to Lotta. “This is far too much for me to eat alone; you may as well have it. I live just over that little bridge.” She pointed toward the copper-roofed farmhouse. “You can return the dishes to me tomorrow.”
Milou responded with another belly growl. Lotta’s stomach joined in. They both quickly wrapped their arms around their middles and peered in the direction Edda was pointing—at a small farmhouse, divided from their mill by a thin canal, a narrow field, and the huge, skeletal oak tree.
“Thank you,” Milou said. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Edda bowed in farewell, then set off across the icy canal in a lope so long-strided it would have made a giraffe jealous.
Milou turned to Lotta. “How did you—”
“I read that medical book last night. It’s fascinating. As is Mevrouw Finkelstein. A female polder warden. Isn’t she splendid?”
Milou’s ears tingled as she glanced back over her shoulder, to where a line of small, wide-heel footprints followed in Edda’s wake.
“Yes, splendidly troublesome.”
* * *
With the kitchen cleaned, the fire roaring, and Edda Finkelstein’s feast laid out on the Poppenmakers’ finest crockery, the children gathered around the kitchen table. Puppet Papa watched over them from the rocking chair, wrapped in a corduroy dressing gown, smiling his banana-shaped smile, as they stared at the food.
“It’s beautiful,” Sem said.
He started to sit down, but Milou put an arm out to stop him.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be eating this,” she said.
They all shot her an incredulous look.
Sem’s eyebrows crinkled. “Why on earth not?”
Milou waved her hand at the food. “It could be a trap.”
Egg laid his shawl on the back of his chair and sat down. “I doubt those carrots are going to jump up and drag us back to the Little Tulip.”
Milou was still unconvinced. Worry gnawed at her, despite her eerily unprickly ears. “What if she’s just trying to gain our trust so she can hand us over to the authorities and claim a reward?”
“If she had seen anything incriminating last night, we’d be back in Amsterdam by now,” Lotta said. “And anyway, you don’t know for certain it was her at the window last night.”
“What if the food’s poisoned?”
“Then we’ll die incredibly happy,” Sem said, sitting down beside Egg.
“But what if—”
Egg held up a hand to silence her. “What if we just ate this before it all goes cold?”
As if in answer, all five stomachs gurgled in unison, like an entire orchestra of drainpipes.
Sitting themselves down on velvet chairs borrowed from the theater, the others began to pile their plates high with food. Milou reluctantly sat down too. Fenna took her plate and filled it with sausage, carrots, potatoes, and a strange purplish vegetable she hadn’t seen before.
Then her friends dived straight in, slurping, gulping, and scraping cutlery.
Milou stabbed at a piece of pink sausage. It wasn’t gray like the occasional scraps of meat they’d been fed at the orphanage. She bit into the end of it, hot juice spilling all over her mouth, and groaned in relief. Warmth radiated from her scalp to her shoulders, and an unfamiliar sense of calm washed over her. Any nefarious plot Edda Finkelstein might have had in mind by offering them this food was worth it for the unrivaled joy of the flavors now dancing across her tongue.
“I could eat a hundred mouthfuls of this,” Egg said, holding up his forkful of the aubergine. “Even if it does taste suspiciously of eyeball.”
Fenna held a strip of sausage up in the air, then grinned in rapturous delight when Mozart spiraled down and took it from her fingers, nipping at them as he did. Fenna sucked her finger where the owl’s sharp beak had caught her and turned back to her food. With a muffled hooOOooOOoo, Mozart flew in circles back into the shadows.
Soon, their plates were licked clean and the five of them were leaning back in their chairs, rubbing their rounded bellies.
Lotta slurped
at all twelve fingers, then licked at the sauce that had dribbled out each side of her mouth. “Holy Gouda, that was good.”
“This is what it’s like then,” Sem said.
“What what’s like?” Egg asked sleepily.
“Being a normal family.”
For the first time since meeting Edda, Milou smiled.
MILOU’S BOOK OF THEORIES
Gossip
Useful intelligence:
They speak as if Bram and Liesel lived in the windmill alone: no mother or baby mentioned.
Bram was seen leaving the windmill one night, in December, under a full moon.
Bram refused to sell the windmill.
A cloaked figure was often seen sneaking around the mill at night.
Liesel was a “fair-haired beauty” who hung around with“undesirables.”
A “huge, beastly dog” used to terrorize the neighborhood. Could this have been a werewolf? If Sanne’s parents are as ridiculous as she is, I bet they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a large dog and a werewolf.
Nonsense:
Rumors about plague, ghosts, and criminal activity.
Sanne and her silly, smirking face.
Sanne’s suggestion that Egg doesn’t belong here.
What other reason would my father have to refuse to sell the mill, other than because he intends to return one day?
Perhaps they really have just gone traveling?
Or did the werewolf chase them away, despite my sister having saved its life? Why would she save its life? Perhaps, like Fenna, she is just too kind-hearted to see any creature come to harm. Maybe my parents are still hunting it down.
EIGHTEEN
THE CHILDREN WOKE BEFORE dawn, and ate leftovers for breakfast on the windmill’s balcony, all ten legs dangling over the balcony’s edge and all five sets of shoulders wrapped in thick wool blankets. Afterward, they sat and watched the sun rise over the seemingly never-ending landscape. Birdsong drifted up to them in sweet trills, and, with freshly licked lips, Fenna began to tentatively whistle each trill back to them. Sem was stitching dolls, Egg was drawing, and Lotta was gazing happily across the polder, her legs bedecked in newly fashioned trousers inspired by the polder warden’s. Mozart nestled in Fenna’s cloak, sleeping soundly.
