The Unadoptables

by Hana Tooke

  “Heed my warning,” Puppet Papa growled. He raised his hands up in front of him, as if he were ready to throttle Rotman. “Or I will crush your skull and pull your brains out through your nose.”

  Milou watch Rotman’s hand twitch. She would have laughed, if not for the fact that Fenna was still trapped beneath that cruel blade of his.

  “I’ll cut you open before you have a chance,” Rotman said, but his voice trembled as much as his mustachio.

  Milou kept her eyes fixed on the blade, noticing with silent glee that Rotman’s hand was lowering. She shared a pointed look with the others. With the adults no longer looking her way, she used her eyes to indicate that they should move soon to free Fenna.

  “Who . . . who are you?” Rotman yelled, squinting at Puppet Papa.

  “Your greatest nightmare . . .”

  The blade lowered a fraction more, and Milou felt a gentle tingling in her ears. It ran down the back of her shoulders and gave her a nudge of encouragement.

  “Now,” Milou mouthed to the others.

  Sem swung his leg; it connected with the back of Rotman’s knee, and the merchant tipped forward. At the same moment, Fenna twisted at an impossible angle, sliding out of his loosened grip as if she were made of water. She tucked and rolled out of reach. Lotta staggered over and threw the contents of a mug into Rotman’s face, just as Milou brought the candlestick down on his knife-wielding hand, sending the blade clattering to the ground.

  She kicked the knife under the table as Rotman swayed and rubbed at his eyes. When his gaze met hers, he roared in fury and strode toward Milou with deadly intent. He had made it only two steps before Egg appeared on the table behind the merchant and brought the record book down hard on his head.

  Rotman crumpled, landing on his stomach.

  It was over within a few hammering heartbeats.

  “Did I kill him?” Egg squeaked.

  Rotman let out a muffled groan in response.

  Edda pushed Gassbeek into a chair. The matron squawked in indignation but remained seated as the clock maker grabbed some puppet string from the table and began tying the merchant’s hands behind his back.

  “You did not kill him,” Edda said. “But he will wish he was dead when he wakes up. I intend to make sure he is locked in the darkest cell in all of Amsterdam, with nothing but rats and fleas to keep him company.”

  Speelman sat up, blinking furiously. “What’s happening?” she asked. She looked down at Rotman and gasped. “How—”

  Gassbeek gave a muffled squawk behind her tea-towel gag, her expression pained and defeated.

  Milou, however, was staring at Puppet Papa, who was now slumped once more into his chair. Two white gloves appeared around the edge of the stairwell door, pushing it open. The cowled figure Milou had seen earlier stepped into the room, face still hidden in deep shadow.

  The white gloves reached up and lowered the hood.

  Milou’s heart stopped dead.

  It was a man she had never seen before, yet she knew him immediately.

  He looked . . . like Liesel’s portrait.

  He had a potato-shaped face and one eye slightly larger than the other. Two plum-sized ears stuck out of the side of his head. And his hair . . .

  His hair was the color of a sky-burnt sunset.

  Milou couldn’t speak. Her mouth was as dry as grave dirt, and her chest felt as if it were being crushed.

  “Bram Poppenmaker?” Sem gasped.

  The man was silent for what seemed like an age, his eyes boring down at Milou and his cheek twitching in annoyance. And then, with a low and disconcerting voice, he spoke.

  “Indeed.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  MILOU REALIZED SHE WAS biting the inside of her lip when the coppery taste of blood curled around her tongue. Her father was standing right there in front of her. He’d seen her message and come back.

  She made a step toward him, wanting to wrap her arms around him, but stopping as she felt a sharp pinch on her left ear.

  Why was he not overjoyed to see her?

  Why was he . . . glowering?

  “Excuse me,” Speelman said, pushing through the five of them to get to Bram. “Meneer Poppenmaker. On behalf of the Kinderbureau, I apologize that these orphans have intruded on your property, stolen your identity, created a cotton copy of you, and caused general pandemonium. I shall see to it that they are suitably reprimanded, once I work out what to do with them—”

  Bram Poppenmaker turned the full force of his glower onto the Kinderbureau agent, silencing her instantly.

  “I want to hear from this pandemonium of Poppenmakers myself,” he said. “I want to know why they saw fit to use my name, and my daughter, to drag me back here.”

  Milou noticed his voice cracked slightly. There was sadness leaking from beneath that angry glare; she could see it clearly, even though he was trying to keep it hidden.

  “Bram,” Edda said. “Perhaps we could all sit down and discuss this calmly.”

  “Is this your doing, Finkelstein?” Poppenmaker said, his words biting the air between them. “You seem to be in on it all. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “It had nothing to do with Edda,” Milou found herself saying. “It was all me.”

  Bram’s gaze bore through her. “And who, exactly, are you?”

  “My name is Milou Po—” She stopped, trying to swallow the lump in her throat, but it wouldn’t budge. A gentle tingle tickled her neck. “I am Milou Poppenmaker,” she said with a confidence she didn’t truly feel. “That is who I am.”

  Bram cocked his head slightly. “Is that so?”

  This was it. The moment she had been hoping for. The answers she craved, needed, were just a few moments away. And yet, Bram Poppenmaker barely even acknowledged her.

  “Milou,” she repeated slowly, waiting for him to show any indication of recognizing her. “It’s me, Milou.”

  “And what are you doing in my windmill, Milou Poppenmaker?”

  The bite to his words made Milou flinch. Why was he pretending not to know who she was?

  “It’s a long story—”

  “It seems you’re rather good at telling stories.” He set Puppet Papa aside and sat down on the rocking chair, crossing his legs and then his arms. “So why don’t you tell me exactly how you came to be in my windmill.”

  “I grew up in the Little Tulip Orphanage in Amsterdam,” she began. “I was left on the roof . . .”

  His gaze remained cold and fixed on her. If he now realized who she was, he was doing a very good job of not showing it. A tiny flutter of doubt settled in her. Still, her ears tingled softly, urging her to continue.

  “That was twelve years ago . . .”

  Still no response.

  “In my basket was a cat puppet, made by you.”

  The tiniest frown creased his brow, but still he didn’t speak or acknowledge that it was he who had left her there.

  Anger surged through Milou. Her ears prickled in warning, but she ignored it.

  “I followed the coordinates you left for me. They led me right to that tree of yours.”

  He blinked. That was all.

  “I found your name, and my mother’s, carved up on the highest branch. I found the handkerchief with the rings . . . Why are you pretending you don’t know me? You know full well who I am, seeing as you abandoned me and never returned!”

  Milou didn’t realize she was shouting until she saw him flinch.

  “I waited twelve years for you,” she said, quieter this time but just as resentful. “I spent every single morning staring out the window, wondering if that would be the day you came back for me. And then, when you didn’t, I thought perhaps you needed me to find you. I dreamed of you. I wrote down every little detail, every little clue, hoping to work out how I could find you. And here I am—”r />
  Her voice caught. Tears burned a path down her cheeks.

  “You had another daughter,” she whispered. “Did you love Liesel more? Is that why you left me?”

  She didn’t know what else it could be. This was not how she had expected her reunion with her father to go. All these years of waiting, wondering, wishing—she had never considered she’d be met with this cold, hard look he wore, and his insistence on pretending he had no idea who she was.

  “Do you even realize what it was like in that orphanage?” she continued when he still didn’t respond. It infuriated her. “The matron was cruel. We were worked until our fingers cracked. We slept in cold rooms, in beds barely big enough for one, let alone two or three. She was going to sell us. Do you not care about any of that?”

  Bram Poppenmaker blinked again. He opened his mouth to respond, but Milou cut him off.

  “Please don’t pretend you don’t know who I am. All I want . . . all I’ve ever wanted . . . is answers.”

  “Milou . . .” Bram sighed, and now, finally he looked sorry. “I am not your father.”

  Milou blinked.

  “You’re lying. You’re . . . you must be . . . My baby blanket,” she mumbled. “It’s velvet, just like your cloak. You stitched my name onto it, I know you did. And . . . and my puppet. You made it. I must be your daughter!”

  She looked at him, searching his face for any hint of dishonesty, but she couldn’t see any. His glower had softened, replaced with a new emotion that turned Milou’s insides into a maelstrom of anguish.

  He pitied her.

  “But—”

  Her words clogged her throat as she studied his features again. If she squinted, which she did just then, she thought that maybe, just maybe, their noses had the same rounded tip, but his was much longer. And his eyes were the brightest blue, not nearly black. And that red hair . . .

  He looked nothing like her.

  “I’m not your father, Milou,” he repeated softly. “I’m sorry, but that is the simple truth of it. My wife, Annaliese, died many years before you were born. When Liesel was not much younger than you, in fact.”

  His words echoed around her head, and it felt as if she had fallen down a well. Even though her mind was insisting it was just a cruel lie—it had to be—her heart could see the truth of it in his eyes. He wasn’t lying.

  Bram Poppenmaker was not her father.

  “I had only one child,” Bram said quietly. “And I loved her very much. I would never have given her up. Liesel was everything to me.”

  Milou’s trembling stopped, and her ear tips turned to ice. “Liesel was—?”

  Bram’s face crumpled. “Liesel is dead.”

  FORTY

  MILOU’S HEART DIDN’T BREAK, it shattered. The tingling at her ears fell deathly still. An anguished cry filled the room. Milou turned to find Edda had slumped into the chair beside Gassbeek, her face completely pale and her eyes squeezed closed.

  “Liesel . . . she’s . . . ?” The polder warden’s voice cracked at the edges. “She’s dead?”

  “Yes.” Bram’s expression hardened again. “No thanks to that cousin of yours.”

  Edda’s eyes snapped open, filled with pain and fury all at once. “He loved her!”

  “He killed her!”

  The room fell silent. Eyebrows either furrowed or raised high, and it seemed like everyone had sucked in a startled, collective breath as Bram’s words settled over them.

  “No.” The polder warden scowled. “He would never harm her. How did she die?”

  “Consumption.” Bram sighed. “The very same illness that took her mother.”

  Edda’s scowl deepened. “How on earth can you blame that on—”

  “She was supposed to be in bed, resting. I came back from Amsterdam late one night, only to see that unscrupulous cousin of yours hurrying away from the mill—even though I had forbidden his visits. I found Liesel slumped beneath the tree outside, paler than a ghost and shaking like a frightened mouse. A fever set in . . . It didn’t get any better, no matter how much I tried—” He stared down at his gloved hands. “She died a week later, the day before her nineteenth birthday, in my arms.”

  Milou felt heartbroken. It didn’t matter that Liesel wasn’t actually her sister, as she’d believed. Not when she’d spent the last few weeks dreaming of what it would be like to meet her, to love her and be loved by her. They’d had so much in common, after all. Milou felt as if she had known Liesel, had already loved her.

  “She’s really gone?” Edda asked, her voice ragged. “She’s been dead for twelve years—and you never thought to tell me? You let me think she’d just . . . left me.” Edda was shaking, tears spilling down both cheeks. “Where is she?” she asked Bram. “Where did you bury her?”

  Bram was silent for a moment, looking beyond the polder warden. He let out a long breath. “She’s with her mother, of course.”

  Edda paled, her head snapping toward the window. Milou followed their gaze, to where the oak tree was framed perfectly in the center of the window.

  “The flower garden,” she whispered, understanding dawning on her. “You were tending to Mevrouw Poppen-maker’s grave in Liesel’s absence. That’s why you were always under the tree.”

  Edda wiped a tear. “Liesel always said a flower garden was much more apt than a cold headstone. I just . . . I didn’t want her to come back to find it overgrown or worse, barren. Little did I realize that I’ve spent the last twelve years tending to her grave too—”

  Milou realized she’d been very, very wrong about the polder warden.

  She hadn’t hated Liesel. She’d loved Liesel.

  It was written plainly over every inch of her anguished expression.

  “You were friends with Liesel?” Milou asked Edda. “Was that why you’ve been loitering around here? Were you trying to find out what happened to her?”

  Edda nodded. “She was the best friend I’ve ever had. The only one, really. When my family first moved here from Strasbourg, she didn’t stare at us like we didn’t belong. She didn’t care that we were different. But then she just vanished. I was hurt and angry, that she would leave without explanation, as if I meant nothing to her—not even a postcard. When months, then years passed, I bolted the mill’s gates and refused to even look at it. And then the five of you turned up and brought it all back. And now I know—”

  Silence fell heavily once more.

  Milou’s head was spinning.

  “Liesel was stronger-willed than even you and I put together,” Edda said finally, staring hard at Bram. “If she left her sickbed, she’d have done it by her own volition. I realize losing her must have broken your heart, but there’s no use in blaming someone whose only crime was to love your daughter. And then punishing me for it, too.”

  “Theodora Tenderhart,” Lotta said suddenly. “Was Liesel writing about herself? Did she know she was going to die?”

  Bram nodded.

  “She would have liked your ending,” he said, smiling ruefully. “And she loved the puppet theater. Oh, how she loved it! Your show would have delighted her.”

  “Yes,” Edda said, smiling slightly. “It really would have.”

  Fresh tears spilled from the polder warden’s eyes. After another tense few heartbeats, she got to her feet. It looked like she was trying very hard not to cry. She faced the other children.

  “Come on,” she said, pulling Gassbeek up to her feet and nodding disdainfully at Rotman’s still-prone figure. In all that had just happened, Milou had nearly forgotten about them. “Let’s get these two reprobates into Speelman’s carriage, shall we? I’ll need to deliver them to the prison soon. Let’s give Bram and Milou a few minutes to talk in peace.”

  Gassbeek made indignant protests, muffled by the tea towel, as Edda dragged her to her feet. Rotman was still unconscious. It took all four chi
ldren to lift him, one limb each, and carry him out the door. Speelman tutted once, shot a sympathetic look in Milou’s direction, then followed them outside.

  The kitchen door was slammed shut by the wind, and Bram and Milou were alone.

  Milou sat on the rocking chair opposite him, tucked her knees under her chin, and clutched them tightly. She didn’t know what to say. Her ears tingled softly but constantly.

  None of this felt right.

  She couldn’t have come all this way for nothing.

  But if Bram wasn’t her father, who was?

  Who left her the watch, and the coordinates, and the puppet?

  And why did they lead her here, of all places?

  “Liesel—” Bram began, then took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “Do you know, I haven’t said her name aloud since she—”

  A hot tear rolled into the corner of Milou’s mouth; partly for Bram’s sad story, partly for the fact that everything she had ever believed in had just been torn from her. Even the sister she had spent the last few weeks pining for.

  Bram lifted one of Puppet Papa’s limp arms and smiled. “This is just the kind of madcap ruse Liesel would have come up with. You’ve got a fine imagination; I’ll give you that. It was her last, dying wish that I fill that theater with her stories, so that she could live on through them.”

  “You promised her you wouldn’t stop the puppet shows?” Milou asked, glowering at the puppet maker. “So why did you leave?”

  “Because my heart cannot bear to be here,” Bram said. “This place . . . there are too many memories of her—and her mother. Every item in this mill is a memory that hurts too much to hold on to. I left with nothing except the clothes on my back and a few boxes of boring work documents. Just sitting here, I feel like my heart is shattering all over again.”

  Milou’s ears tingled again, more insistently this time.

  There had to be something she’d missed.

  Something to make sense of it all.