by Hana Tooke
Bram nodded grimly, and sighed. “Then you should stay here.”
“And you?”
She saw his answer in the pained frown that creased his brow. Milou could tell that looking at her reminded him of the daughter he’d lost, and the young man he felt had stolen her from him; that it wasn’t just being back at the windmill that threatened to break his heart all over again each day—and that he couldn’t survive doing anything less than forgetting it all.
Bram Poppenmaker wasn’t ready to remember.
Perhaps he never would be.
Milou reached up and took her coffin basket into her arms.
“Goodbye, Opa.”
Bram ran the back of a gloved hand down her cheek.
“Goodbye, Miloutje. For now.”
She gave him a small nod, then turned toward the mill.
Her friends were already outside, their faces agog with disbelief.
Egg shook his head. “Are you—”
Lotta blinked. “Aren’t you—”
Sem opened his mouth to speak, then hiccuped once.
Milou placed her coffin on the ground. “I couldn’t leave. This is my home. And you’re my—”
Her words were cut off as the four of them leapt forward and smothered her in a crushing embrace.
“Family,” Fenna said, somewhere beyond the tufts of hair in Milou’s face.
Milou extracted herself from the huddle and smiled at them, pleased to find her stomach was no longer twisting and churning. She’d made the right choice, she knew.
“Yes, family.”
Peering behind her, she saw Bram staring at the five of them. He gave her a small smile and an even smaller nod, then clucked his tongue at his horse. In a rattle of wheels and clatter of hoofbeats, the carriage pulled slowly away from the gates of Poppenmill.
Bram Poppenmaker was gone.
Again.
FORTY-FOUR
MILOU SAT ON THE lowest branch of the oak tree and watched as Bram Poppenmaker’s carriage rattled down the canal road. Her friends sat beside her, the tips of their noses glowing in the lantern light that still dotted each branch. As the carriage finally merged into the nighttime gloom and disappeared from sight entirely, Milou let out a long, shaky breath. She pushed her cat puppet to her chest, right over the pocket watch, until she could just about feel its heartbeat tick-tocking in tandem with hers.
“What now?” she whispered, looking up to the constellations for an answer.
Instead, it was Sem who responded. “Sleep.”
Fenna yawned loudly.
“I’m going to get the mill working again this spring,” Lotta announced. “I haven’t asked Edda yet, but I wonder if we could get it to generate more electricity for the theater.”
Sem perked slightly. “I’ve had some more thoughts about puppet making. Bram’s designs are lovely, but I have ideas of my own.”
“We should make more of Fenna’s whistling too,” Lotta said. “Imagine it: stories, puppets, light shows, and our very own bird songstress.”
Fenna let out a little giggle, her eyes twinkling in the lantern light.
“As wondrous as that sounds,” Milou said seriously, “Egg and I have important shawl-identifying business to attend to first. It’ll take us a while to knock on every door in Amsterdam.”
“It’s a good thing I have a map of the area already,” Egg said from near the tree’s trunk. “We can cross each house off as we go.”
Milou couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the smile in the stretchy sound of his words.
“This place is a dream,” Lotta said, kicking her trouser-clad legs happily. “I never want to leave. There are so many possibilities, so much to do.”
“Right now, I really do just want to dream,” Sem said sleepily. “For a week at minimum.”
A door creaked open behind them, and Edda emerged from her farmhouse. She walked down the stone path toward them.
“I suppose you want the five of us tucked up in bed,” Lotta said with a sigh, leaping down from the branch. “It’s very late. Way past our bedtime.”
“Um.” The clock maker blinked. “Yes . . . I’m sure that’s very sensible, but actually, I’d like to talk to Milou first, if I may?”
Edda directed her question to Milou, her expression a little cautious.
Milou nodded.
Egg and Fenna hopped down. Sem toppled over, land-ing on one leg. Lotta caught him before he wobbled over completely. Fingers to her lips, Fenna whistled sharply, and Mozart swooped down onto her shoulder from one of the upper branches. The five of them disappeared over the bridge and into Poppenmill, becoming hazy silhouettes behind the gauze curtains: a puppet show of stumbling tiredness.
Edda stood silently for a moment beside the flower garden, her expression hidden in the shadows. Her shoulders heaved once, heavily, then she scrambled up to sit next to Milou. “I never was very good at climbing this thing,” she huffed as she settled herself on the branch, looking down as if it were on a cliff edge. “Liesel and Thibault never teased me about it, and they’d even sit down here with me for a while, but as soon as I went in to bed, they’d clamber to the very top to watch the stars.”
“I know,” Milou said with a small smile. “I found their names up there.”
An awkward moment passed. The wind howled.
“You saw us through the window that night, didn’t you?” Milou asked.
Edda smiled. “I did. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but I can assure you, the sight of five children building a fake father was certainly not it.” She let out a big sigh. “I’m sorry if my nosing around worried you.” She went quiet, her expression unreadable. “You really don’t like me, do you?”
“I didn’t,” Milou admitted. She grimaced. “But mainly because I thought you might be a werewolf.”
The Eyebrow of Curiosity arched like a pulled bowstring, then Edda burst out laughing.
Milou groaned. “I know it’s absurd.”
“Oh, Milou,” she said. Her chuckles subsided, and she sighed heavily, turning serious. “I think you’re absurdly magnificent. All five of you. The past few weeks, watching what you children have achieved. The tenacity of it. The utter brilliance of it.” She smiled warmly. “This world needs more absurdity like yours. Please don’t ever change.”
Milou began to smile, then bit her lip.
Perhaps Edda was right. They had achieved a lot together, but that didn’t stop her from worrying that perhaps her friends wouldn’t have been put in quite so much danger if it hadn’t been for her wild imagination and silly theories.
“You being a werewolf is not even the most absurd thing I’ve ever convinced myself of.”
She took her Book of Theories out of her sleeve and handed it to the clock maker. Edda smiled as she read the first few entries, then she closed the notebook, gave it back, and reached into her own jacket pocket.
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you, actually.” She pulled a piece of card from the pocket and held it over her chest. “As I said, I haven’t spoken directly to Thibault in twelve years. I’ve certainly not heard of any werewolf-hunting or secret spying, I’m afraid, but he does have a sense of wild adventure in him. Just like you.”
She handed the card over.
“What is it?”
“A photograph he sent me a couple of years ago. No return address, of course, but I suppose it was his way of letting me know he’s not forgotten me. You can have it, if you like.”
Milou lifted a lantern from above her head and held it closer to see better.
Her breath hitched as she realized what she was seeing. She blinked a few times, peering closer. The image remained the same.
It was an air balloon.
It hadn’t taken to the air yet but seemed like it was about to launch. Hanging beneath the r
ound black balloon wasn’t a gondola, however, but a simple woven basket. She squinted at the photo, realizing it was set against a snowy landscape. Two figures could just about be seen inside the basket. One had a mass of midnight-dark hair and thick goggles over his eyes. The other was a large wolfhound.
She turned the photograph over. There was only a single line scribbled on the back:
You should see the night sky up here.
Edda leaned in, flipped the photograph over again, then tapped the corner of the picture. There, in scratchy handwriting, were three words and four numbers:
Svalbard, Arctic Circle, 1890
Milou’s scalp tingled and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I wonder if he befriended any polar bears.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if that silly wolfhound of his managed to eat one whole.”
Milou jolted. “Do you think he’s ever been to Java?”
Edda shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Thibault about it all one day. I’m sure you have many questions for him.”
“Yes, I do,” Milou admitted wearily, tucking the photograph into her Book of Theories. “At least seven very big questions. But for now, I just want to do gloriously normal, family things. Like asking Sem to teach me how to ride that bicycle, watching Fenna train Mozart, helping Lotta make electricity, and Egg . . . well, he needs my help the most, and I intend to do everything I can for him.”
“And Bram?”
“My grandfather knows where I am, if he wants to see me. And my father, well, perhaps he should be the one to find me. It’s up to them if they want to remember the past or not, but I’ll remember my mother with all my heart until the day I die. And you can help me.”
“I certainly can,” Edda said, smiling. “I have many stories about her.”
Milou jumped to the ground and held up a hand to help Edda down. The clock maker stumbled only slightly less than Sem had, grabbing the tree for support as she slid down.
“Ow,” Edda said, sucking her fingers. “Splinter.” She looked at the offending part of the tree. “Oh.”
Milou followed her gaze. Carved elegantly into the trunk, next to where Egg had been sitting mere minutes ago, were five new names:
Fenna
Sem
Lotta
Egg
Milou
Her heart fluttered. All thoughts of air balloons, polar bears, and wild adventures disappeared, replaced with a warm bubble of contentedness that spread right through her.
Milou really was home.
It might not be perfect, or conventional, but it was hers.
They were hers, and she was theirs.
“Come on.” Edda gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I hear it’s way past your bedtime.”
They started back toward the mill, but the clock maker stopped after just a few steps and frowned. For the first time since Milou had met her, Edda looked completely puzzled.
“What . . . I mean . . . how . . .” Edda shook herself. “Should I make you all some warm milk first? And read you a bedtime story? Is that . . . is that what I’m supposed to do?”
“Yes,” replied Milou, grinning wolfishly. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
EPILOGUE
ON A CRISP, AMBROSIA-SCENTED night, an owl pa-trolled its kingdom with sharp-eyed diligence. Its mismatched wings sliced through the star-strewn sky as it swooped and soared over fields and canals. Spring had been slowly but steadily tiptoeing its way across the land, breathing color into the bleakest corners, teasing tentative tulip shoots out from the soil, and whistling soft lullabies to the three fluffy, newly hatched owlets snuggled in their oak-top nest.
The polder was emerging from a long, cold, dark slumber, yawning out new life, new wonder, new beginnings.
Even the crescent moon that night seemed warmer and brighter than ever before. And its shimmering yellow glow illuminated two very dissimilar, unfamiliar sets of footprints in the softening dirt, which the owl’s keen eyes tracked with ease.
The longer and thinner set led, determinedly, in a ruler-straight line down the road. The other, rounder set wove drunkenly in and out of the first, drifting now and again toward the canal edge, then toward a gate post, then back again, then off again, and so on.
The footprint trail ended at the base of the owl’s own leafy oak tree. With a squawk of territorial fury, the owl spiraled toward its nest and peered down, round-eyed and sharp-beaked, to see just who was intruding so brazenly. It let out a shrill screech of warning at the man lurking ominously on the ground below, drenched from head to toe in the tree’s deep shadows.
The lurker in question, however, paid the owl no notice. He stood, stiff-backed and unmoving, watching the windmill in deathly silence, his face lost to the darkness.
If the owl had been in any way knowledgeable about human fashion, it would have noticed that the man wore a long Parisian-style jacket and a top hat unquestionably designed in London. His gloves were made of Peruvian wool and his boots of Bavarian leather. Around his neck was a silk neckerchief, decorated with a delicate batik pattern, and, in one gloved hand, he gripped a crumpled poster.
If the owl had been able to read, it would have noticed that upon this poster, the man had circled, in bright red ink, four words:
Your
Daughter
Is
Back
Unaware of the eyes bearing down on him from above, the man reached up to take his hat off, revealing hair that was as dark as midnight and eyes that were almost black. In all the years that he had been traveling the world, not once had he considered ever coming back to this place. It was nothing but pain to him, or so he had thought.
His shoulders heaved up and then down as he watched the six hazy silhouettes behind the kitchen’s gauze curtains: a puppet show of familial bliss, steaming mugs, and cuddling bodies, so at odds with what he had been expecting.
There was a scraping noise from behind the tree, and a huge gray wolfhound emerged from the gloom to stand beside him. Its jaws were wrapped around the head of the stone gargoyle it had torn from a front gate, gnawing contentedly at it. The man remained silent and still, brooding and yet, also, bewitched by what he was seeing.
As if sensing her human’s despair, the wolfhound dropped the gargoyle and howled, long and soulful, up toward the yellow slice of moon. It pierced through the quiet, startled the family of owls in the branches above them, and sent a single wet tear sliding down the man’s left cheek, which curved under his chin and then dripped down onto his boot.
The howl ran on, and a face appeared at the windmill’s kitchen window. A small, heartbreakingly familiar nose pressed right up against the glass, and eyes just like his own scanned the darkness. As the girl rubbed frantically at her ears, the man stepped tentatively out of the shadows toward her, beckoning the howling wolfhound to follow.
“Come, Andromeda,” he said, in a voice as rough as an arctic storm. “It’s time we remembered.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It really did take a village to raise this book-child of mine, and I therefore have a tremendously long list of people to whom I owe gratitude (get ready for the Dunglish).
First of all, my infinitely wonderbaar agent, Jenny Savill, who took these five little orphans on in their infancy and provided me with endless wisdom and encouragement to raise them properly. I’d also like the thank everyone else at Andrew Nurnberg Associates for championing this book and working so hard to find it a home with all my wonderful international publishers.
My editors on both sides of the pond: Naomi Colthurst, Kendra Levin, and Maggie Rosenthal. Hartelijk bedankt for helping me shape this story, solve its never-ending plot holes, and for generally being a joy to work with. Dank u to the entire Puffin & Viking teams, who have welcomed me into the PRH family and made this whole experience truly magisch.
In particular, huge dankje wel to Stephanie Barrett, Janet Pascal, Jane Tait, Roz Hutchinson, Lottie Halstead, Lucy Upton, Kat Baker, Zosia Knopp, and Andrea Kearney. And to Ayesha Rubio, for bringing my characters and setting to life in her prachtige illustrations and cover art.
I also owe enormous dankbaarheid to the entire MA Writing for Young People Community. The tutors: Elen Caldecott, Julia Green, David Almond, Steve Voake, Janine Amos, Jo Nadin, and Luce Christopher. Thank you for providing unrivalled wisdom, inspiration and support. And a hele grote thank you to C.J. Skuse, for being the first one to see potential in this story and encouraging me to drop all else and crack on with writing it.
My writing kameraden: Lucy Cuthew, who not only has the most beautiful hair, but also the sharpest eyes, kindest words, and endless plot-fixing cleverness. Wibke Brueggeman, for the bleary-eyed, caffeine-and-twix-fuelled writing sessions that got us both through our first drafts. Yasmin Rahman, who hates everything about the genres I write but reads my work (somewhat) enthusiastically, nonetheless. I’d never say this to her face, but she’s pretty wonderful. Nizrana Farook, for reading an early draft and pointing out all the (owl-related) tangents I had gone off on. Sophie Kirtley, Alex English, Sue Bailey, Rachel Huxley, Kate Mulligan, all my workshop pals, Team SWAG (you know who you are)—I feel so lucky to have you all.
Rachel Betts, my all-time favourite Dutchie, who has been pulling my hair and cheering me on/up since we were in kindergarten. Vera Tooke: book research assistant, fact-fudging coconspirator, and de echte beste moeder in de hele wereld. My much taller siblings, for only ever looking down on me in the physical sense—you made writing about sibling bonds much easier, so dankie dankie! And my father, who provided me with endless weird-spiration growing up, which I can now channel into all my stories.
Dylan: love of my life and chef of my dinners (the two being only “coincidently” connected). I’m not sure there are words adequate enough. I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am now without you. And Felix: my bluntest critic, fiercest supporter, and the funniest creature in this universe. Thank you for making me laugh every single day.
