The Unadoptables Read online

  This tree must have heard at least a century’s worth of secrets.

  Maybe, just maybe, it had a secret only for her.

  Lotta must have been right about the coordinates after all; Milou’s parents wanted her to find this tree, she was certain of it.

  Her ears tingled as if in agreement.

  Holding the lantern up to the gnarled bark, Milou made a lap of the tree’s trunk, running her fingers over it. Halfway around it, she found her first clue.

  Claw marks.

  They were hard to make out since moss had grown over them in places, meaning they must have been there for quite a long time, but Milou was certain they were the same as the ones on her coffin and the ones in Edda’s workshop. She spread her fingers out over the marks, their size confirming her suspicions.

  Her heart racing, Milou glanced back at the polder warden’s house, which was dark and still. Edda was definitely connected to all this somehow. Whatever role she’d played in the Poppenmakers’ disappearance, Milou would find out.

  Setting the lantern on a branch above her, Milou stepped onto the flower garden wall and hoisted herself up onto the first branch. In the glow of her lantern, she found herself staring at more marks gouged into the tree.

  Names. Tens of them. Some covered over in moss, others—like Sanne’s and Arno’s—carved more recently. Milou read them all. It wasn’t until she got to the second branch that she found one that started a fresh wave of ear tingles.

  Edda

  Milou stifled a growl and climbed higher.

  More names, none of which she knew.

  She wasn’t even halfway up yet, but already she could tell why the polder people liked to climb this tree. The only view that rivaled it was from the windmill’s rooftop hatch.

  Arms aching and chest heaving, Milou finally got to one of the topmost branches. It was a long drop to the ground below, and for a moment, she sat there hugging the branch with her eyes closed, trying to stop the world from spinning. When the dizziness eased, she opened her eyes again.

  There, right in front of her, were two names she recognized.

  Thibault and Liesel

  Her ear tingling turned into a storm of tiny, icy-cold prickles, and Milou rubbed at her ears grumpily.

  “Thibault,” she whispered, the foreign-sounding name feeling funny in her mouth. It was the same name she’d seen in Liesel’s book. Milou felt an unfamiliar twist in her belly, as if she’d eaten something too sour or too hot. It should have been her name there, not Thibault’s. It should have been her sitting up here with her sister, sharing secrets and telling stories, gazing out across the polder and up at the stars, but this boy, Thibault, had been there instead.

  Milou carefully clambered across to the next branch, using the glow of the moon to see by now. She had to climb across two more, then one higher, before she found another carving, etched just beside a small hollow.

  Her fingers shook as she traced each small line.

  Br—m and An——ese

  Milou wiped at the moss, but the carving was so old that her scrubbing at it made little difference in its legibility. Still, Milou was certain it said Bram. And the name beside it must have been her mother’s name.

  Her ear tips became a maelstrom of prickles.

  Milou let her hand drop to her side, then her gaze settled on the hollow.

  Wedged inside was a small red bundle, half the size of her fist.

  Milou pulled it out and held it in her open palm. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was a carefully folded handkerchief. Squeezing it, she could feel something small and hard inside. She turned it over and lifted one edge. Milou’s stomach lurched, and a small gasp left her lips.

  In the corner, embroidered in white silk thread, was a name:

  A. Poppenmaker

  Finally, she had proof of her mother.

  An initial, if not a whole name.

  She carefully unrolled the age-crusted handkerchief completely.

  Two golden rings glinted up at her.

  Wedding bands.

  Milou tilted one of the rings up toward the moonlight.

  In the very same tiny type font as on her pocket watch was an inscription.

  Beneath the stars I found you

  Her ears rushing wildly, Milou looked up, at the bright constellations that twinkled above her, at the way the moon shone down, turning everything below it a silvery gray.

  Her parents had climbed this tree to watch the night sky.

  And here she was, twelve years later, sitting in the same spot they had. From this height, she could see straight through the theater’s hole-pocked roof to the marionette on the stage, who stood, haloed by the moonlight, as if ready to begin her dance beneath the stars.

  Milou gasped.

  The solution seemed so obvious now.

  She wasn’t meant to find them.

  They were supposed to find her.

  They had lost her. Now Milou had everything she needed to let them know that she had made it home.

  And maybe, just maybe, it would also get her the money they needed to get Speelman off their backs at the same time.

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE THEATER STILL SMELLED moldy, despite the fact that they had left the door open for days now. Dust motes floated in the columns of moonlight that streamed in through the hole in the roof, illuminating every cobweb and every bit of grime. The ballerina puppet was coated in a new layer of frost, its strings like stalactites. Milou sat her friends down on the front row of the theater as she explained her money-making, parent-summoning plan.

  “A puppet show?” Egg asked, incredulous. “In here?”

  “Yes!” Milou beamed. “It’s such an obvious solution, isn’t it?”

  “Not really . . .”

  “A grand reopening will be the talk of Amsterdam and the answer to all our problems. Not only will it make us the money we need, but as soon as my parents hear about the show, they’ll know I’ve returned and hurry home to me.”

  Mozart, who was awake and sitting on Fenna’s shoulder, let out a loud screeeeech.

  “It will be a huge task to get this place looking like it once was,” Lotta said. “And it will cost money too.”

  “On the contrary,” Milou said, feeling increasingly pleased with her idea. “This place already looks fabulously horrendous.”

  Sem shook his head. “People will expect a certain kind of quality where this theater is concerned. This looks like the scene of a horror show.”

  “But that is my point, Sem Poppenmaker.” Milou grinned. “Use those big ears of yours to listen properly. The mystery of the Poppenmakers’ disappearance has been the source of gossip and intrigue for years. Everyone, except Edda, of course, is too scared to even set foot on this land.”

  “You’re not convincing us yet,” Egg groaned.

  “Egg could paint a few monsters on that wall over there,” Milou mused. “We could tear the velvet seats up a little bit more and add some dirt to the carpet. Oh! And we should do the show at night, when it’s dark and cold like it is now.”

  She realized her friends still looked unconvinced.

  “Haven’t my stories shown you that people love to be scared?” Milou said. “We will terrify them, and they will pay through the nose for the experience.”

  Lotta’s eyebrows began to unfurrow. Fenna nodded. Even Mozart let out a hooOOooOOoo of seeming agreement. Sem’s face broke into a huge, crooked grin.

  “You truly are an evil genius, Milou Poppenmaker,” he said.

  Milou grinned back. “I know.”

  “It’ll still cost money to set up,” Lotta said, though her expression was more thoughtful than dubious. “We’d need to make more puppets, and we’d need to add some lighting to the room. You can’t operate more than one puppet on your
own, so I could mechanize some of them. And perhaps we could install some speaking tubes, so your voice can be projected. We have some of the materials we need. I could ask Edda for some of the other bits; that way, it shouldn’t be too expensive. I’m sure she won’t mind lending it to us, were I to accept her offer of apprenticeship.”

  Milou opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. She gave Lotta a short nod; they would need more money than they could make selling dolls if her plan was to work.

  “We should be saving any money we earn for our escape plan,” Egg said. “Not throwing it away on a plan that has no guarantees of success.”

  “I promise,” Milou said, “if my plan doesn’t work, we will have everything in place for fleeing. Please, Egg, give this a chance. We have the opportunity not only to get the Kinderbureau off our backs for good but to really make something of ourselves.”

  “We have nine days left, Milou.”

  “Then we will hold our show in eight days and have one left over should it not work out the way we hope. It’ll be tight, but not impossible.”

  Egg stared at her hard for a few moments, then nodded. “Fine.”

  Milou resisted the urge to hug him, since his expression hinted that he was still apprehensive. She gave him a grateful smile instead.

  “What show will we put on then?” Lotta asked. “‘The Princess and the Werewolf,’ perhaps?”

  “No,” Milou said, dropping her voice to a raspy growl. “I’m thinking something much more terrifying than that.”

  She climbed up on the stage and did a pirouette, her cloak flying around her.

  “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, loudly and gruffly, “to the Theater of Terrors. Prepare to be spooked, prepare to tremble in your seats, prepare to be awed. I give you . . .”

  She paused dramatically, then, in her best werewolf voice, said:

  “A Carnival . . . of Nightmares!”

  * * *

  February arrived the very next day, with a nose-numbing frost that drove most of the inhabitants of the polder indoors. Mist hung thick and low over the canals, refusing to lift. Milou hoped it would stay this gloriously gloomy until the night of the puppet show in seven days.

  Lotta set off to Edda’s house with her toolbox, a firm promise to not ask questions, and a glint of delight in her eyes, as soon as the sun had risen. The others headed to the theater, to begin the arduous task of preparing the stage for their show. By the afternoon, they had new curtains hanging from the rails, a huge Night Tree painted on the stage’s back wall, and rumbling stomachs all around.

  That night, as Fenna and Sem prepared dinner from the last of the food they’d bought at the market, Liesel’s book lay open on the table in front of Milou, a blank page staring up at her. She needed an ending for the tale, but for the life of her, Milou had no idea how to finish Theodora’s story. Every time she tried to think about what might lie beyond those carnival gates, her mind drifted to her family.

  Would they come to the show?

  * * *

  Two days later, they had Theodora and Hendrik puppets, needle-pricked fingers, and a rumble of excitement that they might actually pull this show off. Except for one irksome thing. Milou still couldn’t think of an ending.

  “My hands are going to fall off at this rate,” Egg said, setting a poster aside to dry next to a teetering stack of more posters. “And we need more ink . . . again.”

  “Lotta will be back soon,” Milou said. “She can give you some more money for ink.”

  Fenna set a tray of steaming-hot stroopwafels out in front of them. Sem immediately put down his sewing and tucked in. From her apron, Fenna pulled a strip of dried meat. She held it up and whistled softly. Wings fluttered from the cupboard top, and Mozart swooped down in a loose spiral, taking the meat from her fingers.

  “He’s getting better at flying,” Sem said, syrup dribbling down the side of his mouth.

  Fenna’s responding smile was bright enough to light up the dark side of the moon. Milou had even, that very morning, heard Fenna humming quietly as she baked. It seemed that this puppet show was working magic in more ways than she’d expected: It was making them happy.

  The kitchen door opened with a howl of wind, and Lotta stumbled in, stamping her clogs loose of snow. “You need to come to the theater,” she said. Her nose was bright pink from the cold. “Right now.”

  “It’s too cold,” Egg said, shuddering.

  “Trust me,” Lotta said. She hurried over to the table, grabbing two stroopwafels. “What Edda and I have done is worth a few frostbitten noses. Come on!”

  “Edda?” Milou asked, frowning. “What is Edda doing in the theater?”

  “Just come,” Lotta said.

  * * *

  It was no warmer inside the theater than it was outside it. Edda Finkelstein was standing by the stage, holding a strange metal box. Milou bristled at the sight of her, the unease she felt around the clock maker refusing to shift. Especially now that the Kinderbureau was suspicious of them.

  “Aha!” Edda said, her voice muffled by her scarf. “You’re just in time. Watch this.”

  Edda pressed a button on the top of the metal box. There was a low hum, then a crackle. Edda grinned at them as the stage erupted with the light of hundreds of little bulbs, twinkling like stars.

  Milou couldn’t help it: Her jaw slackened. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Electricity?” Lotta said. “Yes. And Edda also thinks we should open the theater with a fireworks display. Just imagine!”

  “There is a fireworks stall in the city market,” Edda said, putting the metal box on the stage. “I should get back home; Meneer Catticus needs feeding. Thank you for your help this morning, Lotta.”

  “No, thank you,” Lotta said, beaming at Edda. “Your help means the world to us.”

  “You are most welcome,” Edda said, her eyes meeting Milou’s. “Do send my regards to Bram, won’t you? I hope this weather isn’t making him feel worse.”

  Milou felt another twinge of unease. She nodded.

  “Oh,” Edda said, reaching into her satchel. “Egg, I almost forgot. Here is your shawl. I managed to get most of the charcoal off it, but not all, I’m afraid.”

  She held out a folded bundle of bright red, orange, and yellow silk. If not for the familiar egg-shaped pattern and sooty patch, Milou wouldn’t have believed it was the same shawl.

  Egg just stared at it.

  “It’s Javanese batik, I believe,” Edda said, unfolding it and wrapping it carefully around his neck. “Though I can’t be a hundred percent sure. If you could find someone who has traveled to that part of the world, they might be able to confirm it.”

  “Thank you,” Egg said, his voice choking with emotion. He rubbed at a tear. “Thank you.”

  Fenna shuffled up to him, wrapping an arm around his middle. Edda smiled kindly, then she gathered her toolbox and left. Lotta trailed along, talking excitedly about the chemical compounds of fireworks. Milou followed them to the theater door.

  “Why are you scowling again?” Lotta asked, when Edda had disappeared around the side of the building. “You’re not going to start on about Edda, are you?”

  “There’s just something about her,” Milou said. “Some-thing that makes me feel like that woman will be our downfall.”

  Lotta raised an Edda-like eyebrow. “Are your magical danger-sensing ears telling you this?”

  Milou flinched. “No. Logic is. Nothing about her makes sense.”

  Lotta was quiet for a moment. Milou avoided her gaze for as long as she could, worried she’d see smug satisfaction in Lotta’s eyes at her admission, but when she looked up, Lotta just looked thoughtful.

  “I think Edda had a husband once,” Lotta said finally. “I found a pair of men’s boots by the back door. Far too big for her.”

  “Maybe he died?” />
  Lotta shrugged. “Maybe. There’s a sadness about her that she doesn’t let show very often. The kind of sadness I imagine someone might have when they miss someone dearly.” She turned back to Milou. “I honestly think she’ll do us no harm, even if she did learn the truth about us. She’s nothing like Gassbeek was. She’s good. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. Deep down in the pit of my belly, I know it’s true.”

  “That sounds like a very unscientific hypothesis.”

  Lotta smiled. “Maybe I have magical goodness-sensing guts.”

  “I’m still not convinced.”

  “Will this convince you?”

  Lotta grabbed Milou’s hand and dropped a drawstring pouch into it. Milou squeezed it. It felt like it was filled with coins. Lots of coins.

  “What’s this?”

  “An advance from Edda, for you to place an advertisement in the national paper.”

  “An advertisement?”

  “Your father isn’t likely to be in Amsterdam, is he? If you want him to hear about the show, then you need the message to be spread farther than just the city. It costs two guilders to place a weeklong ad. Edda said I could borrow the money from her.”

  Milou felt tears prickle in the corners of her eyes. “Two guilders . . . don’t you want it to go toward the adoption fees?”

  Lotta shook her head. “Not if it can help you, no.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Tomorrow then,” Lotta said brightly.

  “Tomorrow what?”

  “Tomorrow we go to Amsterdam and let everyone know that, for one night only, the Poppenmaker theater is open once more.”

  MILOU’S BOOK OF THEORIES

  Beneath the stars they’ll find me

  Here is the advertisement I plan on placing in the newspaper. I’ve even left a hidden message in the underlined words. My family is clever enough to work it out.