BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale (15 page)

“What was the name of that man who gave us the red cloaks?” Gretel asked Hans.

Hans was standing in the kitchen, his light brown eyes scanning the mostly empty cupboards for something—anything—to eat. “The one who hired us to clean out that shop? I can’t remember.”

“Yeah, that one,” she replied.

“Thomas something, I think. Why?” he asked, turning to her.

“I was just thinking about the cloaks. He said they would help him remember us, and that we could trust other people with the same ones. Something still bothers me about that. I don’t feel like we got the whole story,” said Gretel.

“You worry too much,” said Saul, hiding his own concern.

“I’m sure we’ll find out, some day,” said Hans, “but until that happens, I don’t care. That cloak stopped a knife from going into my gut last week. I’m thankful to have it.”

Gretel smiled in agreement. The cloaks were not only nice-looking, but they had useful hidden pockets, and they’d discovered by accident the fabric was tough enough to stop a knife. Gretel wondered if it could stop an arrow, or maybe even a bullet.

She found herself looking at the moldy ceiling, and getting angry. She detested the house, but her brothers wouldn’t leave, and she felt she couldn’t just leave on her own. More than the house, she hated the nightmares that always seemed to take place somewhere in the house—nightmares that never made sense. She loathed Mother with a fury she kept tightly locked away, deep inside. She pushed those feelings so far down that sometimes she forgot about them.

Years ago, the house had been filled with a never-ending stream of children. While they weren’t always happy, at times there was happiness. They would play outside, or on the main floor, and then Mother would put them to bed, upstairs, locking them in, safe and sound. 

Slowly over the years, Mother’s mind had decayed. It was her forceful insistence that stopped them from fixing things such as the leaking roof, eventually forcing them to seal off the mold-ridden upper floor.

“Why were you gone so long?” screeched a nasty old woman coming out of one of the ground-floor bedrooms. Her hair was wispy white, and her clothes, like those of Hans, Saul, and Gretel, were dirty and falling apart. She wore a beige shawl over her shoulders that was more brown-orange than beige. She held a gnarled cane, as she had for decades.

The old woman plopped herself into a broken rocking chair that barely moved, although she moved her body back and forth as if it did. “Tell me! Why were you gone so long?”

Hans, his back to her, answered. “We ran into some people, Mother. We decided to have some fun. We weren’t long. And anyway, you always say that.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” the old woman barked. Her eyes darted around the room, as if she were seeing imaginary children running around. She pulled her shawl tightly around herself. “Tell them to close the door,” she muttered. “They’re always leaving the door open.”

Hans closed the cupboards, giving up on the idea that there was anything to eat, and turned to Mother. Looking at Mother terrified him. He was willing to pounce on three or four travelers to rob them, or simply for fun, but Mother always made his gaze bend to the floor—made him like a scared, little boy.

Saul sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his legs, leaning against a wall. His stomach always turned when he took in that permanent smell of ginger and mold.

“Saul?” said Hans.

He looked up and realized that Hans was trying to get him to answer Mother. “Huh? Oh, yes. Those people just needed some help with their wares. They had too many nice things, and we helped them by taking some,” said Saul flatly. He hadn’t enjoyed it. He hadn’t enjoyed much of anything in a long time.

Gretel wanted to say something witty to lighten the mood and poke fun at Saul, but she just looked past Mother’s chair and out the window. The snowless ground would have flowers soon, and she liked flowers.

“Show me what you got,” the old lady commanded. She rose to her feet, cane in hand.

Gretel looked at Hans nervously. He picked up the bag he’d left just outside the door and showed it to Mother.

Mother had a look, and started shaking her head. “Garbage… garbage… oh, this might fetch us something,” she said. Items she thought were of no value were tossed onto the floor. “At least you didn’t completely waste my time,” she said, grilling Hans with her eyes.

Mother’s eyes narrowed and she raised her cane. “Are you holding out on me, boy?”

Hans shook his head nervously and stared at the ground.

“Fine. I’m going back to bed. Keep quiet,” said Mother as she left the room.

When Mother’s door closed, Hans and Gretel sighed in relief. Saul shook his head.

“You two are getting greedy. That was a huge risk,” said Saul.

Hans pointed at the bedroom door and said, “She’s going to be the death of us. If we share more with her, she’ll do what she’s been doing—using it up, and having no food for us.”

“We almost have enough saved for the three of us to leave,” said Gretel.

A knock at the door surprised everyone. They stood, frozen, looking at the door.

“Are we expecting anyone?” said Hans, moving for his rapier he’d left on the kitchen table.

Saul gave an idiotic look to his brother. “Do we ever have anyone come here? Who could find this place?” He went over to Mother’s bedroom door and knocked. “Mother, there’s someone here. Do you want us to open the door?”

The bedroom door whipped open and the bent-over old lady glared at Saul. “No—you’ll just screw it up.” She hobbled over to the door, muttering under her breath. Looking at the old, rotting front door, Mother suddenly felt anxious. She thought of the last time that there had been an unexpected knock, many years ago. She turned to Gretel. “
You
open it!”

Gretel got up off the chair at the kitchen table and opened the door.

Before them was a broad man with a reddish-brown beard. He was dressed in a beige and brown leather coat that went down to his boots. The serious look on his face made it evident he wasn’t there by accident.

“I’m here to see the Ginger Lady,” he said gruffly.

The old woman stumbled forward clumsily. “I’m she. Who sent you?” she asked desperately.

The man stepped in, and quickly scanned the home. “My name is the Hound. I’ve been sent by the Fare. They request you pay an old debt you owe.”

“Hmm,” said the old lady, licking her dry lips. She’d always been richly rewarded whenever someone connected to the Fare had asked something of her, and she did owe them. A decade ago, she’d been too greedy in stealing children, and would’ve been caught, if it weren’t for the Fare’s help. As a condition, she’d been forced to give up the children—and she had, except for Hans, Saul and Gretel, whom she’d hidden.

Mother stood there, shuffling back and forth. She didn’t want to appear desperate, but she was. She’d been more disoriented and confused lately, and wanted to enjoy life like the old days at least once more before her time came. “What are the terms?”

The Hound noticed the three red hooded cloaks by the door and remembered what Marcus had written in his letter. He wondered if the trio knew they had been marked as part of the Order of the Red Hoods. He almost asked, but then remembered he needed to keep things simple and to the point, as Marcus had instructed.

The Hound examined the trio again. He figured they were about twenty years old. While he could see Hans and Gretel as twins, Saul seemed to be the odd one out. He stopped himself before asking anything else and got back to the script.

“They said you may have children again, once you’ve successfully acquired someone they want and have handed them over to me,” said the Hound. The reaction on the old woman’s face told him such a reward was clearly of value to her. He tried not to imagine what it meant.

“Mother?” said Hans. “You can’t have children again, you’re too—”

Mother repelled Hans with a glare that ripped the man’s mental wounds open. He wilted before her.

“Those terms are acceptable. Now who do they want?” asked Mother, licking her lips again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Watt to Come

It was a beautiful, early April morning. Nikolas, Tee, and Mounira walked up the mountain road, back toward Nikolas’ house, carrying the bags they’d filled at the market. Going into town to pick up fresh goods had become a daily ritual.

Tee’s family had made Mounira feel like a long-lost cousin. Wherever she accompanied them, the family would introduce her as a close family friend. So far, the only people Mounira had met whom she didn’t care much for were the Cochon brothers. She was afraid of them, and despite assurances from Nikolas and others that she needn’t be, she remained unconvinced.

“Look—a letter,” said Mounira, pointing to an envelope tacked to Nikolas’ front door.

“Oh. I wasn’t expecting anything,” he said, walking up the steps to free it. “I wonder if Maxwell is still stuck on how to properly vent the unneeded heat…”

“Is Maxwell the steam engine inventor?” asked Tee.

Nikolas nodded. He was about to put the letter in his pocket when he noticed something about the handwriting on the envelope. “Tee, Mounira, come here. What do you see when you look at this?”

Mounira put down the bag she was carrying and took the letter. She looked at it for a moment, and then shrugged. “I just see the directions where the letter was to be sent, and also that it was sent by an
M. Watt
, from another place.”

Nikolas smiled. “Well, you should already know that there is something more to it than that. You’ve been with us for a while. Tee’s had a couple of years of practice at this. Tee, what do
you
see?” he said, opening the door and taking in the first of the bags.

Tee put her bags down, and Mounira handed her the letter. When Nikolas came back out, Tee was about to answer, but then Nikolas noisily cleared his throat and nodded in Mounira’s direction before vanishing into the house with more bags.

Tee held the letter so she and Mounira could both see it. “See the ink, here?” said Tee, pointing to the upper left corner.

“It’s messy,” replied Mounira, annoyed. She felt like she was being talked down to, though suspected it might just be her imagination—Tee had never talked down to her.

“The man who sent this is an inventor. My Grandpapa tells me he is a very good one. He does things on
purpose
. If you look at how he wrote his name and address, what does it tell you?” asked Tee.

Mounira thought about it. She accepted that Tee was genuinely trying to teach her. “He—” she started, hesitating. “He… wrote it, and it smudged, which means… he didn’t let it dry. He wouldn’t usually do that, right?”

Tee smiled. “Exactly. Plus, I’m sure Grandpapa sees that this was also delivered by a short man, with a heavy wink in his right eye, and one arm—” said Tee sarcastically. She’d stiffened upon realizing what she’d said, and looked at Mounira uncomfortably.

“What?” asked Mounira, puzzled.

“I said—” replied Tee, her face scrunched in angst. She couldn’t repeat it.

“
One-armed?
” said Mounira, pretending to be horrified.

Tee nodded. “I’m sorry! I—”

“Oh my—how
could
you? You said it, didn’t you?” said Mounira, starting to laugh.

“One-armed,” said Tee in a squeaky voice. “I’m sorry.”

Mounira gave her a frank look. “So what! Should I make a weird face if I say
two-armed
?”

It dawned on Tee that Mounira was not sensitive in the slightest. Tee had forgotten her common sense and had instead reacted like her Aunt Gwen, an expert in bad reactions and being hypersensitive.

“I look like an idiot, don’t I?” said Tee.

Mounira laughed. “You said it—not me. I would never be so rude to say that,
but
… I won’t
disagree
with you.” She put her chin up high. Tee burst into laughter.

Nikolas returned, reclaimed the letter, and asked the girls to bring everything else to the kitchen. He sat himself down atop the steps leading to the front door, opened the letter, and then carefully read it.

“Hello? Grandpapa?” repeated Tee. Nikolas had been preoccupied with the letter.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, standing up. “Tee, I need you to take this letter to your parents.” He placed the letter back in the envelope and handed it to Tee. “It should have arrived three months ago. It’s curious that it arrived at all.”

Tee was surprised. “Do I need to take it
now
? What’s so important?”

“Yes, now, please,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. “The letter tells me that my dear friend Maxwell Watt had sent his son to me with—if I understand his coded language—his finished plans for the steam engine. His son should’ve been here by now. He isn’t. Your father is good at getting the word out to the right people. We’ll need everyone looking for young Watt.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Of Spice and Substance

“Captain Archambault, sir, do you have a moment?” asked the guardsman running up the downtown street in Minette. The sergeant, in his late twenties, was scrawny and out of uniform. Elsewhere, the man probably wouldn’t have been permitted to serve, but Captain Archambault didn’t care who applied. Rather, what mattered was whether an applicant could complete the training, and be useful.

Captain Archambault dismissed the other guardsmen around him and turned to the one approaching. “Sergeant…
Bertrand
.” Gabriel had made a point of knowing each name and face that reported to him, after having been fooled, months ago, by LeLoup.

Sergeant Bertrand stopped in front of the captain, smiled, and nodded. “Yes, sir. Do you have a moment?”

“I do, if you walk with me,” Gabriel said. “I haven’t eaten lunch yet… Let me see what time it is.” He looked up at the position of the sun. “
Two
o’clock.”

The sergeant pulled out his pocket watch and flipped its silver cover open. “Sir, yes—almost two. That’s impressive.”