BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale (22 page)

Just as Mounira was about to go back to bed, she caught a glimpse of a blue light. Strangely, it was shining through part of the wall to the right of the stairs.

Mounira slowly shuffled her feet forward, through the “wall,” until she felt the end of the floor. “I’m in the wall?” she said to herself, wishing it were brighter. She sat down, closed her eyes, and went down the hidden steps as a small child would—on her bum.

At the bottom, she opened her eyes and looked back up. There were stairs leading up to the landing—no secret door, just simple stairs. “Hmm,” she wondered, “I bet the passageway was painted so that it doesn’t look like anything is there, just like in one of the royal castles back home. I can’t believe I never noticed before.”

She turned and continued to follow the blue light coming from a door, slightly ajar, at the end of a short corridor. She tiptoed up to it and peeked in.

The room had bookcases along the walls, a fireplace, a nice rug, a worn couch, and a decorative chair with an ottoman. Everything had an order and elegance to it—there were no piles of books—as if the room had a personality different from the rest of the house. Nikolas stood by the fireplace holding a small painting in his hands.

“She’s grown into quite a woman. You’d approve, Isabella,” he said, finishing his conversation with the painting. He kissed the top of the frame and placed it on the fireplace mantel.

Feeling something odd, Mounira scanned the room. “How is it so bright?” she whispered to herself. She could see no lamps, yet the room was properly lit, with no signs of shadows.

Nikolas walked to a bookcase near the door. Mounira curled up, closed her eyes, and froze. She was certain she wasn’t supposed to be here and had no idea what he’d do if he discovered her.

Mounira opened her eyes again when she heard something thump on the well-worn couch. Nikolas was now at a bookcase at the other end of the room, pulling out a dark-green book just like the one he’d just dropped on the couch. He sat down with the two books.

“I guess he likes to read… two books at the same time?” said Mounira. Her one hand clung to the underside of the door, making sure it didn’t sway open.

Nikolas held the first book up, twisted its spine, and caught the small metal rod that fell from it. He did the same thing with the other book.

“What are those?” whispered Mounira, nearly poking her head into the room.

With a metal rod in each hand, Nikolas started walking toward the middle of the rug. He held his arms out in front, pushing against an invisible force.

Finally, sweat now dripping off him, Nikolas managed to get his two fists to touch the middle of the rug. The look on his face told Mounira that whatever he had been pushing against was gone.

“I need to lower the field level,” said Nikolas to himself. “I almost couldn’t do it this time. The new generator is stronger than I expected. This is good, though.”

Mounira was about to leave, thinking this was perhaps a strange exercise routine, when all of a sudden there was a series of loud clanks and clunks. She opened the door just a bit wider, ever so curious, when all of a sudden she saw the rug start lowering into the floor.

As Nikolas descended atop the rug, he noticed the open door. “Hmm—I thought I’d closed that.”

He almost saw me!
Mounira thought as she scampered up the stairs and back to bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jammed Thoughts

Tee walked out of her room and saw the vacant blankets and pillows by the fire. She wondered where Franklin might have wandered off to. From the lingering smells of breakfast, Tee knew that her parents were already up and likely gone.

She noticed Franklin at a bench in the backyard. He was drawing, and had an intense look on his face. She’d seen that look many times—the inventor’s look. His eyes were wide, and his face contorted in a combination of pain and joy. It was the first time she’d seen any hint of him being an inventor’s son.

After brushing her hair, she got dressed in a simple set of drawstring pants and a blouse, and then went to the kitchen to have homemade tomato jam on a slice of bread.

“Hmm… now where did they go?” said Tee, spotting the note from her dad. After reading it, she started on her breakfast. Tee expected her parents would be back for dinner, but wondered what kind of trouble they were checking out in Mineau. She turned to see Franklin still working diligently. Ready to satisfy her curiosity, Tee walked outside.

Franklin was nearly over top his drawing, as if he were trying to hide it from the sun, or dive into it.

“What is that?” asked Tee, without presuming anything—though she could make out what it likely was.

Franklin looked at Tee. “Thought you were going to scare the bee’s knees off me?” he asked.

Tee didn’t know how one would get
bee’s knees
in the first place, but figured she knew what he meant. “Yes, I suppose.”

Franklin was accustomed to dismissing people for being less smart, less educated, or less capable than he thought himself. He didn’t like having his time wasted, and wasn’t comfortable with sharing his works-in-progress—except with his father.

Tee was different, though. It was evident she
was
the granddaughter of one of the greatest minds of their time. Still, Franklin wasn’t yet sure if he wanted to share his work—whether out of a misplaced sense of superiority, or else out of fear she’d find it trivial.

“Want some jam toast?” Tee offered, seeing a dilemma play out on the young man’s face.

Franklin was confused. “But—it’s not toast.
Toasted
implies heat was applied. That’s simply sliced bread.”

Tee looked at the half-eaten piece. “Yes, well—while that is true on
one
level, you
could
argue it has been heated to the exact temperature of the room, which means heat
was
applied. Heat does two things; one is add temporary warmth to the bread, and the other is render it less pliable, or more stiff—whichever way you want to think about it. Given that, isn’t it
toast
once sliced?” replied Tee, grinning. She rarely spoke like that, but had heard her grandfather talk that way, all the time. Taking the last bite and licking her fingers, she gave Franklin her wide, brown eyes treatment, to see if he’d respond.

After awkward silence, Tee swallowed and said, “I’m getting another. Do you want one, yes or no?”

Franklin was still sitting back, thinking about what Tee had said. She’d earned at least enough respect for that, and, to his astonishment, he really couldn’t find a way to refute her point. All he could think of would seem like nitpicking, and he felt that would ultimately only make him look like an idiot.

Franklin looked up at Tee, with her long, dark hair, and her huge, brown eyes and suddenly found himself feeling awkward, unable to talk. Part of his brain had just realized Tee was, in fact, a teenage girl. “Um—” he started, “ah—”

Tee smiled at the poor boy. “I’ll take that as a
yes
. Back in a minute.”

She was reminded of other boys in town who suffered similar problems around her and Elly. She’d suffered it
once
herself, when she’d met a friend’s visiting cousin. Thankfully, Elly had been there to give her a quick elbow to the ribs and snap her out of it.

Tee returned and handed Franklin a piece of jam-covered bread on a plate. Franklin smiled, having by then rediscovered his ability to speak intelligently to a pretty girl.

Pointing at his drawing, he said, “Your grandfather had sent me a design for an armband. It was wonderfully useful. I’ve been trying to redesign it from memory, but there are a couple of things I haven’t yet got right. The armband got me out of a pinch, so I’d like to make another.”

“A pinch?” asked Tee, sitting beside him.

“Oh—a bind, or a bad situation. Don’t you lot speak Inglesh?” asked Franklin, slightly annoyed at being called out regularly on what he considered common words or expressions.

Tee scanned his drawing, then answered, almost half-interested in the conversation. “We lot? No. We call it Frelish.
Inglesh
just sounds… stuffy. You’re an islander, anyway. It’s Inglesh today, Torvash tomorrow.”

Franklin felt his national pride wounded. “Well, the island kingdom is called Inglea—most of the time. Well, some of the time. Okay, I think I see your point,” he conceded.

“Well, right
now
you are in the kingdom of Freland,” said Tee, taking her last bite. “We’re the Frelish, regardless of who is in charge. We don’t have royals who decide to freshen up the place with a zazzy new name.”

There was a beautiful simplicity to it, thought Franklin. “Huh. Frelish it is, I guess.”

“So,“ said Tee, leaning over the design, “you’re trying to improve this?” She walked through some of the finer points with her finger.

“Yes,” said Franklin, nervously.

“This, right here, is similar to the mechanism in my sail-cart. Come—let me show you. I think you’ll appreciate some of the changes we made, and it may give you some ideas. Come on,” said Tee, getting up.

Franklin looked at Tee and smiled. Maybe this smart, Frelish, peasant-looking girl wasn’t so bad? Maybe.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Intercepted

Nikolas looked at his watch. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be late meeting Anna and the others at the crumbled tower. On the other hand, he wasn’t comfortable leaving Mounira. He’d checked on her twice, and then left a note beside her bed. She’d never slept in this long, and while he was certain she could take care of herself, his paternal instincts didn’t like the idea of waking her or leaving her alone.

Nikolas yawned.
I really should have gotten more sleep,
but it was worth it,
he thought
. The output of the engine is five times better. What will Tee say when I show her?
Months ago, he’d shared his horseless cart prototype with Tee and her parents. Since that time, he’d worked in secret. Now he was ready to show Tee the next generation, in a form closer to her heart.

There was a knock at the door.

Nikolas looked at the door, frowning. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and everyone he could think of was occupied with one endeavor or another. Cautiously, he opened the door.

“Hello, Nikolas,” said Marcus Pieman. “Mind if I come in?”

Marcus’ clean-shaven face was decorated with a leather eyepatch over the left eye. He wore a high-collar black coat with gold buttons, a flat white shirt, and brown pants. The style was different from anything Nikolas had seen before. Marcus’ clothes somehow spoke of the future, while remaining connected with the present.

“Are these Richelle’s designs?” asked Nikolas, gesturing to the clothes.

Marcus laughed. “Yes, what do you think?”

Nikolas nodded as he noted the stitching and angles. “Suits you. Different—yet speaks of the type of change you desire to bring about,” answered Nikolas. “Now why are you holding what I can only guess is an ocular device?” he asked, gesturing to the curious-looking device with a leather strap that Marcus was holding.

“Well,” said Marcus, chuckling humbly, “I didn’t feel right wearing it when you opened the door. Funny, isn’t it? I’ve worn it everywhere else on this trip. I’d love to show you what I’ve done with it. Apparently, it makes me the spitting image of Abeland.”

Nikolas nodded, smiling at the mention of Abeland, whom he’d known since Abe was born. “Yes, it’s funny who we are to others, and who we are to those who know us best. The device looks interesting,” said Nikolas. “Well… I suppose I’m not intended to meet up with Anna and the others then, yes?”

Marcus looked sorrowful. “No—I’m afraid not, and I apologize for having to do this. I will need you to pack some bags, as you’ll be coming with me. But, before we have to deal with that, may I come in for a bit?”

It became clear to Nikolas why so many things had felt wrong with Anna’s plan. He’d miscalculated, judged poorly where to place his trust. Anna had been right—someone from the Fare
was
coming—but had she known who, or why? It was obvious there was no meeting of a contact, at least not another agent of the Fare. This had all been a ruse—or possibly something worse was afoot. Nikolas hoped the Yellow Hoods would be safe.

Rubbing his bald head, Nikolas finally said, “Yes, sorry, Marcus—come in. I’ve had a lot on my mind. I wasn’t prepared to be social. You know how I am—when I am surprised.”

“Yes, again, I apologize for that,” said Marcus. “But, it is
good
to see you. It’s been a long time.”

Nikolas gave Marcus an affectionate light slap on the arm. “That, it has been. May I offer you some tea?”

Marcus stepped into the house. With genuine appreciation, he replied, “Yes, please. The stuff on the road has been dreadful—it’s been only dust and fannings. We were in such a rush that I neglected to have my own teas packed. Perhaps I’m losing my mind in my old age.”

“I very much doubt that,” said Nikolas. He stiffened as he heard the distinct creak of a floorboard from outside Mounira’s room. Marcus seemed to notice, too. “I can’t remember, Marcus—have you been to this old, creaky house before?”

Marcus scanned about. He couldn’t see concern on Nikolas’ bearded face, nor obvious signs of anyone else—other than some shoes and clothes on a hook that he assumed belonged to Nikolas’ granddaughter.

“No,” said Marcus, “I don’t believe I’ve been here. I did hear about it, though. By the way, you still look the
same
as when we had that painting done nearly forty years ago—just more gray.”

“Please, Marcus, don’t bring your political flattery here. We’ve always been honest with each other,” said Nikolas. “Anna did the same thing. It took everything I had to be civil.”

Marcus nodded, smiling with a touch of embarrassment. “It is a nice house. Honestly. I can see Isabella’s hand in some elements. Oh, is that a
trompe-l’oeil
?” said Marcus, pointing at the specially painted stairs to the lower level, and referring to the technique that made it nearly invisible. “Nicely done. You’ve always been a man of subtlety. I miss that. Simon is so…”