BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale (9 page)

“The princesses are so beautiful! Look at their dresses!” yelled Mounira to her cousins, who were yelling the same thing back. No one could hear a word over the crowd’s roars.

Then time slowed down for Mounira, and all she could hear was her heart beating:
dub-dub, dub-dub, dub-dub.

The king and queen, who’d been walking toward Mounira to shake hands with the crowd, fell down. The princes and princesses started running, and some of them fell down, too. Soldiers started pointing at people with their rifles, and made people fall down, while other soldiers pointed their rifles at those soldiers, and made them fall down. Bursts of red mist appeared in the air. None of it made sense to Mounira.

Mounira wondered if it might be some kind of game. Maybe everyone knew about it and was playing along, and she’d missed it somehow? She hadn’t been paying attention on the walk to the parade. Had her parents tried to tell her? It was getting hard to think. Her heartbeat was so loud that she was getting dizzy.

Standing there, right arm frozen in the air in the middle of waving her flag, she turned to see some of her cousins lying down, others running. Some seemed to have strange cherry stains on them. So many people were either running or lying down; hardly anyone was just standing anymore. Mounira felt left out and confused.

She turned the other way to see her father, ten yards away, looking upset and confused. She wondered if he’d been left out, too. When he saw her, his look changed—and he charged toward her. At that point, time resumed normal speed. Mounira could barely react before her father snatched her up and ran for all he was worth.

“Baba, why is everyone screaming? Why are their guns firing? Is this a game? It’s scary. Baba, what’s happening?” she repeated. Her running father offered no response.

They were halfway up the hill to their house when a soldier appeared in the middle of the cobblestone street. The green outfit and black sash around his waist were now a symbol of fear. Mounira’s father slowed for a moment before deciding to proceed—there was no way to know whether the soldier was friend or foe.

As they approached, the soldier raised his rifle. Alman stopped, closed his eyes briefly, and the soldier fired. Realizing the target was behind him, Alman resumed running. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted several other soldiers in green and black ready to return fire.

Mounira felt a quick tingle, which erupted into intense pain. She felt her body weaken and she started to slide off her father. She could see his face melt from fear to anguish as he guided her to the ground.

Her father’s tears fell on her face like cold droplets of ice. She wanted to reach up to wipe them, but saw only her left arm go up briefly, before coming down. She felt heavy.

“Baba, it hurts…” she whispered with all her might.

“Mouni!” he yelled. She tried to understand why he was so upset, but passed out.

She awoke in the back of a horse-drawn wagon. She saw her father walking beside it, and then she fell asleep again. Mounira couldn’t remember how many times she’d briefly awoken, or how many times she’d tried to say she felt cold or hot. Time didn’t matter.

In the darkness of sleep, only one thing kept her company—the pain, the horrible pain. It haunted her dreams and waking moments. She was scared, but didn’t have the strength to call for her dad. There was nowhere to run from the pain.

In a dream, when it seemed like the pain was going to consume her, it started to rain. The rain was icy, familiar. The rain gave her strength. Mounira glared at the huge pain monster through the dreamy rain. Summoning all her strength, she yelled, “You will
not
beat me! I will show you! I am stronger than you can imagine!”

“What did she say?” said Gretel to Hans and Saul.

“I’m stronger than you can imagine,” repeated Mounira to herself, looking around blearily. For a moment, she was confused. Her pain had awakened her, pulling her back to the reality of the snow and the leafless tree. Perhaps the pain wasn’t always her enemy—it didn’t want to die, either. Mounira stood, shaking her head to wake up. Her pants were wet and freezing.

“I have to keep going,” Mounira said to herself.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Driven by the Seaside

“What’s in the shiny tube?” asked the scowling, thin-haired, unshaven man. Franklin had only just stepped into the tavern of the seaside town. To date, Franklin’s journey had been filled with thrilling and scary moments, but overall he felt he’d done well.

With his best steely-eyed gaze, Franklin looked to the man seated at the bar. “Inside are the fingers of everyone who’s tried to nick it,” he answered sharply, yet his stomach twisted with fear.

The scowling man squinted, sized Franklin up, and then started to laugh. “I like that, boy. I like that a lot,” he said jovially to his bar mates. “I’m going to use that next time. What’s in the bag, Grimmy? Oh, it’s the fingers of… no wait, the noses of everyone… no, I think fingers are best.”

Franklin sighed. He’d managed to get safely to the southernmost tip of the island kingdom of Inglea, to this seaside town of Chestishire. Now, a new challenge stood ahead. It was one thing to ask if he could ride on the back of a cart to speed his journey, but it was going to take something else to get him across the waters to the shores of Freland. He’d heard tales about boys on ships finding themselves sold to service in foreign lands—and worse.

One of Franklin’s hands held the straps to his travel bag and the brass tube. Both were slung over his shoulder. His free hand started shaking, broadcasting his feelings. He looked at it and made a fist. Spotting a suitable empty table, he sat down. He knew better than to stand on display. His clothes already stood out, but he hoped not by much.

Franklin pulled out his last bag of coins and held it under the table’s surface. He ran his right hand through the remaining coins. “Thirty-six,” he whispered. He hoped it would be enough to hire a boat and get the rest of the way to Nikolas Klaus, but he was doubtful.

He’d been hard on his dad about many things, especially money. They constantly seemed to be going from boom to bust and back again. Franklin believed his father saw money as a simple thing, not worth managing carefully. Now, he had newfound respect—the task was harder than he’d anticipated. Like his father, Franklin had no financial schooling, no financial role model, and no idea about what things should really cost. He knew, logically, that given he was only a third of the way through his journey, he should probably have used up at most a third of his money—but just a quarter of it remained. He owed his father an apology.

“I can see by your scowl that you’re not used to places like this,” said the waitress as she sauntered up. She had a mess of curly reddish hair and large, friendly green eyes. Her freckles were a match for her flowery dress. Franklin was slightly intimidated by her larger frame and booming voice. She held a wooden serving tray under her arm, and Franklin imagined she could use it as a weapon, if necessary.

Giving Franklin the once over, she put on a skeptical face. “Are you supposed to be in here? How old are you?”

Franklin narrowed his eyes, doing his best to look intimidating. “I’m old enough to have enough money for whatever I want.” He realized how awkward that had sounded.

“Well, a young man with words like that will soon find himself with bruises instead of money,” she replied. She gave a practiced smile. “Relax a bit. What is it you want?”

Franklin looked around, trying to think of something. He’d briefly forgotten that in a tavern, he would be expected to order something. Though he felt guilty for using up money when there might be a cheaper alternative, he was hungry, and already here. “Do you have a sandwich? Anything that isn’t going to make me sick?” he said, feeling the grime on the table.

The waitress rolled her eyes. “We’ll find something,” she said, and headed off.

Franklin took a deep breath and then got out his notebook and writing materials. He uncorked his precious ink bottle and jotted down a few ideas and observations he’d been holding in mind. His thoughts then returned to the challenge that lay ahead.

He analyzed each person in the tavern. He couldn’t see anyone who looked like a sea captain. He checked his notebook to see if he’d previously written down thoughts on hiring a boat and finding a captain—nothing useful.

When the waitress plunked the plate of food down hard in front of him, he didn’t flinch, much to her surprise. He looked up with a smug smile. “Thought I’d jump?” he asked.

The waitress paused to consider her answer, and decided to cut him a break. Franklin was evidently away from home, and, judging by his worn clothes, for more than a couple of days. She could detect the nervousness under his bravado.

“Yes, I did,” she admitted. “You can’t be more than fifteen. What’s your story?” She sat down opposite him, tilted her head, and waited for his answer.

Franklin was uncomfortable around women. Having the waitress sit and stare at him felt personal. His stomach tightened. He could feel the part of his brain that dealt with words already getting mixed up. Under the table, he clenched his fist. “Are you…
allowed
to sit down with customers?”

The waitress smiled mischievously. “Oh no, of
course
not. I’m sure in a moment the owner will come over—to throw you out. He’s the giant bald guy back there, the one with so much hair growing out his ears he could comb it over the top of his head.”

“What?” yelped Franklin. He straightened and nervously glanced around. His naturally pale face went white, while his cheeks went red. “But I—ah—”

The waitress laughed. “
Relax
. Listen, I’m not sure what you’re doing here, but you stick out like a sore thumb. Why are you here? Maybe I can help get you on your way.” She had a soft spot for dumb boys.

Franklin wasn’t sure whether to trust her, but he did need help. He decided to let his guard down. “I need to get across the sea… to Freland.”

“Oh, is that all? Go to the docks, then. Why are you in the middle of town?” she said.

“This is the middle of town?” He was certain he’d walked to the southernmost edge. He felt like an idiot, and hated that feeling.

“I’ll admit this is a small place, but go to the docks. Did you think a boat captain was just going to walk into the bar? Reminds me of an old joke…” she laughed again, got up, and left.

Franklin was annoyed with himself. “How did I miss that?” he said to himself.

After a couple of minutes, the waitress returned. Since she’d left him sitting there, he’d done nothing but mentally beat himself up. She’d set fire to the internal doubt that had always existed within.

“You haven’t touched your food. You okay?” she asked.

He looked at his food. He didn’t want her to see the defeat in his eyes.

The waitress now felt bad. “Oh, come now. I was just teasing. You
are
at the tavern closest to the docks. The docks are only half a mile down the road. Provincial rules don’t permit taverns any closer. Something about how if someone can be clear-headed enough to walk all the way to the docks from here, and then drown, then it’s the fault of the patron, not the establishment.”

Franklin glared back in anger. She’d made a fool of him. She was nothing but a mere peasant with the nerve to play a trick on a young man of noble blood—never mind one that would change the world someday. While he enjoyed playing tricks, he couldn’t take them. His father had spoken to him about it, and he had tried to be a good sport, but it didn’t work. He had a deep-seated fear that he wasn’t actually smart—that, somehow, he was just fooling everyone. Sometimes he wondered if people just assumed he was smart because his father was a genius. At other times, the mental limits of those around him frustrated him. 

The waitress sat down again. “You don’t like having your leg pulled. Sorry, love,” she said, half-apologetically. “Wasn’t intending to upset—just trying to have a little fun. Relax! You’re all wound up so tight. If you don’t relax, you’re going to attract a wee bit more attention than just being a lost boy from a well-to-do family.”

Her assessment surprised Franklin, but he wouldn’t show it.

“Look,” she continued, “you’ve probably already learned that the world is different than you expected, but I can tell that you’ve seen
nothing
of its rougher side. You’ll need to realize the world is unlike your privileged home town. It’s rougher, but also full of amazing things.” She smiled at Franklin with a motherly look—and that rubbed Franklin the wrong way.

She doesn’t have insight,
he thought to himself.
She’s just dishing out generic advice—things she heard others parroting.
“Thanks,” he said coldly, folding his arms. “Your insights are… astounding.” His sarcasm was biting.

Insulted, the waitress stood up. “Fine. Eat up,
pay
up, and be on your way.” She turned and walked away. “Arrogant little jerk,” she muttered.

Franklin finished his lunch and stepped out of the tavern. He was determined to show that waitress—and all those like her—that he wasn’t some lost boy. He was going to get across to Freland and find Nikolas Klaus, no matter what.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gingerly Lost

Mounira stumbled clumsily in the snow.

“Just a couple more steps,” urged Gretel. “You can do it.”

Mounira stepped out from the tree line, spotting a large clearing surrounded by more red pines. In the midst of the clearing were the remains of a burned down old house. She looked around, confused, tears in her eyes.

“You’ve arrived,” said Hans triumphantly. “Welcome to Mother’s house!”

Mounira looked around wildly. “I don’t understand—there’s no house here! Just—”

Gretel was annoyed. “
This
is Mother’s house. She still owns it. We used to come here and she’d tell us about the children she used to have here, long ago, before the bad men came to steal them away. That’s when she burned it down. She didn’t want anyone to know about our other house, the one where we still live.”