The Emerald Atlas (4 page)

The reason behind all this moving about was that the children were, in adoption-speak, “difficult to place.” To adopt one, a family had to adopt all three. But a family willing to adopt three children in a single stroke was a rare thing, and the Miss Crumleys of the world were not long on patience.

Kate understood that if this lady didn’t take them, Miss Crumley would cite it as proof that she had tried her best but the children were hopeless, and they’d be shuffled off to the next orphanage. Her hope was that if she and her brother and sister were well behaved, then even if the interview was a failure, Miss Crumley would think twice about sending them away. Not that the children had any great love for their present home. The water was brown. The beds hard. The food made your stomach ache if you ate too much, but if you ate too little, your stomach ached anyway. No, the problem was that as the years had gone by, each new orphanage had been worse than the last. In fact, when they’d arrived at the Edgar Allan Poe Home for Hopeless and Incorrigible Orphans six months earlier, Kate had thought, This is it, we’ve reached the bottom. But now she wondered, What if there’s someplace even worse?

She didn’t want to find out.

Half an hour later, washed and dressed in their best clothes (which was not saying a great deal), the children knocked at the door of Miss Crumley’s office.

“Come in.”

Kate led Emma by the hand. Michael followed close behind. She had counseled them, “Just smile and don’t say a lot. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be great. Then we can just stay with her till Mom and Dad come back.”

But when Kate saw the large woman wrapped in a coat composed entirely of white feathers, holding a purse in the shape of a swan and wearing a hat from which a swan’s head curved upward like a question mark, she knew it was hopeless.

“I suppose these are the foundlings,” Mrs. Lovestock said, stepping forward to loom over the children. “Their last name is P, you say?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lovestock,” Miss Crumley tittered. She only came up to the giant woman’s waist. “They’re three of our best. Oh, I do love them so. But painful as it would be to part with them, I could force myself to. Knowing they’d be going to such a wonderful home.”

“Hmp.” Mrs. Lovestock bent to inspect them, causing the swan’s head to dip forward with an air of curiosity.

Kate glanced over and saw Emma and Michael staring wide-eyed at the bird.

“I should warn you now,” Mrs. Lovestock said, “I don’t go in for any childish higgledy-piggledy. I won’t have running, shouting, yelling, loud laughter, dirty hands or feet, rude comments about the bank.…” Each time she ticked off something she wouldn’t tolerate, the swan’s head nodded as if in agreement. “… I also don’t care for excessive talking, rubbing of the hands, or full pockets. I despise children with full pockets.”

“Oh, these children have never had a thing in their pockets, I can assure you, Mrs. Lovestock,” said Miss Crumley. “Not a thing.”

“In addition, I expect—”

“What’s that on your head?” Emma interrupted.

“Excuse me?” The woman looked startled.

“That thing on your head. What’s that supposed to be?”

“Emma …,” Kate warned.

“I know what it is,” Michael said.

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“So what is it?” Emma demanded.

Mrs. Lovestock turned on the quivering orphanage director. “Miss Crumley, what in the world is going on here?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Lovestock, nothing at all. I assure you—”

“It’s a snake,” Michael said.

Mrs. Lovestock looked as if someone had slapped her.

“That’s not a snake,” Emma said.

“It is too.” Michael was studying the woman’s hat. “It’s a cobra.”

“But it’s all white.”

“She probably painted it.” He addressed Mrs. Lovestock. “Is that what you did? Did you paint it?”

“Michael! Emma!” Kate hissed. “Be quiet!”

“I was just asking if she painted—”

“Shhh!”

For what felt like a very long time, there was just the whisper of the radiator and the sound of Miss Crumley nervously clasping and unclasping her hands.

“Never in my life …,” Mrs. Lovestock finally began.

“My dear Mrs. Lovestock,” Miss Crumley twitched.

Kate knew she had to say something. If they were to have any hope of not being sent away, she needed to smooth things over. But then the woman said the thing.

“I understand one can expect only so much from orphans—”

“We’re not orphans,” Kate interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“Orphans are kids whose parents are dead,” Michael said. “Ours aren’t.”

“They’re coming back for us,” Emma added.

“Pay them no mind, Mrs. Lovestock. Pay them no mind. It’s just idle orphan chatter.” Miss Crumley held up the bowl of sweets. “Candy?”

Mrs. Lovestock ignored her.

“It’s true,” Emma insisted. “They’re coming back. Honest.”

“Listen to me.” Mrs. Lovestock leaned forward. “I am an understanding woman. You may ask anyone. But one thing I will not tolerate is fantasy. This is an orphanage. You are orphans. If your parents had wanted you, they would not have left you on the street like last week’s garbage without so much as a civilized name! P indeed! You should be thankful someone such as myself is willing to excuse your atrocious lack of manners—and your complete ignorance of the most beautiful waterfowl in the world—and take you into my home. Now, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

Kate saw Miss Crumley glaring at her around the woman’s waist. She knew if she didn’t apologize to the Swan Lady, Miss Crumley would almost certainly send them somewhere that would make the Edgar Allan Poe Home for Hopeless and Incorrigible Orphans look like a fancy vacation resort. But what was the alternative? Going to live with this woman who insisted that their parents had thrown them away like trash and had no intention of ever returning? She squeezed her sister’s hand.

“You know,” she said, “it does look like a snake.”

CHAPTER TWO
Miss Crumley’s Revenge

The train jerked, waking Kate. She’d fallen asleep against the window, and her forehead was cold. After stopping in New York at midmorning, the train had continued north along the Hudson, past Hyde Park and Albany and a dozen other smaller towns that clung to the water’s edge, and now, as she looked out, she saw that ice had crept in along the sides of the river, and they were traveling through a landscape of rolling, snowy hills, marked here and there with farmhouses. They had left Baltimore early that morning. Miss Crumley had taken them to the station herself.

“Well, I hope you’re better behaved at your next home.” The children stood on the platform, each holding a bag that contained their clothes and a few possessions.

Kate had known Miss Crumley wouldn’t pass up the chance for a final scolding.

“I told the head of your new orphanage—Dr. Pym, I think his name was, yes, Dr. Stanislaus Pym—that you would all probably grow up to be criminals and murderers, and he said that was exactly the type he was looking for. Ha! I can only imagine what’s in store for you three.”

It had been two weeks since the disastrous interview with Mrs. Lovestock. Miss Crumley had immediately contacted every orphanage she knew, searching for any place that would have the children. Only days earlier, Kate had been outside her office and heard her pleading into the phone, “I understand you’re an animal shelter. But really, these children don’t need much.” Then the call had come that an orphanage was willing to take them.

“Where is it we’re going?” Kate asked.

“Cambridge Falls. It’s up near the border apparently. Never been there myself.”

“Is it supposed to be nice?”

“Is it nice?” Miss Crumley chuckled as if this was the best joke she had heard in a very long time. “Oh, I should say not. Oh no, not a bit. Now, here’re your tickets for the train. You take it to Westport. Then go to the pier just past the main docks. There’ll be a boat to carry you across the lake. Dr. Pym said someone will meet you at the other side. Off you go. I wash my hands of you.”

The children climbed aboard, found an empty compartment, and settled in. They could see Miss Crumley on the platform, watching them.

“Look at her,” Emma said. “She’s staying to make sure we really leave. I’d love to get at her just once.” She balled her hands into fists.

“Anyone want a piece of candy?”

The girls stared in amazement. Michael was holding a plastic bag bursting with candy. He shrugged. “I snuck into her office last night.”

On the platform, Miss Crumley watched with satisfaction as the train heaved into motion. But walking back to the orphanage, she was troubled by the memory of the youngest hooligan, Emma, sticking out her tongue as the train pulled away. Miss Crumley could swear the girl had been eating a piece of licorice. But that was ridiculous. Where would such a child get licorice?

When they’d stopped in Albany, Kate had jumped off and used the little bit of money she had to buy cheese sandwiches, which the children ate as they were carried north and the landscape outside became more and more hilly. Their lunch dispatched, Michael and Emma went off to explore the train while Kate settled back and let her eyes drift closed. She was asleep almost instantly.

Kate had a dream in which she was standing before a large stone house. It was massive, dark, and threatening, and she very much did not want to enter. But then suddenly she was inside it and descending a dimly lit stairwell. At the bottom of the stairs, she pushed through a door into a study. On the surface it looked normal enough, a desk, chairs, fireplace, bookcases. But every time she turned around, the surroundings changed. The walls slid back. The books reshuffled themselves. The chairs switched places. And then it gripped her—an awful, heart-stopping fear. There was danger here. Terrible danger for herself and her brother and sister.

That was when the train jerked and she woke, her head against the cold glass of the window. She felt a sharp need to see Michael and Emma, and she got up and hurried forward.

Kate was the only one who had real memories of their mother and father; Michael’s memories, which he sometimes embroidered, were little more than vague impressions. Kate could clearly recall a beautiful woman with a soft voice and a tall man with chestnut hair. She had memories of the house they lived in, of her bedroom, a Christmas.… She could see her father sitting on her bed, reading a story, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Over the years, she had spent countless hours trying to recover more pieces of that other life; invariably, when a memory did come to her, it was unexpected. A phrase, a smell, the color of the sky would trigger something, and Kate would suddenly remember her mother cooking dinner, walking down the street while holding her father’s hand—some fragment from that time when they all used to be a family. But her clearest memory, the one that was always with her, was from the night she, Michael, and Emma were sent away. Kate could still feel her mother’s hair against her cheek, her mother’s hands fastening the locket around her neck, and hear her voice whispering that she loved her as she made Kate promise to take care of her brother and sister.

And Kate had kept that promise. She’d looked out for her brother and sister, year after year, orphanage after orphanage, so one day, when their parents did return, she could say, “See? I did it. They’re safe.”

She found Michael and Emma in the dining car, sitting at the counter devouring donuts and hot chocolate, which the waitress had given them for free.

“I’ve thought of a new one,” Michael said, his face painted with a glazed-donut clown smile. “Pugwillow.”

“Pugwillow,” Kate repeated. “Is that a name?”

“No,” Emma said. “He just made it up.”

“So?” Michael said. “It still could be a name.”

One of the children’s principal activities over the past decade had been to speculate about what the
P
of their last name stood for. They had come up with thousands of possibilities: Peters, Paulson, Plainview, Puget, Pickett, Plukowsky, Paine, Pone, Platte, Pike, Pabst, Packard, Padamadan, Paddison, Paez, Paganelli, Page, Penguin (Emma’s longtime favorite), Pasquale, Pullman, Pershing, Peet, Pickford, Pickles, and on and on and on. The hope was that hearing the right name would jog Kate’s memory, and she would suddenly exclaim, “Yes, that’s it! That’s our name!” and they could use it as a clue to find their parents. But that had never happened.

Kate shook her head. “Sorry, Michael.”

“It’s okay. It’s probably not a real name anyway.”

The waitress came and refilled the hot chocolates, and Kate asked what she could tell them about Cambridge Falls. The woman said she had never heard of the town.

“It probably doesn’t even exist,” Emma said when the waitress had moved off. “I bet you Miss Crumley was just trying to get rid of us. She’s hoping we’ll get robbed or murdered or something.”

“It’s very unlikely all three of us would get murdered,” Michael said, slurping down his hot chocolate. “Maybe one of us, though.”

“Okay, you can get murdered,” Emma said.

“No, you can get murdered.”

“No, you—”

“No, you—”

They began giggling, Emma saying how a murderer seeing Michael simply wouldn’t be able to help himself, he’d just have to murder him, he might even murder him twice, and Michael replying how there was probably a whole bunch of murderers waiting for Emma to get off the train and how they’d have a lottery to see who got to do it.… Kate just let them go.

The locket her mother had given her had the image of a rose engraved on the outside. Kate had acquired the habit of rubbing the metal case between her thumb and forefinger when she was troubled, and, over the years, the rose had been worn nearly away. Kate had tried without success to break the habit, and she rubbed the locket now as she wondered where it was that Miss Crumley was sending them.

Westport was a small town perched on the shores of Lake Champlain. Garlands snaked up lampposts, and lights were strung over streets in preparation for Christmas. The children had no problem finding the docks, or the pier. But finding a person who had heard of Cambridge Falls was a different matter.

“What Falls?” barked a grizzle-faced, squint-eyed man whose age looked to be somewhere between fifty and a hundred and ten.

“Cambridge Falls,” Kate said. “It’s across the lake.”

“Not this lake. I’d know. Sailed it all my life.”

“I told you,” Emma grumbled. “Crummy Miss Crumley’s trying to get rid of us.”

“Come on,” Kate said. “It’s almost time for the boat.”

“Yeah. The boat to nowhere.”

The pier was long and narrow and had many broken and rotted slats; it stretched out past the shelf of ice and into open water, and the children walked to the end and huddled there, pulling their coats tight and leaning together like penguins against the bitter wind blowing in across the lake.

Kate was watching the sun. They had been traveling all day, and soon it would be dark and colder still. Despite what Emma said about Miss Crumley sending them on a wild-goose chase—and the fact that no one seemed to have heard of Cambridge Falls—Kate still believed there would be a boat. Miss Crumley’s meanness was the cruelty of pinches and hair-pulling and constant daily reminders of one’s worthlessness. Sending three children out into the middle of winter to be abandoned was beyond the scope of that petty woman. Or at least, that’s what Kate told herself.

“Look,” Michael said.

A thick wall of fog was rolling in over the surface of the lake.

“It’s coming kind of fast.”

By the time he’d finished speaking, it was upon them. The children had been sitting on their bags; now they stood, staring into the grayness. Pearls of moisture collected on their coats. Everything was silent and still.

“This is weird,” Emma said.

“Shhh,” Michael hissed.

“Don’t shhh me! You—”

“No, listen.”

It was the sound of an engine.

The boat materialized out of the fog, coming directly toward them. As it got close, whoever was steering reversed, then killed the engine so that the craft coasted in silently. It was a small, wide boat, the black paint on its wood hull chipped and peeling. There was only one man aboard. He deftly looped a rope over a pylon.

“You three for Cambridge Falls?”

The man had a thick black beard and eyes set so deep in his head as to be invisible.

“I said, you three for Cambridge Falls?”

“Yes,” Kate said. “I mean … we are.”

“Come aboard, then. Time is pressing.”

Afterward, the children disagreed about how long they were on the boat. Michael said half an hour, Emma was sure it was only five minutes, and Kate thought an hour at least. Maybe two. It was as if the fog played tricks not just with their vision but with their sense of time. All they knew for sure was that at a certain point, a dark shoreline rose from the fog, and, as they got closer, they could make out a dock and the waiting figure of a man.

The boat master threw the man a rope. Kate saw that he was old and had a neat white beard, a neat if ancient brown suit, neat little hands; even his bald little skull seemed to have shed its hair to further the impression of neatness. He wasted no time welcoming the children. He took Michael’s and Emma’s bags, said, “This way, then,” and hobbled off down the dock with a practiced limp.

Michael and Emma clambered out; Kate was about to follow when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was the boat master.

“You be careful in that place. You watch out for your brother and sister.”

Before she could ask what he’d meant, he’d untied the boat and was shoving off, forcing her to jump onto the dock.

“Hurry now!” came the voice through the fog.

“Come on!” Emma called. “You gotta see this!”

Kate didn’t move. She stood there watching the boat melt into the grayness, fighting the urge to call it back, gather her brother and sister, return to Baltimore, and tell Miss Crumley they would live with the Swan Lady.

She was seized by the arm.

“We must hurry,” the old man said. “There isn’t much time.”

And he took her bag and hustled her down the dock to where Michael and Emma were sitting in the back of a horse-drawn cart, both of them wearing enormous grins.

“Look.” Emma pointed. “A horse.”

The old man helped Kate haul herself in beside her brother and sister, then leapt nimbly into the driver’s seat and snapped the reins, and with a jerk that made the children grab hold of the sides, they were off. Almost immediately, the road cut upward, and as they climbed through the thinning fog, the air once again became crisp and cold.

They’d only been traveling for a few minutes when Michael cried out in surprise.

Kate turned, and had Michael and Emma not been beside her and seeing the same thing, she would’ve thought she was imagining it. Rising up in front of them were the craggy peaks of a great mountain range. But how was that possible? From Westport, they had seen only rounded foothills, far off in the distance; these were real mountains, massive, stone-toothed, looming.