The Unmapped Sea (9 page)

They were so busy laughing and clicking and falling that they did not notice that the doors to the hotel lobby had opened to let in a remarkable parade. First in was a silver-haired woman in a wheelchair, seemingly asleep. A heavy lap robe was tucked around her legs, but still one could see she was grandly dressed, with both hands plunged into a fur-trimmed muff and a lacquered brooch pinned high on the lapel of her coat.

The wheeled chair was pushed by a man, somewhat younger than the captain. His round-rimmed glasses gave him an intent, owlish expression, as if he were thinking profound thoughts. His dark hair was wild from the wind, and long enough to curl around his collar.

Behind them came a large baby carriage, pushed
with effort by a young woman in a long, slim-fitting coat. She was slight, pale in complexion but pink-cheeked from the cold, with nervous, darting eyes and mouse-brown hair that hung down her back in a single loose braid. There may have been a baby in the carriage, or maybe not; it was piled so high with blankets that it was impossible to tell.

There may have been a baby in the carriage, or maybe not.

The swirl of cold air that accompanied this group caused the hearth fire to flare up, and that is what finally caught the attention of Penelope and the Incorrigibles. They turned in time to see a girl race in and dart in front of the baby carriage, as if she were being chased. She looked to be around Alexander's age. She wore a scarlet wool coat with a fur-trimmed collar and brass buttons that ran all the way down the front, and a matching hat with flaps that covered both of her ears. Even her gloves were scarlet. Her hair was pale as wheat, and hung in ringlets on either side of her face. It was plain she had been crying.

Two younger boys ran in after her. They were identical twins and dressed alike, too, but they were not difficult to tell apart, as one of them had a ferocious black eye.

“You rotten boys,” the girl shrieked. “Words cannot describe my hatred of you. Noisy and Vulgar! That is
what you should have been named.”

“Be quiet, Veronika,” one of the boys spat back. “Or we shall dip your hair in ink while you sleep.”

“And put bugs in your shoes,” said the other.

“And spit in your soup.”

“And steal your diary and read it aloud! Oh, I wonder! Who is Veronika in love with today?”

Gleefully they stuck out their matching tongues. Poor Veronika sank to her knees, weeping. “Grandmamma!” she wailed, and collapsed fully to the ground. “Make them stop!”

The old woman in the wheelchair stirred. Slowly she withdrew her hands from the muff. Each bony finger bore a precious stone the size of a duck's egg. She unfurled a bejeweled claw and crooked it at the twins, who gulped and fell silent.

“
Nyet!
” she growled.

The boys sniveled, and Veronika beat her fists against the carpet and wept passionately from the floor. A piercing infant wail added itself to the mix, prompting the anxious young woman with the braid to rush to the front of the carriage, cooing and scolding. “Look what you've done, you awful children! You have woken Maximilian! Come to Julia, darling Max! My sweet, tiny Max, my delicate infant, my prize . . .”

She dug through the blankets until the child was revealed. He was neither tiny nor an infant; in fact, he was old enough to sit up and yell, and that is what he now did. His face was round as a full moon, and his mouth opened like a perfect O. The sound that came out would have been impressive for a trumpet; for a baby, it was nothing short of remarkable. As he yowled, his chubby fists flailed by his sides, but he was bundled in a coat so thick that his arms hardly moved. More than anything, he looked like a baby dodo flapping its useless wings.

The man who pushed the wheelchair did not turn his head or raise his voice when he spoke, but his voice was so sharp with annoyance it easily cut through the din. “Constantin Ivanovich! Boris Ivanovich! If you continue to behave like wild animals, I will make arrangements to donate you to an English zoo. Would you like that, I wonder? Your parents would thank me, I'm sure.”

“Papa will not let you!” the boys screeched as one, but clearly they were afraid, and their sniveling turned to full-throated bawls.

The baby cried harder and beat his arms, until his moon face went scarlet as Veronika's coat. Julia lifted his overheated bulk from the carriage and bounced
him on her hip. “Maxie, precious! Ignore your brothers, they are monsters. Someday you will be bigger than them. Then you will teach them a lesson!”

At the sight of the unhappy baby, the Incorrigibles rushed over to help. Cassiopeia patted one flushed and sweaty hand, and Beowulf jumped back and forth in front of him, playing peekaboo.

“Ah. Ha. Hah!” Alexander said, to make the baby laugh. The child stopped crying and gave him a puzzled stare.

The twin with the black eye (it was Constantin) also stopped bawling and scowled. “What are you saying?”

“He is mocking Papa!” the other one, Boris, cried.

“Mocking!” Constantin agreed. “Mocking Papa!”

As one, the furious twins ran up to Alexander as if to strike him. Instead, they ripped off their mittens and hurled them to the ground at his feet.

“A duel! We challenge you to a duel!” they cried. “This insult cannot go unanswered!”

“You dropped your gloves,” Alexander said helpfully, and stooped to pick them up. When he bent over, the twins pushed him to the ground. Beowulf and Cassiopeia began to growl, but Alexander looked more startled than hurt.

“You terrible boys!” Julia had to shout over Baby
Max's earsplitting wails. “That is no way to introduce yourselves.”

“Beowulf! Cassiopeia!” Penelope rushed forward and helped Alexander to his feet. “No growling, if you please! These children are visitors from a far-off land, and their customs may be different from ours. Let us make our friendly intentions known.” Hastily she curtsied to the grandmother. “I beg your pardon, madame! It seems there has been an unfortunate misunderstanding. . . .”

With sudden strength, the grandmother wheeled herself close enough to the twins to give each of them a pinch. “No duels, do you hear me?” she said. “Do you want to get us thrown out of another hotel? I will tell your mother and father that you are acting like savages! Then what, eh? You know the captain's temper.”

Constantin and Boris went limp as rag dolls and hung their heads. “Sorry, Grandmamma,” they mumbled, and began to weep afresh, but silently this time. In friendlier circumstances, the Incorrigibles would have offered their pocket handkerchiefs, but in a situation so fraught with confusion it seemed better to wait.

Penelope turned to the grandmother. “Madame, I apologize for this poor first impression. We mean no offense. I am the children's governess, Miss Penelope Lumley—”

The old woman held up her hand. “
Nyet!
I am too old to meet people. Veronika! Get off the floor and speak to this English girl. Why your father insisted on coming to this place I don't know. The Black Sea! Now, that's a good beach.”

Veronika, who had been thrashing in misery this whole time, leaped gracefully to her feet. She seemed perfectly cheerful now that her three brothers were all crying. “Good afternoon! My name is Veronika Ivanovna Babushkinova. I am twelve years old. I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Then, rising to her toes as much as a person can do in winter boots, she spun around twice, in a perfect double pirouette.

Penelope clapped her hands. “How marvelous! Did you see that, children? We have a ballerina in our midst.”

Beowulf looked unimpressed. Cassiopeia still glared at the twins.

“My ballet shoes are in my room,” Veronika trilled. “Shall I run get them now? In them I would dance
en pointe
.”

“On pwah,”
her brothers repeated sarcastically through their tears. “Ugly Veronika and her smelly toe shoes!”

“These are my awful brothers,” Veronika said brightly.
“How I wish they had never been born! May I present Boris Ivanovich Babushkinov and Constantin Ivanovich Babushkinov. They are twins. Eight years old. Savages!” At the sounds of their names, the twins clicked their heels and bowed. Then they went back to sniveling.

Veronika gestured toward the baby. “This is my youngest brother. Maximilian Ivanovich Babushkinov. We call him Baby Max. Julia is his nurse.” Julia smiled nervously as she switched the massive, squalling baby to her other hip. “And this is our grandmamma, the Princess Popkinova. I think she has fallen back asleep.” The old lady's eyes were closed once more. Her chin had dropped on her chest, which rose and fell in time to a gentle snore.

“Don't forget your tutor.” Julia threw a sideways glance at the dark-haired man behind the wheelchair.

“I apologize, of course! How could I forget?” Veronika's cheeks flushed. “This is our tutor, Master Gogolev.”

“Good afternoon,” the man said. His tone was quiet, almost indifferent, but his owlish eyes seemed to miss nothing. “I am Karl Romanovich Gogolev. At your service, Miss Lumley.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master
Gogolev,” Penelope answered. So the Babushkinov children had a tutor, not a governess! Already she found herself wishing he had spent more time teaching good manners to his pupils.

The twins were now whispering “Smelly toe shoes, smelly toe shoes,” over and over.

“My brothers are barbarians,” Veronika explained. “They are not gentlemen, like
you
.” This last remark was directed at Alexander. She curtsied as a ballerina would at the end of a performance, one knee touching the ground, head bent low, and her arms swooping wide like wings. Then she popped up again and giggled. “Tonight we are to go ice skating. You will come. Yes? Yes!”

Alexander gazed up at Veronika, for she was a head taller than he was. There was an odd, stricken look on his face, and Penelope worried that he might have hurt himself when he was pushed by the twins. “Are you all right?” she asked, but he seemed not to hear her.

“Alexander Incorrigible Incorrigible,” he managed to say, and clicked his heels. “At your service, Miss Veronika Ballerina Babushkawoo!”

T
HE
S
IXTH
C
HAPTER
A friendship is formed on thin ice.

S
O THESE WERE THE HORRIBLE
Babushkawoos! They were a lively bunch, to be sure. “Veronika is a talented dancer, and the twins are full of pep,” Penelope conceded, when the Incorrigibles asked her what she thought of their new acquaintances. “And Baby Max's lung capacity is nothing short of remarkable. He could easily grow up to be an opera singer, with proper training and years of practice, of course.”

Penelope and the children had retired to their room for a well-earned rest; as you can see, she was still trying hard to keep an open mind about the Babushkinovs.
But, honestly! The baby was louder than a Bloomer steam engine pulling into the station. Veronika was an attention seeker of the first order, and those cruel, whining twins would be enough to drive anyone mad. What a job it would be to have to teach them! Their tutor, Master Gogolev, was an odd duck too, dour and sharp-tongued, but Penelope could hardly blame the man for having a touch of
weltschmerz
about him. One could only imagine the difficulties he had to contend with every day.

Penelope's own pupils made no such effort to keep their minds open; in fact, the Incorrigibles had already formed an unshakable opinion of their fellow guests at the Right Foot Inn. “They are dreadful! Savages! Barbarians! We
love
the Babushkawoos,” they declared, clearly in awe of this strange, violent family.

That three well-behaved children who had been raised by wolves would be so charmed by the utterly untamed Babushkinovs struck Penelope as ironic, but she thought it best not to say so, other than to offer a gentle warning. “Do not forget yourselves, my dear Incorrigibles. You must act with courtesy, no matter how—well,
expressive
your new friends may be. That is their way, and we have our way. Do you understand?”

The Incorrigibles assured her that they did understand, and that they would use the evening's ice-skating trip as a chance to show off their finest behavior: good manners on ice, one might call it.

Satisfied with this reply, Penelope slumped in the chair by the porthole window. Ice-skating! As if hunting hermit crabs in January had not been bone-chilling enough! She desperately wished there were a way to get out of it, but of course the Incorrigibles were dead set on going, each for his or her own reason.

Daredevil Cassiopeia longed to rocket across the ice with razor-sharp blades strapped to her feet. To her, it seemed the ideal mode of travel. Aloud she wondered if they might someday move to wildest Canada and live as the Eskimaux do, with their igloos and sled dogs.

It was the frozen pond itself that fascinated Beowulf. He was deeply curious about how such a large, flat sheet of ice might catch and reflect the moonlight, and pondered how an artist like himself might represent such ethereal loveliness in paint.

Alexander mumbled something about “cardiovascular exercise” and “preparedness for Arctic exploration,” but neither of these explained the care with which he chose his outfit for the evening (that his clothes would be hidden beneath his coat seemed
not to factor into his thinking). Nor did they account for his many fruitless attempts to smooth his hair, which had been made hopelessly unruly by a long day in a close-fitting hat.

Evidently, Veronika Ivanovna Babushkinova was the main attraction as far as Alexander was concerned. This fact was not lost on his siblings. Cassiopeia teasingly began calling him the Tsar of Love, but Beowulf was more sympathetic to his brother's plight. He offered to compose some love poetry on Alexander's behalf, and set about trying to find words to rhyme with “Veronika.” After a quarter of an hour's hard labor, all he had come up with was the woefully unromantic “harmonica,” which he declared too shrill and reedy for use in a love poem.

“Tell her to change her name,” he suggested.

For some reason Alexander took great offense at this. His mittens had been hung by the fire to dry; instead he yanked his handkerchief out of his pocket and hurled it to the ground. “Veronika she is, and Veronika she must remain! This insult cannot go unanswered! I challenge you to a—”

One stern glance from his governess restored him to his senses. “A game of chess,” he finished, his head hung low in shame. Beowulf accepted the challenge,
and the two brothers sat down to play. With Penelope's watchful eye upon them, they conducted themselves with impeccable sportsmanship.

“Excellent move, little brother! I did not see that coming.”

“You're playing well, too, big brother! Sorry to capture your knight. Couldn't be helped.”

“Not at all. On the bright side, I still have both bishops. Whoops! I fear I've got you in check for the moment. Sorry about that!”

Penelope leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, and reflected on the fact that bad behavior was nearly as contagious as puns. “And now we have a whole evening to spend with those horrible—I mean, those interesting Babushkinovs. But blast! Why must it be ice-skating?” She had only been ice-skating once, some years before, when a bitter cold snap caused the largest pond in Heathcote to freeze all the way across. It was a rare event, so rare that Miss Mortimer canceled all classes and declared a Totally Unplanned Skating Holiday. Little, shivering Penelope had spent the day of the TUSH falling on her bottom and desperately wishing for a cup of hot tea.

“Lumawoo?” Cassiopeia was practicing her skating technique by hopping from one leg to the other. “Why
do Babushkawoos have three names?”

Reluctantly Penelope opened her eyes. “That is how Russian names work. The first name is your own, the second is based on your father's first name, and the third is your family name. The endings of the second and third names change a bit depending on whether you are a boy or a girl.”

Cassiopeia gave another hop. “What would
our
Babushkawoo names be?”

“That would depend on the names of your parents,” she replied uneasily.

Alexander and Beowulf looked up from their chessboard. Due to their extreme courtesy, the game had quickly ended in a draw, as neither player could bear to checkmate the other.

“But what
are
the names of our parents?” Alexander asked.

Three trusting faces gazed at her for an answer. “Well . . . that is to say . . . I do not know,” Penelope admitted. “I am afraid the identity of your parents is somewhat of a mystery at present.”

The children were silent for a moment, then talked quietly among themselves. In the end they decided to use Woof as their second name, in honor of Mama Woof, the very large and frankly very unusual wolf
that had cared for them during their days in the forest. Incorrigible was the family name given to them by Lord Fredrick. He may not have meant it as a compliment at the time, but now they could not imagine being called anything else.

“Cassiopeia Woofovna Incorrigiblovna!” It was a great deal to pronounce, but Cassiopeia nearly managed it. She took a low, ballerina-style bow at the end.

“Beowulf Woofovich Incorrigiblov!” Beowulf bowed crisply at the waist.

“Alexander Woofovich Incorrigiblov, at your service!” his brother said, with a sharp
clack
of his heels. “Ah. Ha. Hah!”

Cassiopeia looked up from the floor, where her bow had landed her. “What would your Babushkawoo name be, Lumawoo?”

Penelope's brow creased in thought. “It would be Penelope . . . Penelope . . .” But the Long-Lost Lumleys had been lost for so long that minor details like their first names had all but faded into the mist. She stared up at the ceiling to help her concentrate. “My father's first name . . . I am nearly certain his first name was—”

“Was?” Beowulf interjected. “Is he extinct?”

“Hans” is what she was going to say, but Beowulf's question plunged her into icy seas.

Cassiopeia sprang up and tugged on her sleeve. “Don't look sad, Lumawoo. You can be a Woof Incorrigible, too.”

Penelope tried to smile. “Penelope Swanburnovna Lumawoovna,” she said, when she could speak. “That is what my Babushkawoo name would be.”

A
T SIX O
'
CLOCK, AFTER AN
early supper, all of the eager ice-skaters, and those who were less than eager, gathered in the hotel lobby to walk to the pond as a group. The three elder Babushkinov children were there, and Max rode in the carriage with Julia pushing. Master Gogolev was present as well.

Once more Veronika was dressed in a fur-trimmed coat with matching hat and muff, but this time she was in pure white, from head to toe. “I shall be a dancing snowflake upon the ice,” she sang out as she rose to the tips of her white leather boots. The remark made Alexander sigh and press his hands to his heart, while Beowulf and Cassiopeia were moved to improvise a short ballet they called
Dance of the Melting Snowflake
. It was lovely and brief, and ended tragically for the flake.

Master Gogolev ran his hands through his unkempt hair. “There is no need to wait. The captain is not
coming, alas.” His remark seemed directed at Julia.

“Nor is his wife. Alas for you!” she retorted, a hint of sharpness in her voice. “Nor the princess.”

“Does Grandmamma skate?” Cassiopeia asked, who had just realized that riding a wheeled chair on ice would be doubly slippery, and therefore twice as exciting.

Julia rocked the carriage, for Max was already beginning to fuss. “The Princess Popkinova has retired for the evening,” she said.

“Grandmamma is very old,” Veronika explained. “Older than she looks.”

“She must be two hundred, then!” Beowulf said, impressed.

“She could live in a HAP,” Alexander quipped. “A Home for Ancient Princesses.”

Veronika laughed and twirled. “I do not know what that means! English is so difficult. Yet Master Gogolev says my English is . . . I have forgotten the word—
incredible
, is that it?”

“Your English is not bad,” Master Gogolev said drily. “It is your thinking I find incredible.”

Veronika giggled at what she took to be a compliment. Against the backdrop of her white coat and hat, her blushing cheeks stood out like a pair of apples
dropped in the snow.

“Let us go,” said Julia anxiously. “Before the baby starts to cry.” Poor Max was helpless as a trussed goose in his carriage, overdressed and sweating in his coat and hat, and smothered in blankets all around. Master Gogolev gave a nod, and the hotel doorman pulled open the door, letting in a blast of cold air that scattered all the papers on the front desk.

“Wait,” roared a deep bass drum of a voice. “We come, too.”

Captain Babushkinov's stride was deliberate but covered a great deal of ground; in three steps he had crossed the lobby and loomed before them. In his wake, moving at her own pace, was a woman who seemed to embody the various qualities of all the Babushkinovs rolled into one. She had excellent posture, like Veronika, and wore a great deal of jewelry, like Grandmamma. Like Max, she was dressed for the Arctic winter, and (as was about to become evident) like Boris and Constantin, she had no qualms at all about hurting people's feelings.

“Mama!” the twins cried, and rushed to hug her around the waist. “Will you skate with us? Will you?”

“Nyet.”
She peeled their arms loose. “Me, on the ice? I would rather die! But your father insists. Perhaps he
wishes to torment me.”

“Natasha, never!” The captain reached for her hand, which she quickly drew away. “Your tongue is more sharp than my sword. Be sweet, my darling.”

“If I am sharp, Ivan,
you
know why,” his wife retorted, and turned her back on him. To Penelope, the swerve into argument seemed unprovoked, but she knew from her time with the Ashtons that other people's private lives were just that: private, and full of secrets.

M
ASTER
G
OGOLEV MADE BRIEF INTRODUCTIONS
, and they were off. A porter from the hotel led the way with a torch, for it was already dark. Veronika seized her father's hand and walked next to him, swinging both their arms and chattering ceaselessly as a monkey. Now unescorted, Madame Babushkinov insisted on taking Master Gogolev's arm. Stiffly he obliged.

“Perhaps we ought to turn back,” she said shortly. “I fear Master Gogolev has forgotten his hat.” The tutor was bareheaded, as before, and his hair blew every which way in the wind. Despite the cold night air, his scarf hung loosely around his neck, and he made no move to tighten it.

“No offense, madame,” he replied mildly. “But as you know, I do not wear hats. The pressure on my skull
limits my thinking.”

“You will catch cold, then. And what good is your thinking if you die of pneumonia?” She turned to Penelope. “Master Gogolev and I have this argument daily. I think he likes to provoke me. Hats were the source of our family's fortune—or what is left of it,” she said with sudden bitterness. “Boris, Constantin, do you remember the family motto?”