The Unmapped Sea (15 page)

“No!” yelled the Babushkawoos.

“You are right.” She leaned back in her wheelchair and paused, for telling such a tale was hard work. “Now the bride and groom are alone on the sleigh. The horse is tired, his breath like this—” She made a sound like a broken bellows, to demonstrate the wheezing pant of the exhausted animal. “Behind them, the wolves keep running, running. Closer and closer. Still hungry.”

Alexander and Beowulf looked pale. Cassiopeia clutched Penelope's hand under the table. The eyes of the Babushkinovs, young and old, glittered with
anticipation. The table fell silent, save for some excited gurgles from Max.

“What happened next?” Cassiopeia squeaked.

The princess raised one crooked finger. The milky jewel of her moonstone ring caught the candlelight and shone like a tiny pale planet. “To save himself, the groom throws his bride to the wolves. And finally, he gets away.”

“The groom lives, yay! Happy ending!” Veronika clapped Max's chubby hands together for him while the twins cheered. Alexander, Beowulf, and Cassiopeia sat in silence, their mouths hanging open in shock.

The princess laughed. “Fools! Is not happy ending. When the groom reaches the village, and the people learn what he has done, they call him monster, monster! They cast him out. He lives out his days alone, weeping. That is how my story ends. With guilt and misery and loneliness.”

She stabbed a piece of meat with a fork and ate it with deep satisfaction.

“Good story,” the captain said, after a while. “In the end, most are dead; the rest, unhappy. Just like life.”

“Thrilling, yes,” Lord Fredrick agreed, although he did not sound terribly thrilled. “Bit of a dark message in there. Not sure what it is, though.”

Lady Constance smiled angelically. “Pass the bread basket, please!”

A
FTER DINNER, ADULTS AND CHILDREN
alike rose from the table and gathered in chairs near the fire for coffee and after-dinner biscuits. The Incorrigibles were strangely subdued after hearing the princess's tale about the wolves (although the wolves were hardly the worst thing in it, as some of you will surely agree). But Boris, Constantin, and Veronika now proudly referred to themselves as the Savage Babushkawoos, and begged the Incorrigibles to teach them to howl, which of course they were glad to do. Even little Max attempted some piping baby howls. His parents found it endearing. It was certainly no worse a noise than hearing their children whine and fight.

Penelope could not wait for the evening to be over. She was utterly worn out from love-struck epiphanies and gruesome tales, and more than anything she wanted to have a bath and go to bed. Perhaps by morning she would no longer be in love with Simon, and circumstances would return to normal. Although, to be frank, Penelope hardly knew what normal circumstances were anymore. Were grooms throwing their brides to the wolves normal? Were family curses? And
what about the strange similarity in hair color between her and the Incorrigible children, which even the self-absorbed Master Gogolev had noticed? Surely that kind of coincidence was not the least bit normal; in fact, it seemed highly unlikely, although perhaps not impossible—

“Excuse me,” said one of the hotel staff. “There is a strange old woman in the lobby who claims to tell fortunes. Shall I send her in? Sometimes our guests find such persons amusing.”

“Oh, do!” cried Madame Babushkinov, before anyone could protest. “I don't believe a word any fortune-teller says, but her nonsense will cheer us up, after sitting through that terrible story.”

“Yes, spooky nonsense. It's all poppycock,” Lord Fredrick said. He stood abruptly, as if possessed by the urge to bolt, but Lady Constance dozed in her fireside chair with her feet on a cushion and a contented smile on her lips, and could not easily be moved. He stood near her, cracking his knuckles and glancing nervously at the door.

Moments later the fortune-teller came in, hunched and shuffling, and swaddled in countless layers of colorful scarves. “Good evening, good people,” she croaked.

“At least she has the sense to keep her head covered,” Madame Babushkinov said to Gogolev, who jumped up from his chair as if pinched.

“We don't believe in you, soothsayer, but sit and be comfortable,” the tutor said, and gestured for the woman to take his seat.

“But you
do
believe in me,” the crone replied in her rasping voice. “All of you do, except one.” She closed her eyes and swayed like a charmed cobra. “Yes, I see it clearly. Even now, one of you wishes to speak to me in private, and is wondering how it might be arranged.”

At that, Julia started to cry. Gogolev went over to assist, but she shook him off and fled the room, weeping.

“Oops,” said the fortune-teller with a shrug. “Sorry about that.”

“Never mind that foolish girl; she would cry all day if she could,” Madame Babushkinov said. “But I think you have already told a false fortune, soothsayer. Who is the one person among us who does not believe in you?”

The fortune-teller slowly turned. “Him,” she said. She was pointing at Baby Max.

“Ahwoo,”
the baby howled, clapping his hands. Lord Fredrick flinched, but the fortune-teller grinned.
Approximately half of her teeth were missing.

The many scarves, the spooky pronouncements, the hunched posture, the missing teeth . . . “She gives an
impression
of Madame Ionesco, but this woman is not Madame Ionesco,” Penelope thought. For one thing, even hunched over, she was much too tall.

The Incorrigibles looked suspicious as well. All three sniffed deeply. “Our friend Madame Ionesco smells of Gypsy cakes,” Alexander said, cocking his head to the side. “This lady smells of . . . greasepaint.”

“And pirates, but nice ones,” said Cassiopeia, puzzled.

“And iambic pentameter,” added Beowulf.

“Clever children,” the fortune-teller cooed. “Such clever wolf babies!”

Penelope was on her feet in a heartbeat. Greasepaint and pirates and iambic pentameter? She approached the fortune-teller until she was close enough to see the gleam of genius in her—that is to say, his—eye.

“That is no soothsayer!” she yelped. “It is Simon Harley-Dickinson!”

And then, most uncharacteristically for a Swanburne girl, Penelope fainted dead away.

T
HE
N
INTH
C
HAPTER
A trip to the HAM gets sandwiched in.

“C
ALL FOR THE DOCTOR
,” M
ASTER
Gogolev barked to one of the hotel staff. “Martell was his name; he was here last night.”

“Yes, someone call for Dr. Martell!” Madame Babushkinov repeated the order, although she herself made no attempt to be useful. She spoke to her husband in a low voice. “It was that awful story your mother told at dinner that must have upset the girl so! Why must the old woman always be so unpleasant? In the future we must remember to keep her far away
from the young governess—”

She stopped midsentence when she saw the Ashtons standing nearby. “Poor thing!” she cooed to Lady Constance, in quite a different tone. “Your Miss Lumley must be one of those delicate English roses one hears about. Does she often collapse?”

“I'm sure I wouldn't know.” Lady Constance stretched and yawned. “But my goodness, Miss Lumley looks so comfortable lying down on the carpet like that! The sight of her is making me sleepy. Fredrick, take me to my room, if you please. It was a lovely dinner, except for all the talking, but I scarcely listened, so no harm was done. Good night to you all, or should I say,
Buona notte a tutti!
”

Her husband was quick to obey, but he spoke a few words in the ear of the hotel manager on the way out. “Yes, fetch the doctor for Miss Lumley and do as he advises, what? I'll cover the expense, just add it to my bill.”

Meanwhile, the Incorrigible children and Simon had rushed to Penelope's side (for, yes, beneath his costume and stage makeup, the newcomer was, in fact, Simon!). The children patted her hands and cheeks and made soothing cooing sounds, while Simon tore the scarves off his head and put his ear to her chest.

“Her heart seems steady enough,” he said, though he sounded worried. “Halloo! Are you in there, Miss L?”

“Fortune-tellers always frighten me! I nearly fainted, too.” Veronika fanned herself dramatically. “It is unnatural! The future is supposed to be a mystery.”

The princess laughed bitterly. “What mystery? Future is same for everyone. We are born, we live, we die. Simple.”

“And all the rest is poetry,” Gogolev exclaimed with fervor. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, so that he might think deeply about what he had just said.

At last Penelope's eyes fluttered open. She struggled to sit up. “Simon!” she said, and then, “What happened to your teeth?”

He grimaced and rubbed off the tooth black with a pocket handkerchief. “Bit of stagecraft, that's all. Part of my fortune-teller act. Sorry for the fright! If I'd know my little performance would upset you so, I'd have sung a few harmless sea chanteys instead.”

“Did you hear that? He is an impostor! Someone call the police,” Madame Babushkinov demanded. At her words, the twins clenched their fists, eager for an excuse to start punching.

The captain held up his beefy hands. “My dear Natasha, calm yourself! This is my fault. Let the actor
explain.” He gave a nod to Simon, who, after receiving a reassuring look from Penelope, began.

“It's a tale of theatrical adventure gone wrong, I'm afraid. I arrived in Brighton this afternoon. On my way from the station, I stopped at the post office, where I happened to meet the captain. We struck up a conversation about his whiskers, which I admired greatly. Still do!” He grinned. “I thought they'd be just the thing for a costume of Lord Nelson. I'm thinking of writing a play about the Battle of Trafalgar, wouldn't that be a thrill? Though I haven't yet figured out how to get the Spanish fleet on stage.”

“Admiral Nelson, enemy of Napoleon!” the captain roared, then spat on the ground in disgust (as you may recall, the mere mention of the name Napoleon was enough to set the captain off).

“That he was, sir! Anyway, about the whiskers . . . I said, ‘Are they real?' and the captain said,
‘Da!'
and invited me to give a pull. In this way, a friendship was born! After that, we got to talking. When he found out I was a man of the theater, he asked me to provide a bit of entertainment tonight, after dinner.”

The captain shrugged. “My wife gets bored. I thought she would like.”

Madame Babushkinov rolled her eyes but nevertheless
seemed pleased to have somehow been the cause of all the trouble.

Simon sat back on his heels. “The fortune-teller act was my idea, inspired by an acquaintance in London.”

“Madame Ionesco!” the Incorrigible children guessed.

“Correct! I improvised a costume, found my way to the hotel, and you know the rest. But imagine my shock at seeing my good friends, Miss Penelope Lumley and the Incorrigible children, right here in the front row! That's an unlikely plot twist, even by my standards.” With fresh concern he added, “And now I've frightened Miss Lumley half to death, too. I hope you can forgive me! I knew better than to break character during a performance, but rest assured, I was just as surprised to see you as you were to see me.”

“But I asked you to come!” she said, still groggy. “I sent you a letter!”

He reached into his shirt pocket and produced a familiar envelope. “I know. I'm looking forward to reading it, too. I picked it up today, in Brighton.” At her bewildered look, he explained. “My life in London is a bit footloose at present, but as long as my great-uncle Pudge lives in the Home for Ancient Mariners, Brighton's the one place I can count on returning to now and
again. I've had all my mail forwarded to the Brighton General Post Office; it's always my first stop when I arrive.” He held the envelope up to the light and read, “‘Theatrical Firmament.' Say, that's a nice touch.”

He looked at her with the trace of an easy smile still on his lips, and carelessly pushed that poetic lock of hair off his forehead. The room spun 'round, and Penelope sagged once more. Luckily, someone had had the sense to fetch Mrs. Clarke, who had just arrived in her nightgown and slippers. She was armed with smelling salts, which she now waved under Penelope's nose.

“I smell . . . seashells . . . by the seashore . . . ,” Penelope mumbled, slowly coming to. Then, “Simon!” she exclaimed when she saw him bending over her, and she closed her eyes, for she had just remembered that she was in love with him.

Alarmed, Simon gestured for Mrs. Clarke to give another wave of the smelling salts. “I'm Simon, we've established that, yes. Say, are you going to keep fainting?”

“The doctor's here, the doctor's here!” the twins chanted, and everyone stood back to make room for Dr. Martell, who quickly took charge. “The girl needs some air, that's it. All of you, please go about your
business,” he ordered, and promptly sent the Babushkinovs and all the curious, hovering servants away. He asked the Incorrigible children to find an empty luggage cart and bring it right back. They dashed off to do as they were told, as it was all for the good of their beloved Lumawoo.

Dr. Martell was a man of great experience and wisdom, of course. And, as you no doubt recall, he had been the sole witness to Penelope's unplanned skid into the Seashell of Love. Something about the way this earnest young man with the unruly forelock refused to budge from Penelope's side made the good doctor put two and two together.

“Your name's not Simon, is it?” he asked. “Simon Harley-something?”

“Why, yes! How'd you know?” Simon answered.

“A little seashell told me.” He chuckled. “No wonder she fainted! Stay right here; I'll need you to help me get Miss Lumley onto the luggage cart so we can wheel her to her room. Tomorrow, when she's awake, I expect the two of you will have a matter of importance to discuss.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
P
ENELOPE AWOKE
in a buoyant mood, like a happy seabird floating effortlessly over
the waves. “What a remarkable dream,” she thought, and smiled at the sheer absurdity of it. Imagine, Simon dressed in costume as Madame Ionesco! And Dr. Martell giving her a ride on a luggage cart, as if she were a little girl!

It was only after she rolled onto her side and saw Cassiopeia tangled in the sheets, still in her clothes from the previous day and deep in the openmouthed sleep of a child who has gone to bed hours past her bedtime, that a pulse of suspicion began to throb. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The boys were also asleep in their clothes, and she could not for the life of her remember putting them to bed that way, or putting them to bed at all. The morning light streamed in brightly through the porthole window. It must already be nine o'clock, well after their usual breakfast time.

Penelope sniffed. There was a faint smell of ammonia in the room. She followed her nose to a small table near the door. Upon it was a stoppered bottle of smelling salts, next to a handwritten note that read:
Just in case! From your friend Simon, the Very Sorry Soothsayer.

“It was no dream!” she whispered as the disjointed events of the previous night came galloping back to mind. Parts of her memory were lost in a fog, and she
hoped nothing dreadfully embarrassing had taken place, but of one thing she was certain: Simon was here, in Brighton, already!

Her sentiments began hopping willy-nilly from one emotion to its opposite. Simon's arrival was the best—and worst—and best—thing that could have happened! She wanted to see him and hide from him, and tell him and not tell him what was in her heart. But she was a Swanburne girl, after all, and her pluck and common sense had been largely restored by a good night's sleep.

Still, it was not easy to settle herself. What she most needed, she decided, was a nice restorative cup of tea. That would put to rest any remaining flutters of her heart and mind, and then she could get on calmly with the tasks of the day.

“I expect it will be a busy day, too,” she thought as she washed her face, dressed, and pinned her hair into a smooth, tidy bun, with not a stray hair to be seen. It was the bun of a young lady who would not be easily flustered, by romance, family curses, or other supernatural events. “It is certainly convenient that Simon has arrived ahead of schedule. Now that he is here, we can go to the HAM, visit Great-Uncle Pudge, and learn the secrets of Ahwoo-Ahwoo. Then I can see about procuring a ship for Lady Constance. Clearly, I have
much too much to do to allow myself the distraction of lovesick poppycock!”

Out of the room she stepped—and almost tripped over the luggage cart parked directly in front of her door, upon which reclined Simon Harley-Dickinson.

“Simon! Oh, my!” she exclaimed. Her hand flew to her bun, which suddenly seemed in danger of springing loose. “That is to say, good morning.”

He leaped up at the sound of her voice and narrowly missed hitting his head on the cart. “Yes, it's me, the man himself. Good morning! You're just the person I was hoping to see.” He grinned, and rubbed his head. “I suppose that's clear by the way I've set up camp outside your room.”

“I was expecting—that is to say, hoping—to see you as well.” In a desperate act of self-preservation, she added, “The children are still asleep, and I am on my way to the lobby to get some tea. Would you care to join me?”

“That is a fine suggestion,” he said, and off they went.

I
N SILENCE THEY MADE THEIR
way to the lobby. They poured cups of tea from the tea station, added lumps of sugar and splashes of cream, and found adjoining seats near the fire. Only after Penelope had taken a few
calming sips did she dare sneak a look at her friend. Had he changed, since last they met? Or was all the change in her? “I am glad to see him,” she decided, “but I must not let myself be
too
glad, or I shall not be able to maintain my composure,” and so she found herself glancing away from him every thirty seconds or so, by redirecting her gaze at the carpet, or the wallpaper, or the ceiling.

Simon drained his tea in a gulp and gave her a warm smile. “Well, you're up and talking, at least. That's good news. Did you sleep well?”

“Perfectly well, and you?” She took another sip, with her eyes fixed on her shoe.

“Well enough. I've never spent the night on a luggage cart before.” He set down his cup and leaned toward her, hands clasped, with his elbows perched on his knees. It brought his face nearer to her, which made it more difficult to look away. “Say, it's awfully good to see you. I apologize again about giving you such a scare! I never took you for the fainting type, to be honest.”

“I cannot explain it myself; it has never happened before,” she said, which was true. Then again, she had never been in love before! “I am sure it was not your fault,” she went on hurriedly. “No doubt it was all this sea air.”

He frowned. “I thought the sea air was good for you.”

“Exactly, quite right; taking deep breaths by the sea has put me in such vibrant good health, I have grown lightheaded from it!” She smiled at him as long as she dared, then lifted her eyes and gazed intently at some hairline cracks in the wall plaster.