Casper stared down at his fingers, which were nervously rolling a pen back and forth on the desk. “Well . . . not the whole time. When she first went missing, I honestly didn’t know where she was. She was just . . . I woke up one morning and she was gone. It was awful. My heart shattered into a thousand pieces that morning.” He looked up at them for a moment, as if he were worried that what he’d said was too personal, before looking down at the pen again. “I looked everywhere for her. I was terrified she had done something violent to herself. I knew she wasn’t well, even back then, though I tried not to admit it. When I couldn’t find her on my own, I hired a private investigator and he was the one who finally found her. She was sitting at the top of a fountain in Regent’s Park in London, telling passersby that she was the Sultan of Juwi. I brought her to different hospitals—good hospitals with good reputations—but she was miserable at all of them. They pumped her body full of medication. They tried to convince her that she was Tess Hardscrabble, not a sultan. I did too. I wanted my Tess back so badly. I still do.” He pressed his hand against his mouth for a moment before going on.
“Then I heard about this hospital. It seemed like the right place for her. A place where they’d let her be who she felt she was—the Sultan of Juwi.” Casper looked up at his children as if to gauge their reaction.
“Does she know who we are?” Max asked after a moment.
Casper thought about this before he answered. “It’s hard to say. I believe she knows that she loves us. And today, when she was with you three, there was something in her eyes so like the old Tess that I nearly . . .” He shook his head quickly as if to rid himself of a thought. “No, Max. I don’t think she really knows who we are.”
“And all the other people . . . the patients in the courtyard,” Lucia said. “Why did you tell us they were royals?”
“So you knew the Duchess of Hildenhausen was Harriet, did you?” he said. He was clearly more chuffed than embarrassed about the lie. “Well, the funny eye gave it away, I suppose. But Prince Alexei? Without his beard even. I suppose the likeness was quite good . . .” He stopped smiling when he saw his children’s solemn faces staring back.
“Yes, well.” Casper cleared his throat. “All those times I went to visit your mum . . . well I had to explain it somehow, didn’t I? And painting royal portraits seemed like such a beautiful lie.”
“But it was all a lie,” Lucia said angrily. “Why? Why did you hide the truth about Mum all these years? It wasn’t fair, Dad, it wasn’t right.”
This, of course, was the question that Casper had been dreading and the one he knew that his children would, one day, ask him. He’d never imagined that the day would come so soon, though.
“I kept meaning to tell you . . . ,” he stammered.
“Well, what good is that?” Max stormed at him. “All this time we might have known her. We might have visited her. We might have—”
“Did you know?” Lucia asked Otto suddenly.
They all looked at Otto, including Casper.
Otto said nothing at first. Then slowly, hesitantly, his hands began to move. “I didn’t know where she was. But I knew there was something wrong with her. I remember when she began to change. All the strange things she did and said. And then she’d become herself again for a while, so you’d think you had imagined it all.”
“Did he know?” Casper looked to Lucia for a translation. “I was never sure.”
Otto nodded at his father and Casper buried his head in his hands.
“It was massively wrong of you to keep it from us, Dad!” Lucia said.
“I know.”
“Beastly selfish!”
“I know it was,” Casper groaned miserably. “Every year I’d say to myself, this is the year I’ll tell them. They’re old enough now. They can surely handle it. But just as I was about to sit you all down and tell you, I’d always become afraid that if I did . . . if I told you . . .” He stared at them helplessly, at a loss for words.
Ironically, it was Otto who found the words for him:
“He was afraid that if he told us about Mum, it would have made it all true.”
The Hardscrabble children have many faults, I don’t have to tell you that. But they have several very fine qualities as well and one of them is that they have a deep appreciation of how frail all human beings are, especially when it comes to the people they love. Also, they nearly always try to avoid stepping on ants when they can help it and they hardly ever drink straight from the milk container.
“I suppose we understand,” Lucia said.
“Really?” Casper looked at all his children.
They all nodded, and Casper shook his head in wonder that such a gigantic muddle could have turned out so well, all things considered.
Right at this moment I could make a very happy ending. Mr. Dupuis says that it’s best to end on a happy note.
Still it feels like there is more to say so I think I’ll just carry on a little longer. Anyway, I am beginning to question if Mr. Dupuis really knows what he’s talking about. I don’t believe he’s ever written a book, he only reads them, and writing them and reading them are very different things as I’ve come to find out.
“Look at the time,” Casper said, checking his watch. “We’ll have to get started if we’re going to catch the two-fifteen train.”
“The train?” Lucia said, feeling suddenly quite deflated. “Back to Little Tunks you mean?”
“Well, where else?” Casper said.
“I don’t know . . . ,” Lucia said, frowning. “It just feels too soon. It feels like . . .”
“Like something more should happen,” Max finished for her.
“And what about Haddie? We have to say good-bye to her at least,” Lucia said.
“Oh, right. Haddie.” Casper sighed, as if just saying her name exhausted him, and he reluctantly pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. “She asked me to give you this. I hate to think what it says. She’s an odd one, that Haddie.”
“Good odd,” Lucia said as she reached for the envelope. Otto got it first though and he tore open the envelope, which was carefully sealed. The letter inside was written on the same light blue paper as her letter to Casper had been. The Hardscrabble children pulled their chairs close together and read it. Here is what it said:
Dear Otto, Lucia, and Max,
in no particular order,
Congratulations! If you are reading this it means that you are not dead, decapitated, or otherwise mortally wounded. It also means that you have probably met your mother. She’s terrific, isn’t she? Yes, I know she’s mad as a hatter but she is still the most dazzling person I’ve ever known. And somewhere deep, deep down, she remembers all three of you. Why else would she have slipped out of the hospital when she spotted Lucia and Max on the siege tower (I was positive you’d go up there when I expressly told you not to. I would have done exactly the same and we are related after all)?
Now listen, there’s nothing I hate more than weepy good-byes, so don’t bother coming back to the folly because I won’t be there. But I did want to tell you this. You might be feeling disappointed right about now because you have faced dark tunnels and high cliffs and grave danger, yet nothing has changed. You are still the Hardscrabble kids who live in Little Tunks with their dad and not their mom. Though you have risked life and limb, you still have to clip your toenails every so often. Your lives will feel pretty blechhy for a while. All heroes feel that way after their adventure is over. But not to worry. You’ve had a big adventure before the age of fourteen, and now your lives will never be the same. Adventure is addictive, my friends. Before long you’ll find some other way to risk your necks. Poor old Casper!
This won’t be the last time we see each other (again, poor old Casper!). I have become very fond of the folly and Snoring-by-the-Sea and even of Saint George (we shared five packages of strawberry Twizzlers and seven packages of Ring Dings while we were waiting for your return. I even got him to eat a peanut butter an
d jelly sandwich and he didn’t gag but I think he was just being brave). I plan on renting the folly at Christmas and again next summer and you can stay as long as you like. The Sultan of Juwi would be overjoyed. So would I.
You will find Chester in a cat carrier at the train station, being tended to by the guy at the ticket booth, who was feeding him salt-and-vinegar crisps last I saw. So heads-up for some unpleasant smells on the way back to Little Tunks.
With love and great admiration, Great-aunt Haddie.
So, I guess this story’s ending is what they call “bittersweet.” In other words, things did not turn out the way the way the Hardscrabbles had hoped they would, yet somehow it all came out right anyway. Which I rather suspect is how life works in general.
As the train pulled away from the Snoring-by-the-Sea station, the Hardscrabbles stared out the window, watching as the view retraced their visit. They could see the path they had first walked towards the town. They caught a distant glimpse of the clutter of rooftops and the neighbourhood where they had found Saint George’s shop. Finally they saw the familiar stretch of woods, thick, leafy hummocks that slipped downwards toward the valley.
It was Otto who spied it first. He suddenly leaned across Max and placed a finger on the window.
“Look!” he said.
“What?” Max asked.
“Don’t you see it? Floating above the trees?”
“Do you mean that little cloud thing?” Lucia asked.
Otto shook his head. “It’s not a cloud. It’s fog.” His hand automatically moved to touch his scarf before he remembered it was no longer there. Instead, he touched his neck. His hand lingered there for a moment, as though astonished at the feel of his own bare skin. “It’s a little twist of fog,” he said.
And that’s exactly what it was. They watched it as it playfully tumbled over the treetops, diving down then reappearing a moment later, only to wind through the branches. They watched it until the train sped around a bend and it was lost from view.
So there is your one ghost, which I promised you back in Chapter Eleven.
I think I’m going to end this book here because the Hardscrabbles are all feeling quite wonderful now and in another twenty-four minutes they are going to have an argument over the windowseat on the train, during which things will get ugly.
Acknowledgments
It’s not that the Hardscrabbles are ungrateful. It’s just that they are no good at this thank-you business, so they have handed the job over to Ellen Potter, who has loads of people she wants to thank and is not embarrassed to get soppy about it. Here she goes:
Thanks forever and always to my husband, Adam, who has been my best friend and champion since we were seventeen years old. Also a million thanks to my dear friend Anne Mazer, who, like Saint George, always hits the target, on and off the page.
I feel especially indebted to my brilliant editor, Jean Feiwel, who understands that a writer’s favorite words are, “Write what you want to write. I trust you.”
Thanks to my extraordinary agent, Alice Tasman, who is just the sort of grown-up that the Hardscrabbles like best.
I am tremendously grateful to Liz Szabla, Dave Barrett, and Kathryn McKeon, who painstakingly nipped and tucked this manuscript into shape.
There are several people who helped massively with the writing of this book: Thanks to my young advisor and friend, Juwairiyya Asmal-Lee, who is as bold and funny and honest as Lucia Hardscrabble. Thanks to fellow writer and friend Sumayya Lee, who generously vetted this book. Also I am very grateful to Dayna Nye and John Swartz for their updates on gits, lurgies, and all manner of sugary snacks.
Ellen Potter, The Kneebone Boy
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