The Mourning Emporium

  Renzo’s back twitched slightly, yet he said nothing. He was either not interested in her suffering or asleep—or pretending to be.

  And Sibella—did she know that Renzo had been lying to Teo?

  Teo’s bruised heart lurched. Of course Sibella knew. Sibella and Renzo were thick as thieves. Sibella would be enormously smug to know that at the snap of her fingers, or the bat of an eyelash, she could make Renzo betray the person who had once upon a time been his best friend.

  Teo’s wretched meditations were interrupted by a clattering in the mast, followed by a glad cry from Miss Uish. Sharp heels tapped across the deck over Teo’s head.

  “More cormorants,” she thought glumly. “More stinking droppings to scrub off.”

  The birds squawked loudly and Miss Uish’s voice mingled with theirs.

  “It’s as if she’s talking to them!” Teo sat up in her hammock, straining to make sense of the eerie caws and cries.

  She heard Miss Uish shout to Peaglum, “Failing fast now! We must put on more speed if we’re to get there in time for the funeral!”

  Now Fabrizio too had woken. Teo detected his eyes glittering with fear in the dim light.

  “Whose funeral, Teo?” he asked.

  Bertie, Prince of Wales, was the person most immediately affected by his mother’s decline. He’d been waiting six decades for his chance at the most important job on earth. But he was not one bit prepared for it. Queen Victoria, who’d never entertained a high opinion of her eldest son’s brains, had shooed him out of public life. Bertie took every opportunity to enjoy himself while he could. Now his half-century of playtime was nearly over.

  On January 19, the Prince of Wales heard the truth from Queen Victoria’s doctor: it was just a matter of time. Next, he had to contend with his sisters, known as the Petticoats, who were rampaging around the great ugly house in a state of twittering outrage. Harold Hoskins, they’d just heard, was shortly due at Osborne. Not only was he deeply unpopular with his family, but worse still, he was a lord! All the delicate protocols would be turned upside down, whimpered the Petticoats, and everyone would be obliged to kowtow to that pompous creature. And how had he known to turn up now? How had he got to English waters so quickly?

  Of course, the truth about the Queen’s condition could not stay locked up inside Osborne House. Already, the rumor-mill of the British Empire was grinding at a hysterical speed. When Queen Victoria’s favorite vicar arrived on the Isle of Wight that night, he was accompanied by the first hounds of the press, sniffing on the trail of the story of the century.

  Church attendance was particularly heavy all over the kingdom. The Sunday sermons openly spoke of the great loss that was to befall the nation. The Times reported a sense of impending sadness from Calcutta to Cape Town. The New York Times headlined with QUEEN VICTORIA AT DEATH’S DOOR.

  The aristocracy were allowed to vent their feelings by signing a sympathy book at the empty Buckingham Palace. Then they drove straight to the most fashionable emporia in town to order their full mourning outfits.

  By the evening of January 19, Queen Victoria was unable to swallow food and barely able to speak. At midnight on January 20, a new bulletin was issued: The Queen’s condition has late this evening become more serious.

  The very stones of London seemed to quiver with unspent tears and ancient frights; the river drew back from its banks in an unprecedented low tide, like a bared grin of terror. Some of London’s long-suppressed ghosts began to grow more substantial, though still weak and uncertain of their own existence. They emerged from their hiding places and flitted about Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park, almost indistinguishable from the mist.

  An unusually large number of cormorants was noticed in the grounds of Osborne on the night of January 21. The next morning, one sharp-eyed laundrywoman remarked, “If you ask me, them ghoulish birds came flying in with the ship that brought that Harold High-and-Mighty Hoskins here.

  “Get!” she shouted at them. “Hanging on my washing line!”

  The birds stared at her impassively, until she was forced to lower her eyes and back away.

  “Then,” she told the other downstairs staff over a wide-eyed breakfast, “then a big devil of a bird that seemed to be the leader, he cawed at all his cronies. And the strangest thing was that bird cawed with an Australian accent, just like that Harold High-and-Mighty Hoskins has grown out in the colonies!”

  “ ‘Rack off!’ that bird said. I swear he did. And when he said it, they all flew away.”

  A chambermaid shuddered, pointing out of the window. “Look, they’re back now. They seem to have settled in for the duration.”

  All the servants knew what “the duration” meant. It meant until Queen Victoria was dead.

  The Scilla plowed on through restless waters. Dim coastlines appeared in the distance. Foreign smells floated across the water. Unfamiliar birds landed on her masts.

  On January 20, Teo had stumbled blearily up on deck early for her watch, without waiting for Peaglum to come shouting in his cheese-grating voice, “Rise and shine, rise and shine, show a leg!”

  Teo came to full consciousness with a jolt when she saw Emilio and Fabrizio tied, gagged and blindfolded by the companionway. And there was Miss Uish—flashing signals with her pocket mirror to a black ship just a quarter of a mile away. Small explosions of light indicated return signals from the other boat, which appeared to be rigged not with sails, but with swathes of dark cobwebs.

  One of Miss Uish’s signals lit up the escutcheon carved under a fearful figurehead in the shape of a bat’s skeleton. The name read The Bad Ship Bombazine.

  Miss Uish staggered slightly. In doing so, she swiveled the mirror, and for a single second Teo saw her own terrified face reflected in it.

  “Spy on me again, would you?” shrieked Miss Uish. “I’ll have your life for that, Nestle Tripe.”

  She drew the dagger from her belt and swayed toward Teo, breathing heavily. The sickly smell of rum rushed through the air ahead of her.

  Teo darted under Miss Uish’s outstretched arms, kicking at her ankle as she passed. Miss Uish teetered and fell heavily. Teo dived down the booby hatch, running blindly past the galley and deeper into the Scilla, down toward the cargo hold, a place forbidden to the sailors on pain of death, even though it appeared to be full of nothing more precious than barrels of the marrowfat of murdered birds and seals.

  There were no pursuing footsteps. Perhaps, hoped Teo, Miss Uish had hit her head in falling. Somewhere between the bilge streaks and the first streaks under the wales, Teo edged along the wall, panting. The darkness was absolute. She held in a scream as a sharp prong speared her shoulder from behind. Was it Peaglum? Was it a pistol? A knife? She froze. The prong did not move. Reaching behind her, she grasped not a weapon, but a smooth bar of metal.

  “It feels like a lever,” she thought, pressing down on it with all her weight. A panel of wood retracted silently and Teo fell backward. She landed on a pile of something soft yet bony, from which a ghastly smell arose. Muted light flowed through a grimy porthole.

  “Uffa!” she breathed. “A concealed room!”

  “Young Teodora?” gasped the pile.

  “Professor Marìn!” Teo extricated herself, kneeling to peer at the man. The floor was sticky with a dark liquid.

  She threw her arms around him and hugged him hard. The professor gasped weakly. Hastily drawing back, she saw a wound gaping open above his heart. His eyes were glassy and his hair was matted with blood.

  “Miss Uish did this, didn’t she?” Teo cried. “She shot you.”

  “When she came aboard … on December thirtieth … I challenged her. But she had a pistol.… And as I lay dying—or so she thought—she boasted about what would happen … to Venice, to … Then she had her minion drag me down here to rot. She could not safely dispose … of my body … in Venetian waters.”

  “Professor!”

  “Teodora … I must speak fast … don’t stop me. Your so-called Miss Uish
is nothing to do with Queen Victoria. The woman’s an impostor. She was formerly a governess in the royal nurseries of Windsor Castle.… Her real name is Whish. Like the noise a whip makes … She was caught … committing acts of cruelty … to the little princes, nearly killed one who had hemophilia.… She ended up on the island of Hooroo, the penal colony. Where I believe … she met …”

  “Harold Hoskins, the Pretender to the British throne! He was exiled there! But she carries on about being an honored appointee of Queen Victoria!”

  “That is her cover. She hates … Queen Victoria’s whole family. She wants to see them … brought down. But Teodora … she met someone else on Hooroo, too.…”

  Professor Marìn’s mouth opened silently. He trembled with pain.

  “Save your breath,” begged Teo. “Let me tell you—now it’s all starting to make sense. Miss Uish kidnapped the Scilla! Queen Victoria would never have ordered that! And Miss Uish loves to kill animals! That Harold Hoskins is addicted to hunting, isn’t he? I’ve seen the photographs of his trophies in the newspaper. Mounds of poor dead wallabies. Horrible! So he killed the South Sea dolphins?”

  “Hush, child! This may be … my last chance to tell you what I have discovered. Miss Uish … she is working with the people … who kidnapped your adoptive parents. Together, they are putting together some kind of terrible plot.…”

  “Together? With whom?”

  “The Pretender wants the British throne. He could not do it by … fair means, so he has chosen foul. And for the foul means … he has baddened magic to help him.”

  “Bajamonte Tiepolo?” breathed Teo. Pins and needles prickled her hands.

  “Yes, the woman Uish is in league with Il Traditore, who somehow contrived to survive your cursing.”

  Teo began to explain, but Professor Marìn held up a feeble hand to stop her. “Avast hating yourself, child. All these days down here alone … I’ve had plenty of time to … put together the pieces. The whirlpool in the lagoon sucked Il Traditore all the way down to the South Pacific. He must have … finished up on the island of Hooroo, where Miss Uish was confined in the penal colony for her crimes against children. He’s allied himself to her … and ingratiated himself with the Pretender.”

  “Three bitter exiles together—they had a lot in common, didn’t they?” Teo cried.

  “And now … Bajamonte Tiepolo’s strengthened beyond anything he was two summers ago … he may even be almost human now. The seagulls must have … carried his bones to him, one by one, after the hiding places were betrayed.”

  “But Harold Hoskins is only human, surely.…”

  “Well, yes, but with Bajamonte’s baddened magic, he’s been able to raise … a supernatural army of Ghost-Convicts, as well as living criminals he’s pardoned so they’ll … do his dirty work for him. As soon as Queen Victoria is dead, he’ll move against London. And then, my … theory is … if Bajamonte Tiepolo helps the Pretender with his designs on the British throne … well … then … Harold Hoskins will help him destroy Venice.”

  “And he sent this Miss Uish and his Ghost-Convicts and criminals ahead to cause the ice storm? Why would she agree to do that?” Teo asked indignantly.

  The professor took a deep, hurting breath. “I believe Miss Uish has a weakness. She is the kind of woman who’s … fascinated by anyone crueler and more powerful than herself. They frighten her … but it is a delicious kind of fear.… Our enemy is just such a man. The way she spoke of him … I’m sure of it.”

  “Miss Uish is in love with Bajamonte Tiepolo?” Teo mused. “They deserve each other! Does he love her?”

  “He must have found in her … a creature capable of unconscionable cruelty, just like himself. For him … that is a priceless treasure. I doubt if he is capable of love, yet he is capable of … dissembling it.”

  The professor clutched his own wounded heart.

  “I am convinced, Teodora, that Miss Uish’s second act in Venice was to try to murder the Undrowned Child. It would have been a gift for Bajamonte Tiepolo … an act of faith. And the reason she has requisitioned the Scilla is that it has the Studious Son aboard. She may not realize who you are—but she knows who he is! Young Renzo … is intended as her next gift to Bajamonte Tiepolo. My conscience … aches … that I have unwittingly helped poor Renzo to his doom.”

  Bajamonte Tiepolo, Orphan-Maker.

  Teo felt dizzy at a depth of villainy that seemed to crisscross the whole world, all because she’d been too cowardly to put an end to Bajamonte Tiepolo when she had a perfect opportunity, and indeed, a duty to do so. Her parents had been kidnapped and Professor Marìn had lain in agony for weeks because of her weakness.

  He wheezed. “It’s been too many days. I have no feeling in my right side now … I can smell the infection of the wound myself. The only reason that I am still alive … is that Sofonisba has foraged for me.”

  “The poor professor is delirious,” Teo thought. “Sofonisba is dead.”

  Yet at that moment a tabby-colored muzzle poked through a small hole in the false wall. In it was a ripe pear. Giving Teo a suspicious look, Sofonisba emerged fully into the room and dropped the pear by Professor Marìn. Around him, Teo noticed, were more pear cores and the pips of cherries and grapes.

  “You’re alive!” Teo reached out to caress the cat. “We thought you’d drowned. So that’s why there was no storm after you walked the plank!”

  This single piece of good news in the midst of all the tragedy was the one that moved Teo to tears. Mixed in with the emotion of the moment was the realization that Renzo had not after all lied about stealing the fruit.

  “Indeed,” replied the cat coolly. She flapped delicate little wings above her flanks. “I simply flew in through the heads.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “I’ve been—shall we say?—discreet in my appearances since then.”

  “You kept those wings well hidden! Why didn’t you come to tell us what was happening?”

  “The professor forbade me. He was afraid of childish heroics on your part! He kept telling me, ‘If the boys knew anything, she’d just torture it out of them.’ It’s true—he’s only safe down here because she thinks he’s already dead.”

  Teo rose unsteadily to her feet. Shock and pity made her vision muzzy. Her heart was palpitating violently. “I’ll get medicine, forceps; Renzo can extract the bullet—he’s so good with his hands,” she gabbled. “Perhaps there’s some Venetian Treacle in the medicine chest.”

  “Do not waste time on me, child. Save the medicine. You will need it for yourselves, I fear. In London.”

  “So she’s taking us to London? Where the mermaids have gone?”

  “And you must go. First … we must accept that Venice may not survive this new assault … by Il Traditore … and secondly … London will need your help. Thirdly … I think your parents may be there. The Undrowned Child and the Studious Son will … Teodora, you must be vigilant. If that woman finds out your true identity … you will be in even worse danger … if possible.”

  “I’ll be careful. And I’ll look after Renzo,” Teo promised tearfully. She could not bring herself to tell the dying man how she and Renzo were estranged.

  “And Miss Uish may not be your … only enemy in these waters. The cold undertow will likely bring to the surface many ancient creatures that have for centuries confined themselves to the darkest … most freezing zones of the ocean.”

  Teo whispered, “We’ve heard something—I’m sure. It takes the rats we throw overboard.” She did not say, though she thought, “And the hostages.” She would spare the professor the knowledge that his good ship had become a wicked pirate vessel.

  “And the Scilla was never meant for … such a long voyage at sea. The poor old boat is nail-sick. It pains me to hear how she labors.… Her rivets are loose and the planks may not defend you from … what is below. Go now, child. I cannot talk more.… It is best that … you talk with the Studious Son and decide on your course … together. Explain.… You must fight for your
lives, for Venice.”

  “But Venice …”

  “You did not leave Venice, Teodora, just because you were forced to sail away from her.”

  Miss Uish was snoring on the deck when Teo crept back up there. Peaglum was at the wheel, singing nasally to himself, his back to both of them. Teo released Emilio and Fabrizio from their bonds and the three of them slipped down to the cabin.

  “Wake up!” they whispered, shaking each hammock in turn.

  “Professor Marìn is alive!—well, barely. Sofonisba kept him alive by stealing fruit for him. She’s alive, too! Miss Uish is an impostor. She shot the professor and imprisoned him down in the cargo hold. And she wants to kill … Anyway, we have to take over this ship! We have to mutiny! Then Professor Marìn says we have to take the Scilla to London.…”

  Nine pairs of eyes stared at her, wide with fear. Renzo’s flashed with something she could not read. Did he not believe her?

  “I don’t …,” began Rosato.

  “How can we …?” whimpered Marco.

  Sebastiano dalla Mutta growled, “I’m up for it!”

  “I’m thinking, me too!” Emilio balled his fist.

  “And me!” Massimo whispered.

  “So what should we do with them?” asked Marco. “Even if we could knock them down and take them prisoner?”

  “Tie ’em up and take ’em back to Venice!” Sebastiano cried out.

  “Give ’em to the police,” insisted Giovanni.

  Teo was stern. “We can’t take her to Venice, where the Mayor is in love with her and doesn’t care a button for the lives of Venetian orphans! Who’s he going to believe, her or us? One bat of those eyelashes and we’ll be the ones thrown in prison. For mutiny on the high seas. And piracy.”

  “But I don’t want to go to London,” pleaded Marco in a very small voice. “I want to go home.”

  Renzo reminded them, “Venice must be frozen solid now. We could not get the Scilla within miles of the shore. We could get trapped in ice that would break up the boat. And then we’d all drown.”