Josephine wasn’t about to let Ida off that easily. “And no sneezing, anyone.”
Fargus smirked, and for the first time since Josephine had known her, Ida looked contrite. “Right,” she said. “No sneezing.”
Ida led them to the new cave, and for the next several hours the three of them slept as hard as the rocks surrounding them.
FIFTEEN
Ned Mosley strolled up Main Street while his father, Morgan Mosley, limped behind. Ned was grouchy today because his feet hurt. His shoes were too small. This seemed to happen every few months now. Ever since he had turned fourteen last year, Ned was growing faster than an overfertilized cornstalk, but he hated to complain about the tightness of his shoes, knowing his father couldn’t afford to buy another pair. He was determined to endure the pain for a few more weeks at least.
The sun had yet to rise and most of Gulm was still fast asleep. This was Ned’s favorite part of the day. Two brooms were cinched to Ned’s back, and tied to his belt was the cloth sack full of biscuits and ham his father had prepared the night before.
Ned had been going to work with his father since he was old enough to hold a broom. Morgan’s leg had been irreparably damaged many years ago, and the job of town sweeper had become too much for him on his own. So Ned had begun helping with the work, despite his father’s protests. Ned preferred work to school any day. Still, his father insisted on lessons at home so that Ned wouldn’t be “an ignorant dullard.”
Today was warm and blooming trees had left a thin layer of pollen over the streets and sidewalks, so Morgan and Ned got right to work. It would take them all day to finish. Ned untied the brooms, handed one to his father, and began to clean one cobblestone at a time. Ned could hear his father humming an old song about sailors’ wives.
Thirty sparkling cobblestones later, Ned heard someone approaching. He looked up to see Angus the bellman walking toward them with displeasure. Ned saw his father put his head down and keep sweeping, hoping Angus might go away. Angus had been working in the bell tower for more than fifty years, and the constant ringing seemed to have shattered his manners.
Angus placed his angry, ruddy face directly in front of Morgan. When he spoke, big flecks of spit landed on Morgan’s lapel.
“Someone’s comin’!” Angus sprayed.
“How are you, Angus?” Morgan gently replied.
“Dog brains on moldy toast. Someone’s comin’!”
“Who’s coming, Angus?” Ned knew his father wanted them to get back to their sweeping. They still had 894 cobblestones left to clean.
“I saw ’em from the tower! I was about to sound the mornin’ get-yer-bums-out-of-bed-and-get-on-wit-yer-bloody-useless-lives alarm when I seen ’em! Comin’ out of the forest!”
Morgan sighed. “Who, Angus?” Angus was renowned for being an unreliable source; he spent most evenings licking the walls of the local pub.
“Children! Three of ’em!”
Suddenly Morgan was paying attention. “Children? Are you sure?”
Angus squinted at Morgan as if he were the small print on an unsavory invoice.
“Aye, I’d bet me life on it. Three wee figures, headin’ this way. Lookin’ knackered and hungry—”
“Which way?” Morgan interrupted.
“Down toward the ol’ bridge. ’Bout a mile away. Shall I sound the alarm?”
“No. I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s right kind of ya, mate. I much appreciate it. I hate to have to fill out a report. I always get ink on me face.” Angus began backing away toward his tower. “Ya know what they say, sir. Being a bellman always takes its toll. Get it?” He looked at Ned. “Do ya get it, lad?”
Ned rolled his eyes.
“And make sure ya tell me when yer birthdays are—I’ll make sure to give the bell an extra tug for ya!” He turned and skulked back to the tower.
Morgan immediately turned to his son and said, “Ned, you must warn the children not to enter Gulm. Run along the riverbed and the fields so no one spots you. Go, quickly!”
Ned dropped his broom and did as he had been instructed, no questions asked. He weaved in and out of the streets and reached the bottom of the hill in no time. He crossed a long field that belonged to Alma and Bruce Jarvis and was almost to the riverbed when he heard voices. He dove into the long grass and looked toward the main path he had taken great care to avoid.
There, walking toward the Jarvises’ home, were Alma, Bruce, and three children. There were two girls and a younger boy. The girls seemed only a year or so younger than Ned. One was tall with crazy hair, and the other was shorter, with black hair and angry eyes. The boy hung back from the rest of the group, but the girl with big hair was chatting happily to Alma and Bruce as if they had known one another their whole lives. Sadness flooded Ned. He had failed his task. He was too late. The strangers were done for.
SIXTEEN
Josephine couldn’t remember ever having been so happy to see an adult. She, Ida, and Fargus had been walking for days, and they had run out of food that morning. Ida had managed to navigate them out of the plains, but there hadn’t been one berry or drop of water to be found. Josephine’s feet were blistered, her legs ached, and her tongue felt as if it were made of wool.
It was dusk when Ida found the well. They were walking through a pasture when Ida squealed as if bitten. Josephine spun around, afraid the Brothers had found them, but Ida broke into a giddy run and stopped at a small round wall that Josephine soon realized marked the top of a well. Ida was so happy that she almost dove into the water. The three of them were on their third bucket of water when Alma Jarvis came upon them.
It was odd. At first Josephine had been sure Alma meant them harm. She was a chunky woman in her fifties and she had rushed toward them with menace in her eyes. But when she reached Ida, she opened her arms for a warm embrace. “Hello, children! Hello there!” she called out, laughing. She welcomed all of them with a hug, as if they were lost family. Josephine must have only imagined the flash of anger she thought she had seen. And now they were all walking back to Alma’s house with her husband, Bruce, who was as tall and thin as Alma was short and round. He was older than Alma and walked as if he suffered from arthritis. He told the children they could call him “Spruce Bruce,” his nickname from childhood, and then he invited the three of them to bathe and have dinner. When Alma heard their stomachs growl, she chortled and suggested dinner first.
They soon arrived at the Jarvises’ house, which reminded Josephine of a chocolate cake. It was dark brown with swirly white trim along the roof. And when she walked inside, she felt instantly cozy. Every surface seemed to be covered with a bright crocheted blanket, and Alma had a colorful collection of teapots that sat on the hearth above a well-used fireplace. Bruce immediately lit up the fire as Alma disappeared into the kitchen to brew tea and start supper.
The children plopped into worn chairs with plump ottomans, and they were so exhausted from walking that they all fell asleep immediately, waking up only when an irresistible smell seeped in from the kitchen.
Dinner was a sumptuous feast of duck and roasted parsnips. Alma was a wonderful cook. There was warm bread, fresh churned butter, and spinach from the garden. Afterward, Bruce lit his pipe as the five of them gathered in the living room. Alma served the children hot chocolate and caramel cakes, while she and Bruce drank tea.
Josephine didn’t know food could produce such contentment. Her belly was full, her eyelids heavy. She was just about to nod off to sleep again when Alma asked in a casual tone, “Where do you children come from, then?”
Half-asleep already, Josephine heard herself say, “Not from here. I fell through the shed.” Her eyes flipped open. She hadn’t meant to say it. It was as if her mouth were completely disconnected from her brain.
“A shed? Whatever do you mean, dear?” Alma asked.
Despite the fact that her brain knew that her story made her sound out-of-her-head crazy, she told them more. “Fargus came to see me at my father’s house, and I tried to find him, but instead I fell through a wall and woke up at the Institute.”
