The League of Beastly Dreadfuls Book 1, page 18
“You can keep my music box until we meet again,” Ollie said. “Goodbye, Anastasia! Goodbye!”
And then they melted off into the shadows.
“Goodbye,” Anastasia quavered, her chest tightening. Ollie and Quentin were her very best friends in the world. And now they were gone.
“Let’s get going,” Miss Apple said.
“But, Miss Apple—”
“We’ll answer your questions on the way. Come along!” She was now using her no-nonsense Librarian Voice, and the Baron and Anastasia meekly followed her through a tangle of bushes to a moon-spangled glade.
“Ah,” the Baron said, his tone warm with admiration. “Here it is.”
Anastasia’s jaw dropped. “A hot-air balloon!”
“Have you ever flown in one of these?” the Baron asked.
“No,” she said. “I’ve seen them at the Mooselick County Fair, though.” The balloon pilot at the fair had waved a gold-topped cane and shouted, “See the world from the perspective of a pigeon or an angel! The Ferris wheel will look like a Tinkertoy to you. Only fifty dollars for the ride of your life!” But Anastasia had not had fifty dollars. She only had enough money to buy a pound of sour watermelon taffy, and she had sadly chewed it while watching Johnny Johnstone, the school bully, float higher and higher and higher, until he was so far away she could no longer hear his snickering. And then she had vomited every bit of the candy back up in front of the dismayed Mooselick County Fairgoers, and that, dear Reader, is the reason Anastasia loathed sour watermelon taffy from the depths of her soul.
“Anastasia,” Miss Apple said. “Come along.” She scaled a little ladder dangling over the edge of the basket and hopped inside.
Anastasia blinked away her memories. Unlike the bright razzle-dazzle balloons at the Mooselick County Fair, this balloon was a deep, inky, almost-black blue. The wicker basket was blue-black, and the silk balloon puffed above it like a patch of darkest midnight, winking with hundreds of starry little twinkles.
“It’s a chameleonic balloon,” the Baron whispered. “The pinnacle of balloon technology! Perfect for daring dirigible exploits! It changes to blend in with its surroundings, you see. We’ll be invisible to any sky-snooping Watcher!”
“Except for the flames,” Miss Apple said. She fussed with a gadget in the middle of the basket, and flames roared from a metallic funnel. “That will get the air nice and hot,” she called over the noise. “Hot air rises, you know.”
“Once we’re in the wild blue yonder,” the Baron said, “we’ll just look like a star to anyone down below.”
Anastasia wondered exactly how high the balloon would take them. It sounded like it was going to be mighty high indeed.
The Baron clapped his hands. “All aboard the H.M.B. Flying Fox!”
Anastasia shifted her satchel and scampered up the ladder, slinging her leg over the edge of the basket and tumbling down inside it. Flames sparked at the mouth of the silk balloon, roaring so loudly that Anastasia couldn’t hear anything else. She staggered to her feet and watched as the Baron went around untying the ropes anchoring the balloon. There were six ropes, and each one was tied to a little metal stake driven into the ground.
“Ready?” the Baron called, hunkered by the last stake.
Fear and excitement welled in Anastasia’s throat. Miss Apple checked a dial on the burner and called, “All systems go.”
The Baron undid the knot.
The curious thing about a hot-air balloon is that, even though it zooms upward like a bubble rocketing to the top of a bottle of carbonated soda, it doesn’t feel like it moves at all. That’s how smooth a hot-air balloon ride is. Anastasia watched in astonishment as the moon-blanched forest shrank below them. In the distance she could see St. Agony’s Asylum, tiny and far away, as though she were gazing at it through the wrong end of a telescope. She screamed above the roar of the flames, “We’re leaving without him! Miss Apple, the Baron’s still down there!”
“Actually, his name is Baldwin, dear. He just made up that silly pseudonym to fool those kidnappers,” Miss Apple said, still fiddling with the dials. “And he’ll be up in a jiffy.”
Anastasia turned around just in time to see ten pink fingertips grasping the edge of the basket, and then a tumble of manliness as Baldwin somersaulted inside. “Blooming tulips, I’m out of shape! I used to be a top-notch rope climber.” He took out his flask and guzzled from it, and then he reeled all the tethers into the basket.
“Anastasia,” Miss Apple said, “look how high we are.”
The forest and the asylum were just little dots; then everything was blotted out by mist; then the balloon was actually above the clouds, which billowed beneath them like a silver sea. Miss Apple turned a dial, and the flames snuffed out. The sky was silent and sublime.
“Beautiful,” Anastasia breathed. And then she leaned over the edge of the basket and vomited right into the lovely tapestry of glimmering clouds.
“Balloon sickness,” Miss Apple said, handing her a crinkling paper sack. Embossed on the side in fancy blue letters were the words OFFICIAL VOMITUS RECEPTACLE OF HER MAJESTY’S BALLOON THE FLYING FOX.
“Don’t feel a bit embarrassed,” Baldwin reassured her. “Happens to the best of us! I once soiled my best ascot. Have you ever tried to get vomit out of an ascot? Nothing worked. Not soda. Not dry cleaning. I finally had to give up and throw it away. Pity.”
Anastasia slid to the floor of the basket, clutching her stomach.
“It will pass, my dear,” Miss Apple murmured, crouching beside her and stroking her forehead. “Maybe some ginger ale will settle your tummy. And when you’re feeling better, I have sandwiches and cookies.”
“Snickerdoodle?” Baldwin asked again.
“I have all kinds of things in the picnic basket,” Miss Apple said. “We have a big trip ahead of us.”
Anastasia perked up. “How long will it take us to get to Mooselick?”
Miss Apple exchanged a pained look with Baldwin. “My darling,” she said, “we’re not going back to Mooselick.”
“But what about my parents?” Anastasia asked. “Were they really in an accident? Wasn’t that just a story Prim and Prude cooked up to trick me into their station wagon? Mom and Dad aren’t really”—her voice snagged—“dead, are they?”
Her hopeful gaze double-Dutched between Baldwin and the librarian.
Miss Apple sighed. “You’re right, dear. There was no vacuum accident. But both your parents are— Well, they’re gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?” Anastasia cried.
“Your dad is missing,” Baldwin said. “We don’t know where he is.”
“He vanished the same day you were kidnapped,” Miss Apple said.
“He’s probably looking for me!” Anastasia said. “We have to go to Mooselick! I have to find him!”
“Anastasia.” Baldwin pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of his jacket, covered his nose, and blew it with a mournful honk. “We can’t go back. Not for a long, long while. It’s far too dangerous. Those kidnappers are going to be looking for you.”
Anastasia’s shoulders sagged. “What about my mom? Is she missing, too?”
“Oh, d-dear,” Miss Apple stammered. “I’m afraid…oh, my. Well, child, the thing is—”
“She ran off with a podiatrist!” Baldwin said.
“A—a foot doctor?” Anastasia gasped. “My mother ran away with a foot doctor?”
“Yes indeed,” Baldwin said. “Dr. Lovelady. He’s known”—he lowered his voice—“for being a bit of a quack. Doesn’t know a hammertoe from an ingrown nail.”
“But apparently he is very handsome,” Miss Apple said sadly.
“Movie-star looks,” Baldwin agreed. “Podiatrists are, in general, the most dashing of all doctors.”
“I’m so sorry, Anastasia,” Miss Apple said. “After you and your father disappeared, Mrs. McCrumpet packed up and left town. She left no forwarding address.”
“But we suspect,” Baldwin said somberly, “that they headed to Belgium.”
“Why?” Anastasia whispered.
“For the Belgian waffles,” Baldwin said. “Naturally.”
Anastasia blinked. “Mom didn’t even wait to see if Dad and I would come home?”
Miss Apple shook her head. “I’m afraid not. But things aren’t exactly what they seem, child. Oh, we have so many strange things to tell you. I suppose this will be the first, and it may come as a shock. So brace yourself, my dear.”
Anastasia wiped her nose on her furry sleeve. “All right,” she said quietly. “I’m ready.”
“Trixie McCrumpet, the lady with whom you have lived for nearly eleven years,” Miss Apple said, “is not really your mother.”
28
Stars
“SHE IS YOUR stepmother,” Miss Apple said.
And the librarian explained that Anastasia’s real mother had died nearly eleven years earlier, just a few days after Anastasia was born. “Your father was inconsolable,” said Miss Apple. “He went a bit crazy.”
“Dilly as a pickle,” Baldwin said, tracing a little circle on his temple with his forefinger.
Miss Apple nodded unhappily. “That’s when his obsession with vacuums began.”
“And he married Trixie Bitterbottom,” Baldwin said. “Terrible mistake. Horrible woman.”
“Baldwin!” Miss Apple reproached. “Be polite. Anastasia grew up with the woman, after all.”
“Your father thought you needed a mother,” Baldwin said to Anastasia. “He thought Trixie Bitterbottom could take care of you. Gosh, was he ever wrong. Trixie couldn’t take care of a pet rock.”
Anastasia frowned. “She ordered a pet rock off the home shopping channel,” she mused. “And one of the googly eyes did fall off.”
Miss Apple sighed. “I’m sure you love Trixie very much,” she said. “I hope this news isn’t too upsetting for you.”
But surprisingly, it wasn’t. Anastasia stared at the sizzling stars and scoured herself for even a molecule of shock. She realized that she had never really thought much about Mrs. McCrumpet. Remember, all Mrs. McCrumpet liked to do was to lie in bed and boss Mr. McCrumpet and Anastasia around. She was not a particularly lovable figure. She had never taken Anastasia to the park, or read her a story, or kissed her good night, or sprinkled cinnamon on her toast, or done any of the thousands of motherly things that mothers do for their little ones.
In all the weeks at St. Agony’s Asylum, Anastasia had not missed Mrs. McCrumpet once. Just like the uncle that guffaws at his own unfunny jokes or the tattletale cousin or the bristly-chinned grandmother, Mrs. McCrumpet had been, to Anastasia, someone to tolerate. Barely.
Nonetheless, it was rather sad to think that she was, for all purposes, completely alone in the world. Fatherless, stepmotherless, guinea-pig-less…she didn’t even have two diabolical, child-snatching aunties. What had her mother—her real mother—been like? Had Anastasia inherited her freckles and tragic flatulence from her?
And where was Fred McCrumpet? Was he combing Mooselick County for his missing daughter? Or was his disappearance something altogether more sinister?
Anastasia slumped in the basket’s wicker belly, wrapped her arms around her legs, and pressed her face against her knees to keep tears from spilling out of her eyes. The balloon was silent for a few minutes.
Miss Apple finally spoke, plucking a leaf from one of Anastasia’s bedraggled braids. “My dear, I must thank you for saving my life down there.”
“Mine too,” Baldwin said. “That was quick thinking with those marbles.”
“Saving your life, Miss Apple?” Anastasia lifted her chin. “How could I have saved your life?”
Miss Apple fumbled with her glasses. “Picking me up and putting me into your pockets when I was—er—incapacitated.”
Anastasia stared at her.
“Incapacitated?” Baldwin snickered. “Cheese drunk, I should say!”
“I told you already, I’m sorry about that.” Miss Apple looked ashamed.
“Wait,” Anastasia said. “Are you saying that you ate the cheese, Miss Apple?” She hesitated, thinking of Baldwin gallivanting through the garden as a wolf. “Were you…one of the mice?” She felt silly even saying it.
“Not just one of them,” Miss Apple answered. “All of them.”
“It’s a rare talent,” Baldwin said. “Hardly anyone can Swarm, but Penny has a real gift for it.”
“The problem,” Miss Apple said, “is that when your mind is divided into so many different animals, running in all different directions, somersaulting and cartwheeling and running up old ladies’ skirts, you don’t think very clearly. You don’t understand everything that’s going on, and your judgment is pretty bad. That’s why I couldn’t resist that cheese, even though I knew you had painted it with Dr. Bluster’s Patented Sleep Preparation. I just had to eat it. It was mob mentality.”
“Mouse mob mentality,” Baldwin added.
“Anyway, Anastasia, I realize that you must have picked up all the mice-me and carried me outside,” Miss Apple went on. “That was a wonderful thing to do. Goodness only knows how long I might have lain on the floor of the asylum—and what those mouse-hating women would have done with me.” She squeezed Anastasia’s shoulder.
“So you were all those mice jumping around on the table and biting Prim and Prude?” Anastasia asked.
“Indeed I was,” Miss Apple said.
“And you were the mouse that fell onto Prim’s hat?”
“Yes.” Miss Apple smiled a tiny smile. “But I didn’t exactly fall. I leapt.”
Anastasia mulled this over. “Well,” she said, “that was pretty brave of you. You could have been squished. Prim and Prude went after you with forks and umbrellas. And you!” she said to Baldwin. “You fought off the poodles, even though you’re poodlephobic!”
“Poodlephobic?” Baldwin’s eyes twitched toward Miss Apple. “Nonsense, child. Whatever gave you that idea? Poodles? Ha! I laugh in the face of poodles.”
“It didn’t matter.” Miss Apple’s face got very serious. “We had to get you out of there, no matter the risk of—er—squishery. Or poodles.”
“We had to help you escape from the clutches of those kidnappers,” Baldwin added.
“Who exactly are the Watchers?” Anastasia asked. “I know they kidnap children. They’ve probably kidnapped hundreds of them. And,” she said, “Miss Sneed is a member. She has the eyeball pinkie ring, and her portrait is hanging in the asylum.”
“Straight As!” Miss Apple said. “Miss Sneed infiltrated Mooselick Elementary School under the guise of an unlovely secretary, but she was really there as part of Prim and Prude’s kidnapping schemes. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize that until the morning you were whisked away!”
“But why do Prim and Prude snatch children?” Anastasia asked. “I used to think it was to feed the Creature in the Woods…but now I know there isn’t any creature.”
Miss Apple’s mouth tightened. “They’re part of a ring called CRUD. It’s an entire committee of kidnappers—they call themselves Watchers—trained to grab children deemed…potentially dangerous. And if they confirm their suspicions—well, the children come to a very bad end.”
“CRUD stands for Committee for Rubbing-out Unnatural Dreadfuls,” Baldwin said.
“Potentially dangerous?” Anastasia echoed. “Unnatural dreadfuls?”
She flashed back to the ominous words scrawled on Lucy Pinkerton’s photograph: TO THE DREADFUL. How had little pigtailed Lucy been dreadful and dangerous? For that matter, how could Anastasia possibly present a threat to anyone? It made sense that Prim and Prude snatched Quentin and Ollie. Shadowbites were deadly. But she, Anastasia, was just a freckled almost-eleven-year-old who dinged a triangle in the Mooselick Elementary School band.
“Why would they think I might be dangerous?” she asked.
“Oh, they thought you might be dangerous, all right,” Baldwin said. “That’s why Primrose and Prudence were so afraid of you. That’s why they locked you up every night at sundown.”
Anastasia’s mind carouseled with memories of her awful days at the asylum. The long nights trapped in Room Eleven. The way Prim and Prude watched her out of the corners of their eyes. The strange conversations she had overheard.
“But,” she said, “they were always watching the woods, like they were afraid of something that might live there.”
“I imagine they pretended to be afraid of the woods,” Baldwin said, “to make you afraid of them. That way, you’d be less likely to run away.”
“And they were being careful kidnappers,” Miss Apple said. “They were keeping a lookout for anyone who might come to rescue you.”
“That’s why we had to orchestrate a mouse invasion,” Baldwin said. “So that when I arrived on their doorstep as a capable mouse exterminator, Prim and Prude wouldn’t just throw me out on my nose. They were so desperate to get rid of the mice, and so afraid that someone from the Health Department might come and discover you, that they invited me inside. They pretty much had to. A brilliant plan, really.”
“We’re just sorry it took us so long to get there!” Miss Apple cried. “You had to live with those nefarious agents of CRUD for far too long! Well over a month!”
“We had to find you,” Baldwin said, dabbing his eyes. “And then we had to figure out how to gain entry to the asylum. But Penny’s ever so right.” He made a sad little yodeling noise into the hankie. “You could have met with a terrible fate.”
“Don’t apologize,” Anastasia said hastily. “I’m just glad you came at all. I mean, why did my—er—fate matter so much to you? I know that you’re a super librarian, Miss Apple, but I didn’t think that librarians went after child-snatchers and that sort of thing.”
“Oh, Anastasia!” Miss Apple said. “Of course your fate matters to us! We care very much! You see, Anastasia…” She paused and took a deep breath. “I am your aunt. Your real aunt. And Baldwin is your uncle.”
“We know this must seem incredible to you,” Baldwin said, “particularly after those bosphorus kidnappers pretended to be your great-aunts. Those festering crab apples! Those boorish gobgrinders! Scum of the earth! SCUM—”
