The League of Beastly Dreadfuls Book 1, page 19
“Shhhh!” Miss Apple hushed him in a stern Librarian Voice. She gazed down into Anastasia’s freckled face and continued in a softer tone. “Dear, I have watched you grow up. I followed behind the school bus on your very first day of kindergarten, and every single day thereafter. I took that librarian job at Mooselick Elementary to be close to you.”
“Really?” Anastasia asked. She thought back to all the pleasant afternoons in the tiny school library, snuggled into one of the tatty beanbag chairs, sipping Miss Apple’s hot cocoa and reading Francie Dewdrop mysteries. She remembered how she had always felt at home with the mousy little librarian, and she knew—somewhere in her heart she was certain—that Miss Apple was indeed her aunt, as surprising as the news may have been.
“Really.” Miss Apple pulled her into a hug.
“But why didn’t you ever tell me?” Anastasia asked.
Miss Apple sighed. “It’s a long story, child. You see, your father refused to see anyone from our family, ever since…well…” Her voice trailed off, and she stood up and fiddled with a gold-plated gadget on the balloon’s burner. “It was a complicated situation. There was a big family fight, I’m afraid. Years and years ago. But Fred is our brother.”
“And that makes you our niece, Anastasia,” Baldwin said, his green eyes twinkling at her.
Miss Apple cleared her throat. “Our family,” she said in the quietest of quiet Librarian Voices, “is not entirely ordinary.”
Anastasia sank into thought. Miss Apple—her real auntie—could transform into mice. Uncle Baldwin could change into a wolf. Obviously the McCrumpet family tree flourished with fruit much stranger than she could have ever imagined. Was that why Fred McCrumpet had kept mum about their relatives all these years?
And perhaps she, Anastasia, the littlest apple of all on this peculiar family tree, was not quite the completely average almost-eleven-year-old girl she had always considered herself to be. She liked to eat moths, she reflected. That was a bit odd. But her curious new appetite for fuzzy insects was just the effect of rampant hunger…wasn’t it? And she could frost glass with her breath. However, as interesting as this talent may have been, it didn’t seem particularly dangerous.
“Why,” she asked again, slowly and thoughtfully, watching her aunt and uncle closely, “did Primrose and Prudence think I could be dangerous?”
Miss Apple and Baldwin exchanged another Serious Grown-Up Look.
Then Miss Apple sighed and smiled. “We have so very much to talk about.”
“But before we do any of that,” Baldwin said, unfolding his long manly legs and standing up, “come look at the stars, Anastasia.”
The moon blazed bright as a spotlight, and the stars sizzled like they had never sizzled before. You may have had similar views from the window of an airplane, but they have never been as clear as the view from a hot-air balloon. The stars seemed as close as candles sputtering on a birthday cake, as though Anastasia’s cheeks might get burned if she leaned too far over the edge of the balloon’s wicker basket. As though she could huff out the entire Milky Way with one big magical birthday-wish breath. It was so lovely that her almost-eleven-year-old heart swelled.
Did you know that your heart is about as big as your fist? Curl your fingers to your palm, and you will have a good estimate of the size of your heart. Muffy, the guinea pig with anger-management issues, had a grumpy little heart the size of a raspberry. When Miss Apple stormed through the asylum as a mischief of mice, her heart was divided into hundreds of tiny rodent tickers each the size of a garbanzo bean. Within the slick chest of a blue whale throbs a heart weighing one hundred pounds. A blue whale’s heart is so large that you could stroll through each of the four chambers, if you were willing to squeeze through the valves.
Anastasia McCrumpet’s heart was about the same size as yours. In that moment, however, her heart felt as big as the heart of a blue whale. It was the first night that she had been able to see stars since Primrose and Prudence plucked her from her absolutely ordinary life back in the humble town of Mooselick and forevermore changed her fate. It was the first time that she had not been locked away from their starry and lovely and phosphorescent and effervescent magic. Her heart felt big and full.
Anastasia reached for Miss Apple’s hand with her own freckled one, and took Baldwin’s in her other.
And the H.M.B. Flying Fox sallied forth into the birthday-cake-candle night.
As you will remember, attentive Reader, Miss Viola’s Memories book included a Victorian newspaper advertisement praising a guide to nineteenth-century manners. For your edification and improvement, the publishers of this book have kindly reproduced essential points from Miss Drusilla Jellymonk’s
The Prim and Proper Sort will never acknowledge a guest’s foul body odor. You should instead unobtrusively open the window and jump out.
If you notice that your visitor’s ears are unclean, do not call attention to their subpar hygiene with a thoughtless comment. Instead, discreetly insert the tip of your umbrella into the offending ear canal(s) and twist gently until all wax has been removed.
In the unlikely but possible event of inviting a zombie to tea, the Prim and Proper Sort endeavors to provide guests with brain and cucumber dainties. Should brain be unavailable, ladyfingers may suffice.
The Prim and Proper Lady never uses her sleeve to wipe crumbs from her upper lip. She extricates food particles with an elegant mustache comb.
When dining out-of-doors with friends, bring a child or two along. Should a ravenous bear interrupt your picnic, politely offer your unexpected guest an urchin upon which to snack, and then return to conversing with your invited company.
Should flatulence strike at the symphony, the Prim and Proper Sort synchronizes his or her toots with the brass section. This demonstrates knowledge of music.
While perambulating in the park, you may encounter a friend with her new baby. If said baby is hideous, it is incumbent upon you to refrain from commenting on the infant’s appearance. You must therefore pretend not to see the baby. If your friend mentions the baby, look around in a show of confusion and say, “What baby?” Keep up the farce for the duration of your encounter.
If you have stepped in chewing gum, use your handkerchief—not your bare fingers—to remove the offending globule from your shoe. Then place the globule into your mouth as discreetly as possible.
When comforting a seasick friend, encourage their swift recovery by mentioning that your fellow passengers are concerned—concerned that the revolting retching emitted by your traveling companion will ruin everyone’s teatime. If that doesn’t work, spare your friend social disaster by throwing them overboard.
When visiting an insane acquaintance at the lunatic asylum, compliment them on their fetching straitjacket. If your friend lacks this accessory, talk to an administrator and urge the asylum to fit your friend with a straitjacket at once. This is called consideration for others.
When attending a funeral, the Prim and Proper Sort wears black, as dark clothing is slimming and always fashionable. (A note to Prim and Proper Ladies: veils are particularly attractive mourning accoutrements, and useful for hiding your smile.)
If you aren’t really sad, then you can hire an orphan to cry on your behalf. Orphans have plenty to cry about.
If you happen to be a skilled taxidermist, offer your services to the grieving family at half price.
Funerals can be terribly dreary. To improve the mood, set up a lighthearted game of tiddlywinks atop the casket.
If you are the bereaved, you will be expected to host a reception after the service. While inconvenient, the purpose of this gathering is to compensate your friends for the extreme displeasure of attending a funeral. Remember: mourners expect salami.
Arsenic is best delivered via a teatime treat, sprinkled upon scones, watercress sandwiches, or muffins. Murder after five in the evening would be improper and a mark of bad breeding.
If your criminal pastimes require preparation of a blackmail note, avoid the gauche contemporary fashion for cutting letters from periodicals and pasting them into your message. Nobody enjoys receiving an epistle of doom that is sloppy! Strive for elegant penmanship when writing out your blackmail demands, and do use high-quality stationery.
The Prim and Proper Sort makes every effort to improve the existence of the world’s Downtrodden and Wretched Types.
Enrich an orphan’s life by giving them the opportunity to clean out your top-rate chimney. Few orphans have the good fortune to see the interior of a chimney as fine as yours! If you are feeling especially generous, position a second ragamuffin at your doorway. Perfect doorstop.
Consider adopting a poodle. Poodles are loyal and intelligent creatures and make fine walking companions. And should a gust of wind blow away your wig, the poodle will make an attractive temporary replacement.
It is indelicate to sweat from your armpits. Strive to sweat from your elbows or knees instead.
Spitting is to be scrupulously avoided, even when you are by yourself. Therefore, you must give up the nasty habit of brushing your teeth.
REGARDING FLATULENCE:
The Prim and Proper Sort does not pass wind. This foul act will ruin you socially. If you let one rip in front of company, expect to be selling matches on the street within the month.
That said, should one of these noxious emissions slip from your bustle or trousers, there are a few desperate measures to which you must resort to cover your gaffe.
Burst into an operatic aria.
Muffle the noise by sitting on a small child.
Blame it on someone else.
Faint.
If a man, nod somberly and murmur, “War injury.”
Finally, the Prim and Proper Sort does not poop. Ever.
Children should be neither seen nor heard. If you happen to be one of these lousy ankle-biters, please do the world a favor and lock yourself into a cupboard or trunk until your eighteenth birthday. Study this etiquette manual in the years between now and then. When you finally pass from your filthy grub stage into adulthood, you may then emerge as a Prim and Proper Butterfly, ready to dazzle the world.
Brianne Johnson
Matchless Lady Agent of Letters
Acclaimed Mesmerist
and
Mistress of the Hula Hoop
&
Shana Corey
Thrice-Crowned Unicycle Championess
Purveyor of Best-Quality Peppermint Tonic
and
Editrix Extraordinaire
(Fine-Tuning Literary Devices and Pianofortes since 1893)
in addition to
the Marvel-Working Joy-Practitioners at
Random House Children’s Books
HOLLY GRANT has loved spine-tinglingly spooky stories since she was your age. If Holly were a kangaroo, she would always keep a good mystery novel in her pouch. If she were a spider monkey, she would climb up to the tippy-top shelf where all the secret books are hidden in the public library. If she were a human, she would have been able to type this story herself, instead of dictating the entire manuscript to a suspiciously monobrowed secretary named Miss Sneed. Visit Holly and the Beastly Dreadfuls at BeastlyDreadfuls.com.
JOSIE PORTILLO was born and raised in Los Angeles, where she works as a freelance illustrator. She draws inspiration from mid-century design, vintage children’s animation, and her surroundings (fortunately, she does not live in an authentic Victorian lunatic asylum). When she’s not illustrating, she can be found spending time with her two dogs (they are not vicious attack poodles) and playing soccer (though she hears catching leeches is also excellent exercise). She claims she has never met a suspiciously monobrowed secretary named Miss Sneed in her life.
Holly Grant, The League of Beastly Dreadfuls Book 1
