Horus and the Curse of Everlasting Regret (2 page)

Tunie stopped at the back door of Eleanor's Elegant Sweet Shoppe and tugged up each drooping kneesock. The socks had once been white but now were tinged gray from wear. She lifted her pet bat, Perch, from her shoulder and set him gently on a dripping pipe that stuck out from the building. Perch spun until he was hanging upside down, his black wings closing around him. He did not look pleased to be left behind in the dank alley, which smelled like ripe old garbage and mop water.

“Sorry, Perch, but you know how it is. Not everyone loves a bat.”

He closed his eyes, indignant. Perch was unusual to a spooky degree. Most people wouldn't believe Tunie if she told them what he could do, or that she had a sort of sense for such unusual things.

She sighed and smoothed back the hair that had slipped from her brown braid, tucking it under the light blue ribbon headband Perch had found. There was no time to plait her hair again; she was late already. She opened the back door to the kitchen.

“What are you doin' here?” A round-cheeked new baker looked Tunie over, taking in the sagging socks, the broken shoelace, the frayed hem of the skirt. The baker lifted a wooden spoon. “Out! Shoo!” she said, for all the world, as if Tunie were a pigeon.

Tunie took a step back, and as she tried to explain, Miss Eleanor strode into the kitchen. She shut the door to the shop behind her, keeping the fancy customers out of view.

“It's all right, Marge. This is Petunia. She is our calligraphist.” Miss Eleanor turned and climbed the flight of stairs to the business office, expecting Tunie to follow, which she did. Marge's sour expression said what she thought of Eleanor's taste in calligraphists. Tunie resisted the urge to stick out her tongue and scrambled to keep up with Miss Eleanor's fine silk skirt.

“You're late,” Miss Eleanor said sternly over her shoulder.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, there was—”

“Never mind,” Miss Eleanor interrupted. “I'm in a rush. Clean your hands and I'll show you today's work.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Miss Eleanor stacked ivory cards on the glossy wooden desk that nearly filled the closet-sized office. She hunted around in a stack of papers while Tunie washed her hands at the small sink. It was one of Tunie's favorite parts of the job—washing with the sweet, rose-scented soap. Tunie carefully dried her hands and rolled up her sleeves.

Miss Eleanor impatiently waved Tunie to the padded leather desk chair. “I've left the cards and the list here. I'll be back in half an hour to check on your progress.”

Miss Eleanor departed in a swirl of skirts. Tunie took a moment to breathe in the delicious smell of blueberry scones baking below and to appreciate the vine-patterned wallpaper. Then she bent over the thick rectangular cards and began carefully copying the names of next week's specials:
Strawberry Torte, Powdered Lemon Drops, Chocolate Hazelnut Wafers.

Before she died of cholera, Tunie's mother had been an artist. She'd taught Tunie how to sketch, how to paint, and—most valuably—how to write in beautiful, elegant script. This last skill was what Miss Eleanor paid Tunie to do. She'd spied a
HELP WANTED
sign in Miss Eleanor's shop window a few months earlier. For writing out the names of the bakery specials for the store display, Miss Eleanor gave Tunie a few coins and a bag of day-old baked goods. It wasn't much, but there were times when the stale biscuits and hard scones were all Tunie and her father had to eat.

Tunie had just finished the last mouthwatering flourish on
Bacon Cheddar Scones
when she heard a screech at the window. Tunie glanced up in time to see Perch, his black wings flapping frantically against the pane. He dove away just as a large striped tomcat on the rooftop pounced, hitting the window with a thud.

“Perch!” Tunie cried. She leaped to her feet. The stack of cards scattered and the Moore fountain pen dropped to the floor. Tunie hurried to the window, stepping on the pen, which broke with a crack. She yanked on the sash. It was stuck. Tunie pulled with all her might until it opened a mere three inches. Perch flew in with a shriek. The tomcat yowled on the windowsill and stretched a paw into the room as far as it could.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Miss Eleanor hissed in the doorway. Her pointy, powdered features were pinched with displeasure. “All the customers downstairs can hear you screeching and thumping!”

“There's…,” Tunie improvised hurriedly, “a bat! In here!”

“What?” Miss Eleanor's eyes widened as she turned around. Tunie motioned for Perch to come out and show himself.

Miss Eleanor put her hands on her hips. “I don't see any—
Eeeeek!
”

Perch flew down and flapped around Miss Eleanor's head a few times before disappearing behind a bookcase. She ducked and flailed her arms in an unladylike fashion.

Tunie said, “I can get him out, ma'am.”

“Well, be quick about it!” Miss Eleanor swiftly made her way to the door. “And for goodness' sake, don't tell the customers!”

She fled down the stairs.

Tunie tidied up her work space. At least she hadn't stepped on the cards, though the broken pen would surely leak now.

She opened the small drawstring bag she carried.

“Hop in, Perch,” she said. Perch landed on the desk but made no move to get in the pouch.

“I know you don't like it, but Miss Eleanor's upset! I need to tell her you're gone, or we won't get a plugged nickel for this work. I'll open the bag the moment we're outside, honest.”

Perch took a few mincing steps toward Tunie and then reluctantly stepped into the bag. He peered grumpily up at Tunie from inside.

“You are the very finest bat,” Tunie whispered to him warmly. She glanced around, went to the window, and shut it. Then she opened the door and called quietly to Miss Eleanor.

Miss Eleanor appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Well?”

“It's…gone. I got it with a book and dropped it out the window.”

A look of distaste crossed Miss Eleanor's face, and she ascended the stairs and pushed past Tunie back into the room. She peered at the cards.

“Good enough, I suppose,” she said of the elegant flourishes, the gorgeous lettering. Then she spied the pen and lifted it up to inspect it. A large crack ran down the side. “How on earth did you do that?”

“I stepped on it when the bat startled me,” Tunie replied. Bat, cat. It didn't matter, really.

“Well, that will come out of your pay.” Miss Eleanor pulled out her change purse and counted out two fewer coins than usual into Tunie's hand. “I left your bag of day-olds on the counter by the door. You may pick it up on your way out.”

Tunie hid her dismay at the reduced pay and thanked Miss Eleanor. She hurried down the stairs, snatching her bag of day-olds as she left.

Perch began squeaking the moment Tunie stepped outside, and continued even after Tunie released him from her bag.

“I know, I know,” Tunie said. “The pen wasn't my fault. I can't argue with her, though, Perch. You can't eat arguments, even winning ones. Come on—the apothecary closes in ten minutes!”

Tunie took a shortcut through an alley. There was only one other neighborhood in all of Harbortown that Tunie knew this well—Northie, short for the Northeast End. Tunie had lived there in an apartment with her mom and dad for the first seven years of her life. There had been loads of children on their floor; the neighbors would leave their doors open, and the kids played together freely in the hallways. She could still close her eyes and navigate the Northie streets, though she hadn't been back in two years. Memories of her mom there made it too sad to return.

Tunie arrived, breathless, in front of Dringdon's Drugs. Through the window, she saw the spectacled pharmacist's assistant and felt a little lift. He was the nice one. The bell rang, announcing Tunie's entrance.

“I have…” Tunie counted the pennies in her hand, then gave them all to the pharmacist's assistant. “That should be enough for a few days' worth of aspirin.”

“They are two for one cent. It's enough for six pills only,” the assistant said regretfully. He dropped them into a little waxed paper envelope.

“Please,” Tunie begged. “He's in bad shape. He has a sore throat and a fever. He really needs these to sleep.”

The assistant sighed. He had a lined countenance and a gentle voice. “Everyone needs medicine, my dear. I can't just give it away, as much as I'd like to; the shop would close in a single day if I did!” Seeing Tunie's face, he softened. He glanced around and slid an extra pill into the envelope. “Oh, I'll say I dropped it,” he said. “But I can't keep this up.”

Tunie thanked him repeatedly, and even offered him something from the bag of day-olds, but he told her to keep them.

“Your dad will need to keep his strength up,” he said. “If he has diphtheria, as I suspect, it is serious business. You need to be vaccinated so you don't contract it yourself. Aspirin might lessen his discomfort, but it won't cure him. If he isn't treated with a toxoid soon, he could develop severe complications like…”

Tears filled Tunie's eyes as the pharmacist stopped midsentence. A look of regret crossed his face.

“Well. You just take care of him as well as you can,” he said.

“I'm trying,” Tunie whispered.

“More, more!” shouted Randall, gripping Peter's arms tightly behind his back. Pain sparked around Peter's shoulder sockets, and his ribs pressed uncomfortably against the ceramic sink. Larry, who was backed up against the wooden door, held Peter's chin in a pincer grip. The three of them hardly fit in the small lavatory. There was a disturbing trace odor of dog bombs in the close space.

Peter's eyes watered and he choked and gagged, twisting his jaw out of Larry's grip. Larry had been brushing Peter's teeth forcibly, using his father's bayberry shaving cream. The bitter flavor and chemical odor had brought Peter nearly to vomiting.

“How's it taste, smarty-pants?” Larry mocked, waggling his furry blond eyebrows. He waved the toothbrush back and forth before Peter's face. “Maybe just one more time. Dental hygiene is important. Open wide!”

Peter was too busy spitting out soap into the basin to respond. The corner of his mouth was bleeding from Larry's rough handling of the toothbrush. Larry startled when he caught sight of the blood, and his hand holding the toothbrush lowered.

A knock on the bathroom door made the twins jump. Randall shoved Peter away. Larry quickly fumbled the toothbrush and tube of shaving cream back into the medicine cabinet.

Peter's father called through the door. “Peter, are you in there? I have a letter for you, and Miss Cook said you never had your afternoon tea.”

Peter's stepmother had gone to boarding school in England for a few years, and though she'd returned to the United States over a decade ago, she still insisted on afternoon tea.

Peter pushed past the twins and opened the door. His father stood there, slim and spectacled. He was holding a tray, upon which rested milk tea and biscuits, the newspaper, and a letter. He frowned, seeing the blood on Peter's lip as Peter tried to wipe it away.

“What's going on?” his father asked.

Once, after the twins had filled his underwear with prickly burrs, Peter had told on them. As a result, they'd all three been punished—no dessert for a week—and the twins had picked on him even more afterward.

“Nothing,” Peter said. “I'm really hungry. Thank you!”

He grabbed the tray and ran past his father. Upstairs, he triple-locked the door. Peter's room was half bedroom, half workshop. On his desk, he had organized boxes of nuts and bolts, all kinds of metal pieces he'd scavenged, and various pliers and tools. On a shelf above them were machines in progress. On the cork wall, he'd pinned up articles from
Modern Mechanics
and sketches of projects he had in mind.

Peter sat down on the rug beside a small windup robot—his favorite creation of all—whom he'd named, suitably, WindUp.

He'd begun constructing WindUp a couple of weeks after his mother's funeral. Unable to sleep, he'd taken out his screwdriver and started angrily dismantling a music box his mother had sent from Switzerland, where she'd supposedly gone to recover. With brimming eyes, Peter unscrewed every tiny screw, laid bare the pieces—the neat little drum and comb, the flywheel, the spring and gears. Then he started on a clock, and next a radio. For days, his entire room was littered with parts, every surface twinkling with wires and dials and pins.

Eventually, Peter began reassembling some of the intricate cogs and circuits into something new—WindUp. The painstaking soldering and connecting gave him something to focus on besides how he was feeling. Still, the robot saw more of Peter's tears than anyone living. Peter had grown to think of WindUp as a kind of friend.

He set the tea tray on the floor beside them, first reaching for the letter with his name on it. The return address on the envelope was for Camp Contraption. Peter had written them a pleading letter, enclosing a school report card that showed his grades, and asking if they had scholarships. He tore the envelope open. Inside, there was just an advertisement, a small slip of paper with a drawing of a tent and a camper happily building some kind of scaffolding. Beneath it was printed, “There's still time! Spaces are available on a first-come, first-served basis. Full payment must be received by June 15. Don't miss out on a summer of creative fun at CAMP CONTRAPTION!”

“We have less than two weeks to come up with that money, WindUp,” Peter said, holding a kerchief to his injured lip. He slumped back against the foot of his bed.

“We have got to think of something.”

Then his eye fell on the copy of the
Harbortown Gazette
his father had inadvertently left on the tea tray. The headline drew Peter's attention:

SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING DOROTHY JAMES

Though the fair has packed up and moved on, Harbortown police continue to scour the city fairgrounds and surrounding areas for ten-year-old Dorothy James, daughter of shipping magnate Christopher James and Catherine James. Inundated with tips from citizens, police detective Dedrick Shade has followed several leads, but so far has had no luck locating the missing girl. The James family is offering a generous $1,000 reward for information leading to Dorothy's safe return. The reward has yet to be claimed.

Dorothy went missing on May 14 at the city fair's
Mummies of Ancient Egypt
exhibit, on loan from the Harbortown Natural History Museum. Her father was buying popcorn at the booth across from the exhibit. He says his daughter entered the tent, but he did not see her exit. When he followed her inside, she was nowhere to be found.

Dorothy James was last seen wearing a light blue satin party dress and matching blue ribbon headband. She has dark curly hair, brown eyes, and a heart-shaped birthmark on her left forearm. If you have any information on Dorothy's whereabouts, please contact Detective Dedrick Shade at the Harbortown Police Station on Oak Street.

“This is it, WindUp,” said Peter. “I know a way into that museum! I found it on a field trip last month.”

He shivered a little, just remembering it. He'd stopped for too long at the mummy exhibit and gotten separated from his school group. Trying to find them, he ended up in a narrow passageway along the side of the building. Peter noticed a street-level window with an open latch, when all the others were locked. This was exactly the kind of thing that drove Peter crazy—he always closed cabinet doors left open, adjusted paintings hung crookedly. If five socks drying on a clothesline had toes pointing left and one pointing right, he'd flip the last so they all pointed the same direction. Seeing a single window unlocked, when every other in the row was locked, he closed the latch. Then he hurried down the hall but found it dead-ended. Peter turned a moment later and headed back the same way, only to spy the same window latch open once more. The back of his neck tingled as he glanced around the echoing hallway. He was alone. Peter figured the latch was faulty. He closed it one more time but felt disturbed enough not to look behind him as he left. He ran and found his classmates.

If he was lucky, no one had fixed that window. Despite the spooky experience he'd had, he felt a curious longing to return to the museum.

“If the police are focusing on the fairgrounds and finding nothing, I should take a look at the exhibit itself,” he said to WindUp.

WindUp's blank eyes stared at Peter. Peter picked up a biscuit and munched.

“It's a place to start, anyway,” he said.

The steady thuds of the twins' footfalls sounded on the stairs, followed by pounding on Peter's bedroom door.

Randall called in a menacing singsong, “Oh, Peetey! We have a new kind of pomade to try on your hair. It's better than brilliantine!”

The twins giggled.

Peter moved WindUp closer and whispered, “Don't worry, WindUp. I'll get us out of here. Promise.”