The Unmapped Sea (10 page)

“‘Let no head go uncovered!'” the twins bellowed as one.

“Yes! Let no head go uncovered!” She laughed, sharp and joyless. “Until not so long ago, hats made us rich. Every time the snow fell, it was like rubles falling into the pockets of the Babushkinovs. But then . . .”

“Madame,” Master Gogolev said abruptly. “If it pleases you, I will return to the hotel and put on a hat.”

She patted his arm. “No, my dear Gogolev. Your skull suits you the way it is. Free, and unencumbered. But I warn you, if you get sick we shall be in the market for a new tutor.”

“You break my heart with such threats, madame,” he answered, smooth as milk. “How could I manage without my dear pupils? I live for your children, as you know. They are sweetness incarnate.”

Penelope walked just to the side of these two, with
the Incorrigibles directly ahead of her. She knew she ought not to be eavesdropping, but really, she could not recall ever being privy to such a fascinating conversation! How strange these Babushkinovs were, with their bitterness and misery! And yet everyone was pretending to be happy, at least some of the time, while saying the opposite of what they truly meant.

“Look!” Despite being told not to, Constantin and Boris had raced ahead to see how much farther it was to the frozen pond. Now they came roaring back. “The ice is on fire! Come look!”

The twins were guilty of hyperbole, but for good reason. A bonfire blazed at one end of the pond, and torches that stood nearly as tall as the captain had been planted in the ground all around the pond's edge. The reflection of their leaping flames turned the perimeter of the ice a brilliant rosy hue. Ice skates in various sizes had been laid out on blankets near the fire, and their metal blades also caught the light, until the skates themselves were edged in flame.

Beowulf was entranced by the play of firelight on the ice. Eagerly he strapped on a pair of skates. “I am fire skating!” he cried, wobbling his way onto the ice. Cassiopeia and Alexander quickly joined him. It took
a few minutes of slipping and sliding and hanging on to one another, but the Incorrigibles were naturally quick and agile, and soon enough all three were gliding capably along.

The Babushkinov twins each grabbed one of the same pair of skates and nearly got into a brawl over it, but once that was settled they were twin blurs crisscrossing the ice, fast and aggressive. A pair of tiny double-bladed skates was found for Baby Max. Julia hovered near him, begging him to let her hold his hands, but it turned out he could skate better than he could walk, and his outfit was so padded that his frequent falls only made him laugh.

And then there was Veronika, who did not merely skate, but danced on the ice. She could sail across the full length of the pond with one leg extended high behind her. She arched her back and made graceful sweeping movements with her arms, then spun like a coin set on edge. When she stopped, she was hardly out of breath, and she wore a dazzling smile.

“Again, again!” the Incorrigibles cried. Alexander in particular could not stop clapping. “Encore!” he yelled. (“Encore” is simply the French word for “again.” It is shouted with appreciation during the applause to urge a performer to offer one more song, soliloquy,
pirouette, puppet show, magic trick, or what have you. A polite cry of “Encore!” can also be used to demand a second helping of dessert, particularly a French dessert, such as an éclair, a mousse—which is not to be confused with an elk—a tarte Philippe, or even some tasty petites madeleines.)

Veronika bowed so low that the fur trim of her hat brushed the ice. “I ought to say no, my ballet master says skating is bad for my feet—but all right!” She soared through another gorgeous turn around the pond. Her brothers paid no attention, but the Incorrigibles watched in awe, until an even more impressive sight caught their attention.

“Look! Lumawoo on skates!” Cassiopeia cried, pointing.

And it was true. After giving the matter some thought, Penelope had decided to give ice skating one more try. She was a Swanburne girl, after all, and as Agatha Swanburne once said, “Resist temptation, embrace adventure, and learn how to tell the difference!”

Awkward as a chick newly out of its egg, she stood wobbling on the ice and willed herself not to fall. She took tiny, halting steps across the slippery surface, or tried to. “Oh!” she cried, cartwheeling her arms for balance. “Whoops!”

As she toppled, a set of arms swooped in and caught her from behind. It was Master Gogolev. They skated on together, with one of his hands lightly supporting her elbow and the other firmly around her waist. At first Penelope was alarmed, as he took her around the pond much faster than she would have liked. But his grip was firm, and to have someone steady her while demonstrating the smooth, steady rhythm of correct skating technique made all the difference.

By the time they finished a third lap, she felt able to maneuver slowly but reliably across the ice. Master Gogolev seemed to intuit as much, and let her go without a word.

“Thank you,” she called as he glided away. He did not answer; perhaps he was already lost in some deep internal philosophical debate. Penelope completed a few cautious loops on her own. She was no longer cold, quite the contrary; but her legs were tired and the skates were beginning to pinch. Satisfied that the challenge of ice skating had been met and mastered, she left the ice, removed her skates, and made her way back to the bonfire. Porters from the hotel had set out chairs nearby, and were now preparing some sort of warm drink in a large kettle hung over the fire.

Captain Babushkinov stood by his seated, bored-looking wife. He smiled at Penelope's approach. “Still too cold for you, teacher?”

She peeled off her gloves and held her hands to her face. Her cheeks were warm with exertion. “On the contrary, I am rather flushed.”

“Is swimming weather, not skating weather. Ah. Ha. Hah!” The captain's laugh boomed like cannon fire. “English beach in January is like Russian spring!”

Penelope did not want to argue, although she certainly had no intention of going swimming anytime soon. “I am sure you are correct, Captain. When I was at school in Heathcote, the pond froze over so rarely that the one time it did, it was the occasion for a school holiday. . . .”

Her words trailed off as a terrible realization overtook her. Yes, the past few days had been brisk, but that memorable, long-ago day of the Totally Unplanned Skating Holiday in Heathcote had been far colder. In fact, the winter of the TUSH had been one of the coldest winters she could remember.

She turned and addressed the two hotel porters who tended the kettle. “Pardon me. Would I be correct to assume that you two gentlemen are responsible
for the excellent preparations made here: the torches, the chairs, the bonfire? Not to mention this tasty-smelling beverage that is even now simmering away in the kettle?”

Proudly they stirred. “That we are, miss,” one of them said with a confident smile.

She smiled back. “I thought so! One question. Upon your arrival at the pond, did either of you think to measure the thickness of the ice?”

They looked at one another, somewhat less confident. “We were told the pond was frozen,” one of them answered.

“Well frozen,” the other said. “Frozen solid, practically.”

“You were told?” Penelope's face lost all trace of friendliness. “By whom?”

The first man shrugged. “It was a fellow from the BIP. Brighton Ice Patrol. He came by the hotel and told us it was safe for skating.”

“Did you know this man?” she said sharply.

“Nope. Never heard of the BIP before, either. Must be something new. But his uniform was quite proper. Very impressive.”

“Sharp uniform, yes,” his companion agreed. “Official looking.”

“But no one checked the ice. . . .” She turned and looked at the pond. The Incorrigibles were out there still, happily skating. Boris, Constantin, and Veronika were there. Master Gogolev wove endless figure eights with his hair flying, while Julia chased after chubby, clumsy Max, who did everything in his power to escape her.

Unconcerned, the porter stirred the kettle. “We trust the BIP. If you'd seen that uniform, you'd trust it, too. And we did a nice job with the bonfires and the torches, don't you think? And there'll be a nice warm beverage, soon enough. . . .”

“‘The wolf babies are in danger. . . .'” Madame Ionesco's warning flashed through Penelope's mind like a lightning strike. A moment later she was at the pond's edge, waving her arms.

“Alexander! Beowulf! Cassiopeia!” she yelled. “Be careful!”

The two boys were practicing an elaborate skating routine they had just devised. Near them, Cassiopeia skated back and forth in a long, straight line, with her head down and hands folded behind her back, trying to see how fast she could go. The panic in their governess's voice made all three children look up.

“We are careful, Lumawoo,” Alexander reassured her, as he and his brother stepped and glided together.
“See? We are doing the Skateesh!” Their routine was based on a dance step they had once learned called the schottische. It was a fine dance on dry land, but positively dazzling on ice.

“And I am faster than Bertha!” Cassiopeia yelled as she zoomed back and forth.

“Bertha on land, or Bertha on skates?” Beowulf inquired as he skipped and turned.

Whether an ostrich could be taught to ice-skate was an intriguing question, but one best saved for a less perilous situation. “We shall discuss it later, back at the hotel,” Penelope said firmly. “That is enough ice-skating for now.”

“But we are not done learning the Skateesh!” the boys protested.

“And I am not done racing, whee!” Cassiopeia called, whizzing by once more.

The worried governess used her sternest, most Swanburnian tone. “Ice-skating is over. Come off the ice at once, please. Please bring your friends as well.”

The children hesitated. “But
why
?” they asked, as one.

“Because . . .” Penelope looked around, desperate for an answer that would not cause a stampede of panic. “Because . . .”

Luckily, at that very moment a delicious aroma wafted across the ice. All three children sniffed deeply, and their eyes grew wide.

“Because the chocolate is ready,” Penelope answered gratefully. “Come, everyone! Time for chocolate!”

W
HAT
P
ENELOPE CALLED “CHOCOLATE” WOULD
nowadays be called “hot chocolate” or even “hot cocoa,” but rest assured, all three names describe the very same warm and creamy wintertime drink. The porters had scraped shavings of dark chocolate into boiling milk, with plenty of sugar mixed in. Once the chocolate had melted, the mixture was beaten with a whisk until the top frothed like the foam-tipped swells of the sea. The result was a kettle full of steaming, sweet, delicious chocolate for all.

Mesmerized, the Incorrigibles staggered toward the delectable aroma. “No broken ankles, if you please! Skates off first, then chocolate,” Penelope admonished. “Undo the buckles properly and put the skates back where they belong.”

By now Boris and Constantin smelled it, too. They carelessly kicked off their ice skates and left them lying on the ground where anyone might trip over them. They pushed their way to the front of the line and
insisted on taking two mugs each, for a total of four. If they had been triplets instead of twins, no doubt they would have insisted on six.

Veronika lingered on the ice, performing one last, unseen pirouette. “Stop dancing and take off your skates, silly girl. No one is watching you. Don't you want a mug of chocolate?” Julia called to her, already in line by the kettle.

“Perhaps.” Reluctantly Veronika came to the pond's edge. Watching her step back to the earth was like watching a swan dissolve into a dodo, for the same skates that allowed her to fly over the ice made her clumsy and slow on land. “I don't want to get chocolate on my white coat.”

It was the wrong thing to say. “Oops, I hope I don't spill any chocolate on my sister,” Constantin teased, holding a steaming mug of chocolate toward her like a weapon.

She took an awkward step backward, only to find Boris waiting behind her. “I hope I don't spill any chocolate on
my
sister,” he singsonged.

“Stop it.” Her eyes grew wide and instantly filled with tears. “Stop it, stop it!”

“If you cry, I'll throw my chocolate on you.” Constantin raised his mug high.

Veronika bit her trembling lip.

“If you
don't
cry, I'll throw
my
chocolate on you,” Boris crowed.

Thus trapped, Veronika opened her mouth and let out a wail of misery that could have started an avalanche. Luckily, there were no snow-capped mountains nearby. Nor was Alexander Woofovich Incorrigiblov close enough to witness this unpleasant scene. He knelt by the fire with his back to the pond, patiently helping Cassiopeia take all the knots out of her laces so she might put her skates away properly and enjoy a mug of chocolate.

But one did not need wolf-keen senses to hear Veronika's dramatic, ear-splitting howl. Alexander turned in alarm. There she was, a vision in white, teetering helplessly on her skates, while her two sneering brothers circled her like hyenas.

“Cry!”

“Don't cry!”

“Cry!”

“Don't cry!” they taunted.

Boris dipped one fingertip in his chocolate and prepared to flick a drop in Veronika's direction.

“GRRRRRRRRRAAAHHHWOOOOOO!”
Without question it was the most terrifying sound Alexander
had ever produced. He sprinted, then leaped into a flying pounce that carried him through the air until he landed directly upon Boris. The younger boy slammed to the ground on his back. Alexander crouched above him on all fours, snarling viciously.

“Help! He's drooling on me!” Boris shrieked.