“What say you to that jolly park we just passed, Mrs. S.?”
Clara returned Mr. Arthur’s suggestion with a raised brow. She’d almost forgotten the man was trailing behind with their bags, for he hadn’t spoken a word since disembarking the ship. Not even a complaint about missing luncheon. She had been most grateful for his silence. How unfortunate that, like all good things, it must come to an end.
“I suggested that park half an hour ago, Mr. Arthur. If you’ll recall, Mum declared the grounds ‘insufficient for a rodent’s romping needs.’”
“I do recall the romping concern. A valid consideration on your part, Mrs. S. Most important, physical exercise. However, I think the park—a most excellent suggestion on your part, Miss Stanton—warrants a second examination. Consider this, ladies.” Placing their bags upon the cobbles, Mr. Arthur waved a hand through the air, as though he weresetting the scene of a play. “Sturdy trees and romantic shrubbery as far as the eye can see, there’s your shelter and reproductive necessaries. A glistening lake surrounded by picnic goers with luncheon crumbs, there’s your dietary musts. As for adequate romping space, we need only to factor in scale, and suddenly this small park becomes a massive rodent gymnasium. Why, if I were a mouse, I’d be delighted to live in such a park. What say you, Mrs. S? Shall we release the prisoners into this paradise and find ourselves a well-deserved celebratory meal?”
Mum scrutinized the park behind them. “Hmm ... the challenge of scavenging in an urban environment might be a boon to the little dears’ physical fitness and mental agility.” A smile smoothed the lines from her forehead. “On second thought, I think this park will serve quite well. Thank you, my boy, for helping me to see it for its possibilities.”
A huff deflated Clara’s chest. Unbelievable. Any notion she presented in matter-of-factness was opposed with vehemence, but let the very same notion be put forth in Mr. Arthur’s grandiloquence and suddenly all within hearing were gladly persuaded. Stars, his silver-tongued prowess was irksome. Dragged along by Mum through the gates of the now perfectly suitable yet completely unaltered park, Clara glowered at Mr. Arthur, who had the nerve to wink in reply.
After Mum bid the mice farewell with a dramatic wave of her tear-wetted handkerchief, the travelers quit the park in search of much-needed nourishment. Mr. Arthur assumed the lead of their procession with assurances that he knew the “perfect place to grab a bite” since he’d—allegedly—traveled through Amsterdam years ago. Keeping a firm hold of Mum’s arm, Clara allowed him to lead on, since her headache had grown too severe for protest.
Crossing a stone bridge, they passed townhouses with colorful shutters, which seemed to spring up from the canal’splacid water like so many tulips. On the other side, Mr. Arthur stopped at a quaint café where alfresco dining took advantage of the picturesque waterway. A waiter soon arrived, but before Clara could request a menu, Mr. Arthur ordered for their party in Dutch.
Her eyebrows vaulted. Perhaps notallthe man’s wild stories were falsehoods.
In due course, the waiter returned with two plates ofbitterballen, a fried bite-size appetizer accompanied by a dish of mustard for dipping. While she and Mr. Arthur shared from the first dish of crispy, traditional bitterballen filled with savory beef and gravy, Mum enjoyed a dish all to herself that had been prepared with mushrooms, per Mr. Arthur’s special request. A thoughtful consideration that warmed Clara’s heart despite herself.
Appetizers thus dispensed with zest, they proceeded to dine on a main course ofstamppot, which Mr. Arthur informed them was a Dutch staple made from a combination of potato mash, spinach, sauerkraut, and other assorted vegetables. The creamy stew, served with a wedge of gouda, was most satiating, and by the time Clara had scraped the bowl clean with her spoon, her strength was quite renewed. Along with her determination to be about their purpose.
She stood and began slipping on her brown gloves. “Let’s settle the bill and be off, then.”
Mr. Arthur gave a mock gasp. “But, Miss Stanton, we’ve not yet had dessert.”
“We haven’t the time to indulge, sir. The hour grows late, and Grand’s next clue is yet a long walk away.”
Like a cat sprawled in the sun, Mr. Arthur didn’t stir from the comfort of his chair. “There is absolutely always time for dessert. Besides, one cannot travel through the city of Amsterdam without reveling in one—or two or three—freshstroopwafel. Think of this: two flattened waffle biscuits, roundand crisp and golden as the evening sun, joined together by the perfection that is caramel. It is resplendent. Especially when you place the stroopwafel atop the rim of a piping cup of tea and let steam warm the cara—”
“I don’t care for a lecture on proper biscuit consumption, Mr. Arthur. I care about Grand. Remember him? The lovable, stubborn old man who is currently wandering about the globe in a bizarre invention that could get him committed? We’re here forhim—not a jolly holiday.”
“Ducky, ducky ... you are anxious and troubled by many things.” Mum observed her with an expression equal parts pity and amusement as Fred rubbed his little face against her cheek. “Father will be fine. He’s as hearty and resourceful as the mice we freed today. Perhaps more so, since he’s significantly older. What’s more, your Grand intended for this journey to be a pleasurable stroll, not a harried race. Therefore, you are going to be an agreeable granddaughter and indulge him, so sit your rump back in that chair. We are getting the biscuits, and as your mother, I am ordering you to eat one.”
Of all the ridiculous commands. Clara crossed her arms. She was not a child to be ordered about. She was a woman, fully grown, who could make her own decisions. Clara remained standing while Mr. Arthur requested the infernal biscuits and tea. She remained standing while the waiter served said infernal biscuits and tea, and she had every intention to remain standing while Mum and Mr. Arthur ate their infernal biscuits and tea. That is ... until Mum’s blue eyes sharpened in that authoritative manner that, in her formative years, had never failed to melt her childish obstinance into a puddle of remorse.
Apparently, the trick also worked on women fully grown.
With a downcast frame, Clara sat. Removing the warm stroopwafel from atop her steaming cuppa, she took a biteand—dash it all, Mr. Arthur was right! The biscuitwasresplendent. Setting the stroopwafel upon her Delftware saucer, painted with cobalt windmills on a glazed background of white, she sipped her tea.
The chair to her right scraped against the cobbles. Propping an elbow on the table, Mr. Arthur leaned quite close and whispered in her ear provocatively, “Best biscuit you ever had, aye, Miss Stanton?”
Clara sent the man a sideways glance over the rim of her cup. “It’s palatable.”
She felt more than saw Mr. Arthur’s smirk. “I wonder, Miss Stanton. Do you judge anything on its own merit, or are all your views blinded by prejudice?”
The question plucked a vein along her temple.
“Krant te koop!” The shout came from a young lad walking by the café with a stack of newspapers tucked under his arm. “Krant te koop.Het laatste nieuws.”
“Right-oh, just what we need. A newspaper to enlighten our limited viewpoint.” Jumping from his seat, Mr. Arthur ran after the newsboy for a paper.
Mum offered the last of her stroopwafel to Fred, and the ermine nibbled away, raining crumbs upon the embroidered buttons that fastened her fuchsia bodice. “Anything interesting happening in the world, Arthur?”
“I should say so.” Mr. Arthur perused the pages with an unperturbed air. “Our clockwork quarry has landed himself on the front page.”
Clara’s heart stilled, and she lowered her cup and saucer to the table with a clink. She’d known it was inevitable, the owl hitting the papers. She’d known better than to hope otherwise, but just this once ... she had wanted so much to hope.
“Apparently, Drosselmeyer’s dramatic departure hit the London papers the morning after our ship set sail.”
