“It’s just me, sir.” A familiar voice, accented by German, came through the door. “Gretel from the kitchen, with victuals and a fresh poultice for the lady.”
Cracking open the door, he confirmed the young woman was alone in the corridor.
Gretel brought in a tray of food and set it on the chest of drawers. “Guten morgen, Mrs. Stanton. Let’s have a look at that wound.” Apparently, the woman had grown accustomed to the menagerie her employer graciously chose to overlook, for she didn’t bat an eye at the curious kits scampering about her feet. She just set to work.
She pulled back the bed’s rumpled quilt, with its rows of hand-stitched gnomes, then fluffed the red pillows and settled them behind Mrs. S., tucking her in snugly. She then examined the back of Mrs. Stanton’s head. “Bleeding stopped, and the swelling down.Gut.I believe you’re on the mend.”
After applying a fresh poultice and compress to the wound, Gretel placed the tray of food on Mrs. Stanton’s lap and produced a piece of paper from her apron. “This message was left for you,gnädige frau.”
Gooseflesh pricked Theodore’s neck. Who’d know to direct a message for Mrs. Stanton to the Gingerbread Gnome in Strasbourg, France? “I’d like to see that, if I may.” After getting a nod from Mrs. S., Gretel handed him the message. It was an unremarkable piece of paper, folded in half and marked with the initialsR. F.
His muscles tightened. “Who delivered this? How did they get past the police?”
“An errand boy dropped it off, sir. Little Raoul. And as I already explained to the policemen, he is no stranger here. He brings our regular order of groceries from the market every day just before dawn, and on occasion, he delivers messages for us. Raoul said this note was to be delivered to Mrs. Stanton and no response was required. Will that be all?”
Theodore nodded, and after seeing Gretel to the door, he locked it firmly behind her. A cherub-cheeked boy known to the inn’s staff made for a perfect Trojan horse. No wonderOfficers Firmin and Armand had let him through without suspicion.
Mrs. Stanton’s voice wavered. “Is it from that man?”
Sitting on the end of the bed, he nodded grimly and unfolded the paper and read aloud. “‘Mrs. Stanton, be advised that I have your daughter, and she is unharmed. To facilitate her swift return, please follow the subsequent instructions exactly. Any deviations or attempt to involve the police further will only make things more difficult for all concerned. Locate your father and instruct him to bring the owl machine to me in exchange for Miss Stanton. This exchange will take place in one week’s time on April 28 at Port de Strasbourg on the Rhine River. I’ll be waiting with Miss Stanton at a warehouse marked Alsatian Freight. Drosselmeyer is to land the owl on the warehouse roof at the stroke of midnight—alone and unarmed. If you follow these instructions, all will be well. If you try me, we will both have regrets. I’m sorry it has come to this. R. F.’”
Like acrid smoke wafting from a fired cannon, Forrester’s subtle threats lingered in the air, noxious and nebulous. Theodore’s hand balled into a fist, strangling the man’s slanted scrawl in lieu of his ratty neck yet out of reach. Seven days. He expected them to leave Miss Stanton in his keeping for seven days? To locate Drosselmeyer in seven days? To trust the word of a known prowler and abductor to hold true for seven wretched days?God, you cannot mean me to wait that long?
Mrs. S. shook her head. “I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.”
The demand for an exchange felt suspect. There had to be another way to get Miss Stanton back. A way that didn’t involve sending Drosselmeyer into a dark rathole. Theodore propped his brow on the fist still crushing the menacing message.Lord, what would you have me do? Should I abide by theseinstructions or attempt to locate Clara?He steadied himself with a deep breath that smelt of toast and a hint of citrus.
His gaze latched on to Mrs. Stanton’s tray of food. Steaming teapot, matching cup, plate of toast. “You don’t have any oranges.”
“Keen observation, hawkeye. Why? Do you have a hankering?”
No, just a fragrant hunch his prayers had been answered. Theodore sniffed the crumpled paper. Not oranges, but the blossoms. The scent was faint but definitely present, along with a whiff of—
He recoiled. Gah, something not nearly as pleasant. He held the note up to the sunlight. On the back of the paper, there was a distinct white smudge. Or rather, asplat.
He grinned. “Stork excrement.”
“Oranges and stork excrement, hmm?” Mrs. S. grimaced and shook her head. “I’ll stick with my tea and toast, thanks.” Her eyebrows raised. “Wait. Are you thinking—”
“He’s holding Miss Stanton in Orangerie Park. Somewhere off the beaten path. Somewhere the tourists don’t frequent, and the groundskeepers have neglected or abandoned.” He consulted Drosselmeyer’s watch. If he and the police made haste, they could search a good portion of the park before nightfall.What say you, Lord?
A sense of peace imbued Theodore with renewed confidence and hope. Right-oh! Now it was time to take action. Crushing the note, he tossed it to the foxes, who batted it across the floor. “I believe Miss Stanton has been away from us long enough. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Mrs. Stanton nudged the tray toward him. “You’d best have some toast, dear. A gallant knight should never rescue a damsel on an empty stomach.”
If a lady must endure captivity, she oughtn’t have to do so on an empty stomach. While the yellow-bellied dragon guarding her dungeon door had snored the night away, Clara had tossed and turned, dreaming of teapots steaming with Darjeeling and plates towering with chocolate éclairs.
After dawn, she’d awoken to her stomach growling its discontent. Thankfully, a loaf of bread and wedge of cheese had been left on the table, and she’d found the watering can refilled. Mr. Forrester had apparently entered the shed during her dream about cream puffs.
The food, though not éclairs or cream puffs, had done much to revive Clara. After breakfast, she’d taken up pacing the confines of the potting shed, stretching out her sore limbs. The exercise kept her body from growing restless and her mind from running down trails of thought overgrown with thorny vines of anxiety. Vain imaginations must not be entertained. No matter how eerie the silence. No matter how the light, prying through the slatted walls, waned before the coming of another night. She must ignore the lies whispered by solitude and cling to the truth she’d found.
Slipping a hand in her pocket, Clara clasped her journal.Abide with me, Lord. Take care of me and mine.She halted before the door still locked fast and inhaled a deep breath sweetened by the fragrance of orange blossoms. Hours ago, she’d deduced that they were in Orangerie Park. For what else could be assumed after she’d awoken to the bill-clattering of storks and the park’s distinct floral perfume? The question was, how long did Mr. Forrester intend to keep her here? What was the next step in his plan?
Dropping to her knees, Clara peered through the knothole in the wall. Mr. Forrester was still standing guard in front of the door. Just as he had been all day. If she was going to have any chance of escaping, she needed to get him to leave. “Mr. Forrester ... I need more food.”
A frustrated sigh seeped through the boards of the shed. “All I have left is my day’s ration, and I’ll not be sharing. What I gave you was enough to last till the morrow. You should’ve eaten more sparingly.”
