KNOB KNOSTER BY THE SEA
A HANDFUL OF PEOPLE HAD COME TO MEET THE PASSENGERS AT THE station in Knob Knoster, but none had as strong a presence as the sea. As Lena took the conductor's hand and stepped from the train, she stepped into a sea-claimed world. She could smell it. The very feel of the air was different-moist and salty. She ran her tongue across her lips, tasting the air. In the distance, she was sure she could hear it calling her, a deep rumble of longing.
Knob Knoster, built on a knob of rocky coast that projected into the sea, had once been a wealthy seaport. The train station was an aging dowager, spotted and faded but still clinging to a gilded past. The building itself was flourished with cornucopias and buttresses, but blue had faded to pale gray in the sea air and the gilt trim had flaked away in patches. Three buggies, with flickering side lights, waited at attention to collect passengers. Lena noticed the two businessmen climb into one conveyance while the Jack Sprat couple were greeted by an elderly couple and whisked away. The lone businessman appeared not to be a detective after all. He was met with joyous cries by a round wife with three children at her side.
From the third carriage a wizened man stepped down. He limped his way toward Lena and Jimson.
"Where's your cousin?" Jimson turned to Lena after scanning the crowd.
"She must be late." Lena pretended to search in the distance. If only Jimson would leave now, before she made her solitary way to Miss Brett's.
"No, we're late." Jimson looked at the brass clock on the peak of the station house. "Very late. Perhaps she's come and gone."
Lena moved to collect her plaid bag from the pile the porter had unloaded onto the wooden platform. "I'm sure she's only delayed. Don't worry about me. I have your address."
"Mr. Jimson Quiggley? I'm Arthur, come to collect you for Mr. Beasley." White muttonchop sideburns bristled from the man's weathered cheeks.
Jimson directed the small man to his two bags. "I don't feel right going off and leaving you alone in a strange town," he said. Lena noticed how he jutted his sharp chin forward. Stubborn, she thought.
How was she going to get out of this? The platform was becoming quickly deserted. The woman with the poppy hat was embracing another woman of her same type. Two missionaries, Lena was sure, bent on saving the lost souls of Scree. Jimson showed no signs of moving on.
Toward the back of the platform, Lena spied an older woman in a knitted shawl. In a desperate move, she raised her arm and called out. The woman looked up. Lena grabbed her satchel and plunged forward in her direction. As she did, she called back over her shoulder, "Good-bye, Jimson. Good luck being a librarian!" And she marched toward the startled woman, who was still considering Lena, trying to decide if she knew her or not.
As she approached the woman, Lena realized that she must work for the station. An apron with the railroad insignia was fastened around her ample middle, and a broom and dustpan rested nearby against the side of the station house. She must be taking a break from work, Lena thought. From the top of the cupola, the gears rotated hands across the face of the great brass clock. Nine chimes rang out. Lena looked over her shoulder. Jimson was talking to the man with a limp as they walked toward the last of the carriages. The train shuddered and groaned to wakefulness.
One last passenger remained on the steps, ready to disembark. It was the marshal. His hand resting on the doorway, he scanned the dispersing passengers. Even from a distance, Lena could feel his eyes fasten on her. He stroked his mustache and then, nodding, descended the steps to the platform. Marshal and platform disappeared behind a cloud of steam as the train crept out of the station.
Lena turned away, glad to be blocked from his view. She smiled at the puzzled station worker. "I beg your pardon. I mistook you for someone else."
The woman nodded toward the station house. "I suspect your ride's waiting inside for you. If he's still here, the train being so late." She picked up her broom and returned to work.
But Lena, clutching her plaid bag, walked briskly away from the station toward the road winding up the hill. Gaslights dimly lit the deserted streets. If she could manage to follow the route to Miss Brett's as she remembered it from her map and didn't let the darkness confound her, she should be fine.
Lena recalled Jimson's face. He had looked sad and maybe a little angry at being dismissed so easily. It gave her a pang, but it couldn't be helped. She had waited too long for this journey to begin. Deep inside, a small seed of excitement was stirring, beginning to sprout.
Happy that she'd packed light, Lena trudged uphill. The grand train station was at the base of the town, near the harbor. Few of the roads in Knob Knoster were straight; most were hilly, and all led to the harbor, one winding way or another. From the look of things, it was a town that closed up early. No lights shone from the windows of shops or restaurants, but a warm glow shone in windows of the clapboard houses. They were not aligned in straight rows like the houses at home but were perched at strange angles along the street to gain the best view of the harbor. It looked to Lena as though a giant had tossed them about like random dice. Most were tall and narrow, wearing widow's walks like crowns.
The wind whistled in Lena's ears, and for once she was glad of her gloves. The small pools of light from the lamps did little to make her way easier. She reminded herself repeatedly that this was a great adventure that she was starting on. Being afraid never aided in any adventure that she had read about, and she had read all the adventures she could find in her library. It was an advantage of being a librarian's child-there was never any shortage of books.
The cobbled streets were uneven, and more than once she stumbled over a raised cobble or on the crumbling edge of the wooden walk. And all the while the sea remained her constant companion. It chortled and murmured, beckoning to her as she trudged along.
Her memory of the map led her correctly at last to Miss Brett's on Thistlewaite Street. Number 22 was a long-legged house with a small bay window facing the street, an iron gate, and a front porch large enough for one chair. A brass plaque by the door read MISS BRETT'S FOR WOMEN. Before ringing the bell, Lena reached inside her waistcoat, the green velvet one she had received for her birthday, the one that matched her topcoat, and made sure that the money she still had left was safe.
The woman who answered the bell showed no surprise to see a young girl alone on her step well after nine at night. She stood ramrod straight and had a porcelain face and a hooked nose that gave her a patrician air. Lena was a great observer of noses, and this one was worth remembering.
"I'm Lena Mattacascar, and I'd like a room, please."
The woman stepped aside so Lena could come in and closed the door behind her before speaking. She held out her hand. "Lila Brett. I've a room available for the rest of this week, but I'm full up after that. You do have money, don't you?" And without pausing for answer, she continued, "I provide breakfast every morning at seven a.m. Hot chocolate and biscuits every night. You don't have any men with you, do you?"
After reassuring Miss Brett that there were no men at all in her life and that she did have money, Lena was shown to a small room near the top of the house, a room that didn't look like the setting for the start of a great adventure. It was plain and sparsely furnished, with an iron bedstead, a pine wardrobe, and a single chair. But Lena had read enough books to know that adventures could start in the oddest of places. She removed her gloves and unlaced her boots, pulling her feet free. The soft, fleshy soles were sore, as they often were. It seemed nothing could toughen them up-not massages and not walking barefoot, which only bruised the tender skin. Her feet had stopped growing when she was twelve years old, but still they were longer than the feet of most men, and narrow as a girl's wrists. Lena's toes had always reminded her of wrinkled caterpillars. If only she could wiggle them as easily as other people could, she might be able to relieve the stiffness, but only the first joint moved; the rest were as unyielding as rusty hinges. Lena hobbled to the window and slid it open. The sound and scent of the sea crashed in. She unpinned her remaining money and her father's letter from her chemise. If only she had kept everything there all along rather than in her bag, she wouldn't be in this predicament. Tomorrow, she told herself, she would make discreet inquiries. Perhaps she still had enough money to hire a guide into Scree, someone who was not afraid of Peculiars.
