Girl of Flower and Flame

Chapter Two

Eulalia clutched her seat for purchase, the bumpy road rocking her to-and-fro, making her stomach twist into knots, even on its emptiness.

"Who taught you how to drive you great, big imbecile?" Madam struck Tut's shoulder so hard even Eulalia winced.

"It isn't me, Madam," said Tut. "The road's always been this way."

Madam harrumphed but kept quiet for once. She'd complained the few minutes they'd been in the car, cursing Tut's driving, his sensibility, his looks—his very existence.

It hadn't been the first time Eulalia had wondered why Tut had stayed with Madam all these years when she disliked him so. Just like the children, neither Tut nor Madam had any other family, so Eulalia had concluded they kept together for that reason alone, out of lack than anything more.

She gazed out of the window as they drove the long, winding road into town, though there was not much to see but empty rolling hills. The woods pushed to the Far West looked misplaced on the barren land. Even here, the fog still lingered, still drawing back like a shadow caught in the light, its long trip down the valley, through the town, where it would settle into the earth, awaiting the next winter.

The truck lurched as they went down a slope. Eulalia clung to the door's handle, but it came off in her hand, so she tucked it beneath her skirt before Tut could see.

Madam howled. "You'll put me in my grave before my time. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not, Madam," said Tut. "Never that." He shook his head, his long hair, Madam was always after him to cut, swung about his shoulders.

Eulalia thought that Tut clung to his hair for the same reason Madam did to her butterscotch candy, because it reminded them of a better time.

When the hills had at last gave way, they drove on through the lofty, metal gate, which had one door hanging off its hinges. A carved wooden sign said Welcome to Hampstead House, even though the drive to and from was at least a couple of miles, as if Tut and Madam had wanted to put as much distance between them and the rest of the world as possible. Not that the world would ever miss their wretchedness.

They went down the road for another mile at least before coming to town, and it was as if when the fog had cleared it had stolen all the color from the place. It was so gray. Gray buildings. A dull sky made sunless by the clouds. Even the people were gray. None of them looked up from the cobblestone streets, as Tut's vehicle huffed and puffed down the road. How could anyone live in a world so void of color?

When Eulalia had first accompanied Madam to the orphanage, shock had stolen all her excitement away. She had feared the longer she stayed, the pinkness would then fade from her cheeks, and all the love she remembered as a girl, and had hidden away, had been found and ridiculed, until she'd seen no use for it at all. It was a severe contrast to the woods, with its light, and sound, and happiness.

What was love if not for those things?

They ambled up to the front of Miss Birdstrew's Home for Misplaced Children. Misplaced was an odd way to put it. Eulalia had once read Harlow a story about great storks that delivered newborns to families and misplaced made it sound like the children had simply been delivered to the wrong home and so had been returned.

Tut kicked open his door with his heel, making Madam groan. "Get my door," she said. "We don't have all day."

Of course not, because one of Madam's greatest fears was to come home to an empty bowl of butterscotch. She did little else but sit in her living room, sucking her teeth rotten. Eulalia hopped out of the truck on the opposite side after them, the heels of her boots making a soft click against the cobblestone. Despite her dislike for the town, her inquisitiveness made her eyes gleam. They hadn't had a new child in months.