The Peculiars by Abrams&ChronicleBooks

THE

Amulet Books New York

MAUREEN DOYLE McQUERRY

THE

Amulet Books New York

MAUREEN DOYLE McQUERRY

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition of this book as follows: McQuerry, Maureen, 1955– The Peculiars / Maureen Doyle McQuerry. pages cm Summary: Eighteen-year-old Lena Mattacascar sets out for Scree, a weird place inhabited by Peculiars, seeking the father who left when she was young, but on the way she meets young librarian Jimson Quiggley and handsome marshall Thomas Saltre, who complicate her plans. 978-1-4197-0178-8 (hardback) [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Identity—Fiction. 3. Abnormalities, Human—Fiction. 4. Goblins—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.M24715 Pec 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2012000844 ISBN for this edition: 978-1-4197-1206-7 Text copyright © 2012 Maureen Doyle McQuerry Book design by Meagan Bennett Originally published in hardcover in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. This edition published in 2014. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc. Printed and bound in U.S.A. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.

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For Dennis

115 West 18th Street New York, NY 10011 www.abramsbooks.com

For Dennis

1 A Physical Examination Raises the Question of Genetics Lena at eight years of age “There’s no mistaking what your father was, not when you’ve got feet and hands like those.” Nana Crane grabs my hand in her own plump one. She runs her finger with the emerald ring down the length of my palm. I try to pull away. She pinches my hand tighter. “Goblin phalanges. The hands and feet don’t lie, child. It’s in your genes.” “But Poppa doesn’t have hands and feet like these!” Nana Crane’s ring glints in the light. “No, he doesn’t. His are small. Everything about him is small, especially his heart. I always knew there was something peculiar about him despite his talk of being from the East.” She drops my hand and stares into the middle distance. Her chin quivers. “Not every goblin has them, but it’s a sure sign. Just like those feet. You’re bound to be just like him.”

It scares me when she talks that way about Poppa. Inside the ugly specially made shoes, I try to curl my stiff toes to make my feet as small as possible, feet that are so long no regular shoes will fit them. I am tired of the doctor prodding and poking at my tender feet, then speaking as if I weren’t in the room. “The girl has the signs of goblinism. There’s no denying it, even

“I’ve never met them, but my husband has normal hands and feet.” The doctor writes something on a clipboard. “I’d like to meet with him.” “My husband is no longer with us.”

though not many people can recognize the syndrome anymore.” Dr.

He looks up, removing his glasses. “He is deceased?”

Crink looks at my mother over the edge of his glasses. “She displays

Mother’s face blooms pink. “No, he left us several years ago.”

three readily identifiable characteristics to the trained eye: elongated

She now has the doctor’s full attention. “Left, eh? Describe him

hands and feet, soft fleshy soles, and precocious intelligence. If you’re

“ Your husband’s family, then?”

to me, please.”

worried about what other people will think, don’t. Hardly anyone

I remember Poppa’s quick laugh, the funny faces he made, the

but a few old doctors has seen anything like this in their lifetime.

way he used to sing to me when I cried. And I remember the other

Most doctors would say these hands and feet are a defect of birth.”

things: flashes of anger that could sear me to the bone.

A small gulping noise. Mother is having trouble speaking. “When you find them clustered like that”—the good doctor shrugs his beefy shoulders—“it points in one direction. Of course, only time will tell about the other, less obvious, characteristics.” I sit on my hands. They splay under me like giant spiders. Mother has always said that they are piano-player hands. That I

“My husband is a short man with a quick wit and good business sense. He can be very charming.” “Charming, is it?” The doctor raises caterpillar eyebrows. “And does he drink?” Mother’s lips pleat into her face. I know that look. She won’t say another word.

have an advantage any pianist would envy. I can easily span more

“Loyal.” He shook his head. “Silly woman. We’re talking about

than an octave, but practice makes my fingers ache. I know I will

a genetic disorder. In mixed marriages—cases like these—we wait

never be more than a middling pianist.

and see which traits are dominant.”

“And those characteristics?” Now that her voice returns, it is hardly more than a whisper. Dr. Crink continues as if he didn’t hear her. “ You’re sure that no one in your family has displayed these traits?” “No one.”

“Surely, environment can—” “There is no question of nature versus nurture. Science shows very clearly that development is all in the genes. Mr. Mendel proved it with peas.” He tears a piece of paper from his pad. “Here are the other things you should watch for.”

“I’ve never met them, but my husband has normal hands and feet.” The doctor writes something on a clipboard. “I’d like to meet with him.” “My husband is no longer with us.”

though not many people can recognize the syndrome anymore.” Dr.

He looks up, removing his glasses. “He is deceased?”

Crink looks at my mother over the edge of his glasses. “She displays

Mother’s face blooms pink. “No, he left us several years ago.”

three readily identifiable characteristics to the trained eye: elongated

She now has the doctor’s full attention. “Left, eh? Describe him

hands and feet, soft fleshy soles, and precocious intelligence. If you’re

“ Your husband’s family, then?”

to me, please.”

worried about what other people will think, don’t. Hardly anyone

I remember Poppa’s quick laugh, the funny faces he made, the

but a few old doctors has seen anything like this in their lifetime.

way he used to sing to me when I cried. And I remember the other

Most doctors would say these hands and feet are a defect of birth.”

things: flashes of anger that could sear me to the bone.

have an advantage any pianist would envy. I can easily span more

“Loyal.” He shook his head. “Silly woman. We’re talking about

than an octave, but practice makes my fingers ache. I know I will

a genetic disorder. In mixed marriages—cases like these—we wait

never be more than a middling pianist.

and see which traits are dominant.”

· · · And they had watched. Lena’s feet grew longer and the soles

flush of her face.

softer. Her hands spidered out like daddy longlegs. Her

“Best get it over with, Rose,” Nana Crane urges from her chair

grandmother monitored her for wild thoughts, a keen interest

by the fire. “It’s past my bedtime, and I want to see what the fool

in money, and for a temper she did her best to hide. And Lena

had up his sleeve this time.”

had watched herself.

velvet jacket. Now I notice her hands trembling, and the telltale

“ Your father left you a small inheritance and an envelope to

Lying in her bed at night, her heart pounding, she

be opened on your eighteenth birthday.” My mother places two

wondered if her thoughts were too wild, if goblin genes

envelopes side by side on the tea table next to the bone-handled

would overtake her while she slept. She imagined running

letter opener. Poppa’s script, sharp and vertical, runs across the

away on a belching steam train or fording streams on the

front of both envelopes. With my own hands trembling I slit open

back of a fat elephant while its leathery trunk swung like a

the larger of the two envelopes.

pendulum. In her dreams, Lena rose and fell with the swell

Inside, there is a paper wrapped around a slim stack of crisp,

of waves, captaining a ship, sea spray salting her hair. When

new bills. Not a fortune, but enough. Enough to finance my plans.

she had these dreams, she knew that goblinishness was taking

“Well, what will you do with it?” Nana Crane’s eyes glitter like

hold, growing from a seed buried deep inside her. No other

a bird’s.

girl could have such wild imaginings and, try as she might,

“Go to Scree.” When I finally say the words aloud, I realize I

she couldn’t tame them. And the truth was she didn’t try

have opened a box that cannot be closed again. I think of Pandora.

very hard. Every morning she checked the mirror with dread, expecting a face she didn’t know. She wanted to be anybody other than her father’s child.

“Oh, my dear!” Mother wails. And then louder and sharper, Nana Crane’s voice: “Of all the foolish nonsense! You will not set foot in that wild place.” “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I have to go.” I’m watching Mother’s face, knowing my words will hurt and hating

A short and unsatisfactory letter from her father delivered by her mother on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday

myself for them.

“Sit down, Lena. I have one last gift for you.”

Nana Crane barks a dry laugh. “What’s in the other envelope?”

“Just like her father. It’s her goblin blood calling her home.”

Puzzled, I look at my mother. She had already given me the

“I’m not going to open it yet.” The envelope is clenched in my

new Wilkie Collins novel I’d been wanting and a short green

hand. “I expect it’s a letter.” Better to read it in private, without

· · · And they had watched. Lena’s feet grew longer and the soles

flush of her face.

softer. Her hands spidered out like daddy longlegs. Her

“Best get it over with, Rose,” Nana Crane urges from her chair

grandmother monitored her for wild thoughts, a keen interest

by the fire. “It’s past my bedtime, and I want to see what the fool

in money, and for a temper she did her best to hide. And Lena

had up his sleeve this time.”

had watched herself.

velvet jacket. Now I notice her hands trembling, and the telltale

“ Your father left you a small inheritance and an envelope to

Lying in her bed at night, her heart pounding, she

be opened on your eighteenth birthday.” My mother places two

wondered if her thoughts were too wild, if goblin genes

envelopes side by side on the tea table next to the bone-handled

would overtake her while she slept. She imagined running

letter opener. Poppa’s script, sharp and vertical, runs across the

away on a belching steam train or fording streams on the

front of both envelopes. With my own hands trembling I slit open

back of a fat elephant while its leathery trunk swung like a

the larger of the two envelopes.

pendulum. In her dreams, Lena rose and fell with the swell

Inside, there is a paper wrapped around a slim stack of crisp,

of waves, captaining a ship, sea spray salting her hair. When

new bills. Not a fortune, but enough. Enough to finance my plans.

she had these dreams, she knew that goblinishness was taking

“Well, what will you do with it?” Nana Crane’s eyes glitter like

hold, growing from a seed buried deep inside her. No other

a bird’s.

girl could have such wild imaginings and, try as she might,

“Go to Scree.” When I finally say the words aloud, I realize I

she couldn’t tame them. And the truth was she didn’t try

have opened a box that cannot be closed again. I think of Pandora.

very hard. Every morning she checked the mirror with dread, expecting a face she didn’t know. She wanted to be anybody other than her father’s child.

A short and unsatisfactory letter from her father delivered by her mother on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday

myself for them.

“Sit down, Lena. I have one last gift for you.”

Nana Crane barks a dry laugh. “What’s in the other envelope?”

“Just like her father. It’s her goblin blood calling her home.”

Puzzled, I look at my mother. She had already given me the

“I’m not going to open it yet.” The envelope is clenched in my

new Wilkie Collins novel I’d been wanting and a short green

hand. “I expect it’s a letter.” Better to read it in private, without

Nana Crane’s eyes on me, without Mother’s tears. I rewrap the bills in their paper and slip them back into the envelope. “No good will come of this.” And leaning on her cane, Nana Crane makes her way to bed. A log pops in the fire. I stay seated in the dim parlor with Mother, both envelopes buried now in the pocket of my skirt. “Scree’s the place where they send criminals. They say the forests

Lena, It appears that I have no talent for ordinary life. I’m hoping you do and that you take after your mother. Things will go easier with you. There are many rumors you will hear told of me. Some of them may be true. I’ve left you something to help you get by. You’ll know what to do with it. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

are filled with hideous things. Why would you want to go to such an

Your father,

uncivilized place?” Her voice quavers.

Saul Mattacascar

I count the furrows on her forehead. It’s the first time I’ve disobeyed her openly. “Because I have to know if Nana Crane is right, if I am part 6

I can’t help but notice that he had signed his full name, as if writing to a stranger.

goblin. If there really are such things as Peculiars.” Now it’s my

I tuck the envelope of money under my chemise in my dresser.

voice that stumbles. “I can’t keep living this way, wondering what

Then I read the short letter once more, trying to decipher a hidden

I am, what I’ll become. Besides, it’s the kind of place Poppa might

meaning. What was he? Did he know I’d break my mother’s

have gone. Maybe I’ll find him there.”

heart? Each carefully formed letter was as sharp as the quills of a

“I’ve reassured you over and over again: You’re a perfectly normal girl, despite your poor hands and feet.” She puts her arms

porcupine, bristling across the page. If I touched them, they would prick, draw blood.

around me to offer comfort the way she did when I was little. For a minute I lean into her warmth. Her voice drops to a whisper.

Passenger train from the city to knob knoster

“No matter what Nana Crane says, your father is not a Peculiar.

She was more than the sum of the crimes of her father.

He’s from the East, which explains some of his unusual ways . . .

Or so Lena had told herself every time Nana Crane got

although it doesn’t excuse abandonment.”

that gleam in her eye, rattled her knitting needles, and

For the first time I hear the strain of bitterness in my mother’s

reminded her of Father’s indiscretions, of which there

voice, the words stretched tight as a wire. “Don’t look for him, Lena.

seemed to be no end. She was still telling it to herself

He’s not worth the risk.”

now, at eighteen, in the Pullman car of a passenger train

It’s almost dawn before I’m alone in my room. I rip open the envelope.

where, beyond the blue brocade curtains, the arms of trees waved her on through billows of steam. A pot of tea

are filled with hideous things. Why would you want to go to such an

Your father,

uncivilized place?” Her voice quavers.

Saul Mattacascar

I count the furrows on her forehead. It’s the first time I’ve disobeyed her openly. “Because I have to know if Nana Crane is right, if I am part 6

I can’t help but notice that he had signed his full name, as if writing to a stranger.

goblin. If there really are such things as Peculiars.” Now it’s my

I tuck the envelope of money under my chemise in my dresser.

voice that stumbles. “I can’t keep living this way, wondering what

Then I read the short letter once more, trying to decipher a hidden

I am, what I’ll become. Besides, it’s the kind of place Poppa might

meaning. What was he? Did he know I’d break my mother’s

have gone. Maybe I’ll find him there.”

heart? Each carefully formed letter was as sharp as the quills of a

“I’ve reassured you over and over again: You’re a perfectly normal girl, despite your poor hands and feet.” She puts her arms

porcupine, bristling across the page. If I touched them, they would prick, draw blood.

around me to offer comfort the way she did when I was little. For a minute I lean into her warmth. Her voice drops to a whisper.

Passenger train from the city to knob knoster

“No matter what Nana Crane says, your father is not a Peculiar.

She was more than the sum of the crimes of her father.

He’s from the East, which explains some of his unusual ways . . .

Or so Lena had told herself every time Nana Crane got

although it doesn’t excuse abandonment.”

that gleam in her eye, rattled her knitting needles, and

For the first time I hear the strain of bitterness in my mother’s

reminded her of Father’s indiscretions, of which there

voice, the words stretched tight as a wire. “Don’t look for him, Lena.

seemed to be no end. She was still telling it to herself

He’s not worth the risk.”

now, at eighteen, in the Pullman car of a passenger train

It’s almost dawn before I’m alone in my room. I rip open the envelope.

where, beyond the blue brocade curtains, the arms of trees waved her on through billows of steam. A pot of tea

steeped on the table, a familiar comfort for an unfamiliar

miss,” he said around the ends of his blond waxed mustache.

journey.

“And I’ve brought some biscuits for your tea.”

Lena was the last passenger in her car. The rest—mostly

He shot a second glance at her gloveless hands. Almost

businessmen in their starched collars and bowler hats, and

everyone did. But to his credit, he made no comment, merely

harried parents taking sticky-faced children to autumn fes-

nodded and passed on to the next car.

tivals in the country—had disembarked at the various small towns strung along the rail line. She recited their names: Middleborough, Tropolis, Banbury Station. Only three stops left before the end of the line, three stops that would take several hours. Finally, Lena could stretch out her legs, which she had kept tucked under the seat until the last passenger left, and loosen the laces of her handmade boots. How she hated them! Good alligator hide, the cobbler had assured her, never 8

wore out. The scenery had become progressively wilder as the train made its way north from one town to the next. Each pair of towns had been farther apart than the last two, with small forests and hummocky fields in between. For the first hour she had stared out the window, never turning to the novel on her lap. She had always lived in the City. Open fields and forests were as foreign as brocade curtains and the cut crystal lamp swaying above her head. She pulled off her gloves and flexed her fingers. When she was younger, her mother had cut the fingertips from regular gloves so that they would fit her hands. As the train slowed, the walnut-paneled door slid open and the conductor strolled in. “Approaching Northerdam,

steeped on the table, a familiar comfort for an unfamiliar

miss,” he said around the ends of his blond waxed mustache.

journey.

“And I’ve brought some biscuits for your tea.”

Lena was the last passenger in her car. The rest—mostly

He shot a second glance at her gloveless hands. Almost

businessmen in their starched collars and bowler hats, and

everyone did. But to his credit, he made no comment, merely

harried parents taking sticky-faced children to autumn fes-

nodded and passed on to the next car.