For a second his heart dived all the way to his toes. He had lost her. But then he caught a glimpse of a dark purple coat and a bit of straight brown hair, a little ways farther down the platform. Instantly he set out at a run.
“Wait!” he called out. “Wait, please! Wait for me!” He wished more than anything, now, he had had the courage to ask for her name. He began calling out all the girls’ names he had thought of for her over the past thirteen months, hoping that one of them would be correct. “Rebecca! Katharine! Francine! Eliza! Laura!”
But she kept walking.
Dimly he was aware of the loud clattering of a cane behind him, and heavy footsteps, and a confusion of voices—one high and shrill and demanding, one a low growl—but he could think of nothing but the small figure in front of him.
And finally, when he was no more than ten feet away from her, he burst out, “You! The girl from the attic! Wait.”
She stopped walking right away. He stopped running only a few feet away from her. He stood there, panting in the thick and smoke-clotted air, while the girl from the attic turned around—slowly, so slowly, it seemed to him. In the time it took her to turn around, he had time to think of all the things she might do when she saw him there. Her face would light up. She would say, “You—the boy from the street corner.” Or somehow, miraculously (for she was a miracle to him; her presence there, on the platform, was proof), she would know his name, and she would greet him by it. “Hello, Will,” or “Hi, Will,” she would say.
But Liesl did none of those things.
Liesl turned, and saw a strange boy she had never seen before, red faced and panting; and behind him, she saw the old woman who had pretended to be on her way to get a hot potato muffin when really she had gone for the policeman; and behind her, she saw the policeman with his sharp silver handcuffs in his hand. Her mind went click-click-whirr, and she thought, Boywomanpoliceman, one unit.
In her ear, Po spoke the word, “Run.”
And so she turned and ran. She threw herself headfirst into the crowd, darting past fat women and squat children and men with dirty faces. She bumped up against a soft belly and heard a very quiet meow. She had collided with a man in a guard’s uniform, carrying a cat in a small sling.
“Excuse me,” Liesl said, always mindful of her manners. Then she took off running again.
The guard, who had managed to intercept train 128 thanks to an express train and a well-timed coach, and was standing on the platform waiting to board, took no notice of her. He was holding a hat, and staring determinedly at the small pink-eared boy who had just had his deepest dreams bashed to pieces.
Will was so distressed by Liesl’s horrified reaction—so different from what he had imagined!—he did not immediately have the heart to pursue her. What, he wondered, had he done? What could have caused her to have so violent a reaction? Was it his hair? Had he yelled too loudly? Or perhaps (he cupped a hand in front of his mouth and sniffed) the potato breath?
The old woman clomped up behind him and dug her nails sharply into Will’s shoulder.
“Where is she?” she demanded. She, too, was panting. “Where has she run off to?”
“What?” Will was still too devastated, and dazed, to think clearly. For over a year he had prayed to speak to the girl in the attic, and finally he had spoken to her, and she had run away! It was a cruel joke.
“The girl.” The woman narrowed her squinty eyes at him, until they were no more than two brown-colored peas settled neatly inside the wrinkles. “Your little friend. The nutty one.”
“She isn’t nutty,” Will said automatically, but immediately he began to have doubts. He didn’t really know anything about her . . . and that would explain the running off. . . .
“She’s as nutty as an acorn,” the old woman scoffed. “She’s as batty as a belfry! She’s a public menace, and she needs to be locked up!” The old woman stared pointedly at the police officer next to her, who grunted in agreement. Will noticed, uneasily, that the police officer was holding a pair of handcuffs.
“I—I don’t know anything about an acorn,” Will said nervously. He tried to back away, but the old woman kept her hand on his shoulder. Her nails dug into his skin.
“You will lead us to her,” she said, leaning closer, so he could see her yellow teeth very clearly. “It is your duty. It is for the Public Good.”
“I—,” Will started to protest, when a heavy hand clamped down on his other shoulder. Turning, he let out a squeal of disbelief, and the words died in his throat.
It was the guard from the Lady Premiere’s house.
“There you are,” Mo said cheerfully. “I had to follow you all the way from Dirge. You’re a pretty slippery thing, you know that?”
Will tried to speak, but only managed to gurgle.