“Sit.” He gestured toward the motley collection of stools and crates he had pulled up to the desk. Pippa took a faded silk stool; Thomas folded himself up onto a milk crate; Sam eased himself down into an armchair, wincing when it creaked; and Max remained standing, scowling, arms crossed. In his corner cage, Cornelius was hopping up and down excitedly, occasionally letting out a throaty cry of “Cocoa!”
Mr. Dumfrey sank down into the armchair behind his desk. For a second, he said nothing, staring at each of the children in turn. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his small blue eyes glittered, and Pippa had the sense that he was staring deep into her mind and finding it seriously wanting. She lowered her eyes.
“Would you care to explain what this is about?” he said at last, and threw the paper with a flourish onto the desk. A small red bottle labeled Sasquatch Blood rolled onto the ground.
Thomas and Sam exchanged a glance. Thomas leaned forward.
“It’s the Daily Screamer,” he said cautiously.
“I’m aware,” Mr. Dumfrey said drily. He removed his glasses and began polishing them. “Thomas, perhaps you’ll do us the honor of reading the first page out loud.”
Thomas frowned and looked to the others for help. Pippa shrugged.
“Today, Thomas,” Mr. Dumfrey said, returning his glasses to his nose.
Thomas cleared his throat. “‘Disgraced Scientist Makes Daring Prison Break—’”
“Not that one,” Mr. Dumfrey practically barked. “The other headline, please.”
“‘Horror Head Claims Another Victim,’” he read. “‘By Bill Evans.’” He looked up uncertainly. Mr. Dumfrey gestured for him to continue.
Thomas shook out the paper and went on reading:
“‘The Horrifying Head recently procured by Mr. Dumfrey’s Dime Museum, and subsequently stolen in the middle of the night, has claimed another life. Mr. Arthur Anderson of Anderson’s Delights was found on Tuesday evening at eight p.m. hanging from the ceiling in his apartment on Seventh Street in Brooklyn, and pronounced dead at the scene.’
“‘Mr. Anderson was the seller of the head, and had allegedly been attempting to negotiate for its return.’
“‘“Sold it off to the museum for hardly anything,” said Reginald Anderson, Mr. Anderson’s distraught nephew.’
“‘The head has not been long in New York City but already has left a blood-spattered trail in its wake. Two people who had recently been in the presence of the head have died violent deaths in less than a week. Coincidence? Or curse?’”
Thomas broke off and glanced up at Dumfrey, who had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
“Please continue,” he said, without opening his eyes. “We’re almost at my favorite part.”
Thomas swallowed back a sigh and continued: “‘Further adding to the mystery of Mr. Anderson’s death was the presence at the scene of four children subsequently identified as being part of the collection of “entertainers” who call Dumfrey’s Dime Museum home—’”
Thomas nearly choked. Pippa inhaled sharply, and Sam groaned.
Dumfrey opened his eyes. “Continue,” he growled.
Thomas licked his lips.
“‘These four children, if they can rightly so be called, gained admittance into Mr. Anderson’s apartments under false pretenses, escaped detection by the police under the same, and were only subsequently identified by yours truly based on descriptions provided by officers on the scene.’”
Max said a bad word, and everyone shushed her.
“‘“I thought they were just some neighborhood kids,” said Assistant Chief Inspector Carl Hardaway. “They looked normal to me.”’
“‘But normal is precisely what these children are not, as this journalist knows firsthand. Thomas Able, Philippa (Pippa) Devue, Sam Fort, and Mackenzie (last name unknown) have achieved notoriety due to their freakish, some would say unnatural, abilities. A body as limber as an elastic band; the ability to read minds, or at the very least, pockets; a preternatural strength; a ferocious and deadly skill with knives: these are some of the strengths of this group of freaks, of human abominations.’”
Max said another bad word. This time, no one shushed her.
Thomas turned the page. His hands were shaking so badly, the paper rattled loudly.
“‘Should they be allowed to roam the streets unaccompanied? Is it advisable? Is it safe?’
“‘What were they doing at the scene of Mr. Anderson’s death, and is it related to the theft of the shrunken head, which some claim was a stunt orchestrated by Mr. Dumfrey himself? For more, turn to our editorial on page—’”
“That’s enough,” Mr. Dumfrey said, and Thomas stopped reading. For a moment there was complete silence. No one wanted to speak first, and Pippa couldn’t bring herself to meet Mr. Dumfrey’s eyes. “We return to the original question,” he said softly. “Who wants to explain to me what this is about?”
“It’s all lies,” Max burst out. “Saying we’re freaks and abdominals—”
“Abominations.”