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faster. We all know about afternoon rain showers in this part of the world. I loll a Maraschino cherry in my mouth and look out.
    A crash and a gasp make me whirl around. “Oh!” Miss Porlock cries. She’s on her feet, holding the front of her dress, a wisp of steam rising from it. Even the new shawl has been spattered. A broken teacup lies on the floor.
    The shop owner hurries over, and she and I do what we can. Soon all is well, or almost. Dear, clumsy Miss P. This is not the first or the fifth time she has broken things.
    The worst thing to be broken is her mood. It takes me a while to get her smiling again, and I succeed only when I draw her out about fabrics. That sends her into a happy daydream, and before long I’m free to look out the window and have daydreams of my own.
    Miss Porlock is going on about woolen tartans or something when I notice a commotion across the street. It’s hard to see with the rain starting, but there’s no mistaking two kids, a boy and girl, racing from a clock shop,the boy holding something under his coat while the girl, smaller, narrow-faced, struggles to keep up. A moment later, the storekeeper bursts from the shop and chases after them.
    The children dart past my window, and for a split second I see the faces clearly.
    Cole!
    “My dear!” exclaims Porlock. “Are you all right? You don’t look well.”
    I forget to remember to answer.
    Cole? A
thief
?
    —
    I don’t want to see him.
    I want to see him.
    Elwyn and I are on the seawall, watching the sun come up. Though it’s late spring, the wind is almost cold.
    “I told you not to trust him,” says Elwyn quite distinctly.
    “You told me nothing of the kind.”
    “Don’t you remember? I clawed his foot.”
    “That I do remember.”
    “I could hardly have been clearer.”
    I look down at the lobster perched at the edge of the wall. “Why don’t you like him?”
    “Other than the fact that he’s a thief?”
    “You didn’t know that then.”
    Raising one of his heavy claws for emphasis, he turnsto me. “What do you expect from a boy like that? Did you see how he was
dressed
?”
    “I think you’re as snobbish as my uncle.”
    “That would be difficult.”
    “Agreed.”
    Elwyn turns in his slow and delicate way to look over the harbor. “So, where is this boyfriend of yours? In prison?”
    “Elwyn, stop it!”
    We don’t speak to each other for most of a minute, but his question has hit a nerve. Where is Cole? Is he ever going to show up again?
    “Quit worrying about him,” says Elwyn, picking up on my thought. “He can’t help you.”
    “Can’t help me what?”
    “Find your mother, of course. Isn’t that what you want?”
    I’m almost too surprised to answer. “Of course that’s what I want. Don’t torture me with the impossible.”
    “Why impossible?”
    “Elwyn, she disappeared five months ago, on another continent. I’m just a girl standing here, talking to a ridiculous lobster.”
    “You’re a Thummel. That means something.”
    “But what can I do?”
    “Think. Who else was there when your mother disappeared?”
    “Uncle Asa.”
    “And what do you suppose he’s concocting up there in his hissing laboratory?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Don’t you think you ought to have an idea? Think like a Thummel. Stop being a weak girl mooning over a ragamuffin.”
    “I’ve never heard you talk this way.”
    “It’s about time you did. Now get me back in that bucket. I’m parched.”
    —
    We head home in silence. Approaching the gate, I see the labyrinth is still closed off. A great pile of dirt stands by the hole where mechanics are working on the underground metal plates. I go around to the side entrance.
    Once in, I hear my uncle’s distant shout.
    “Good morning, Miss Thummel,” says Mr. Strunk, a model of composure.
    I glance down the corridor. “What’s he mad at today?”
    “New dining chairs have arrived. Master Thummel is not happy with them.”
    “Strunk!”
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