Freja lay awake, late into the night. Her mind whirred with all she had learnt that afternoon.
Clementine and Tobias had grown up in an orphanage! A cold, harsh orphanage.
‘Poor little Clem,’ she whispered. ‘Poor little Tobby.’ Her chest ached and her eyes prickled at the thought.
‘Boofle.’ Finnegan stirred beside her. He nuzzled her neck and stretched one of his front paws across her chest.
‘At least they had each other,’ whispered Freja. ‘Special friends who’d vowed to always love and care for one another.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But they’re not brother and sister. Tobias is not my uncle.’
Which brought Freja back to that most important question once more.
‘But does it mean that Tobias is my father?’ she whispered.
Freja recalled a conversation she had overheard when Tobias first came to their house in London to take her away.
‘So she’s just like us,’ Tobias had said. ‘Does she know?’
And Clementine had replied, ‘No. Please don’t tell her . . . Not yet. We’ll know when the time is right.’
It hadn’t made sense at the time. But if Freja was Tobias’ daughter . . .
Freja tugged at her ear and stopped. ‘There!’ she gasped. ‘I’m doing it again. I’m tugging at my ears, just like Tobias . . . And I talk out loud, just like Tobias. I’m doing it right now! . . . And we both have wild curly hair . . . And people are often mistaking me for his daughter. Maybe they see something — a likeness, a connection.’
She smiled and hugged Finnegan’s giant body to hers. ‘I do hope Tobby is my dad,’ she whispered.
But as soon as the words were uttered, a tight, yucky feeling worked its way deep into her tummy. Because if Tobias was her father, why hadn’t he been a part of her life? Where had he been for the first ten years? Did she not matter enough?
The idea was horrible.
Hurtful.
And hardly believable.
Tobias adored her and could not have been more kind and loving. She couldn’t believe that he’d abandon his own daughter. It just wasn’t something Tobias Appleby would do.
No, there must be another explanation.
Freja curled a piece of Finnegan’s shaggy grey fur around her finger and stared up at the canopy as though the answer might be written there.
‘Perhaps,’ she murmured, ‘Tobias and Clementine were separated by strange and unpredictable circumstances when I was little. A shipwreck! A full-blown, disastrous shipwreck, complete with raging storms and rocky outcrops and tsunami-sized waves. And Tobby and Clementine escaped in separate lifeboats and were washed to different parts of the world and they only found each other again this year.’ But she knew it was a ridiculous story, even as the words were passing her lips.
‘Maybe they were driven apart by Miss Frecklington,’ whispered Freja. ‘She sounds like a wicked woman who liked making people miserable! Perhaps she couldn’t bear the idea of her orphans growing up and being happy.’ She snorted. That was even more ridiculous than the shipwreck story, because this was real life, not a fairy tale, and people who loved each other always found a way to be together. Just look at Tobias and Vivi. Tobias had followed Vivi from Rome to Provence. Vivi had followed Tobias from Provence to Lucerne. And she knew that, if necessary, they’d follow one another all around the world, over and over again.
Which brought her to another problem! Tobias was in love with Vivi. She was sure of it. Everyone who saw them together was sure of it!
But could Tobias also be in love with Clementine?
Freja pushed Finnegan’s nose and paw aside and sat up. ‘Clementine is my mother. Tobias might be my father. Vivi wants to be Tobias’ wife, which would make her my new mother. But I already have a mother who might also want to marry my father.’ She flopped back onto the pillow. ‘Urgh! Puffin poop!’ she moaned. ‘It’s all a big fat mess no matter how you look at it!’
Freja rolled out of bed and pulled on her boots. Finnegan groaned and yawned. He stretched out across the bed and dribbled on the sheets, but he didn’t wake up.
‘Good puppy,’ Freja whispered, stroking his head. ‘You stay here. I’m just going for a little wander to stretch my legs and clear my mind.’
The girl crept across the hotel suite, out the door, through the secret panel in the wall and into the hidden passageway. She smiled, pleased that she now knew her way without having to run her hands along every surface. She even knew how many steps and turns it took before the spiral staircase reached the ground floor.
‘There!’ she said, reaching flat ground at precisely the expected moment. ‘Perfect!’ Pushing open the shelf into the cloakroom, she stepped inside and tripped over the cardboard carton.
‘Ouch!’ she cried. ‘That’s the second time I’ve hurt myself on that box from Berna Schokolade.’ She leaned forward and touched the Frenchman’s name on the label. She still hadn’t seen Monsieur de la Fontaine here in the hotel. Which was rather odd. Everyone dined in the Palm Room at some time of the day. And the guests had been so excited to meet Tobias that they loitered around in the foyer and behind flower arrangements and potted palms, just waiting to spring out and say hello.
Freja shrugged and pushed the box aside so she wouldn’t trip on it again.
Leaving the cloakroom, she slipped along the corridor and into the foyer where she was met by a dachshund — a sleek black sausage on four stubby legs.
‘Wilhelm Tell!’ she cried. ‘I’m so very glad to meet you at last!’
Wilhelm Tell wagged his tail politely.
‘Fräulein Freja!’ Manfred clicked his heels and bowed. ‘But what are you doing here in your pyjamas and your wild golden curls? It is past midnight and everyone is sound asleep.’
‘Not me,’ said Freja, now kneeling to scratch Wilhelm Tell on the rump just above the base of his tail. ‘And not you.’
Manfred’s face clouded over. ‘But I am waiting and watching. It troubles me greatly that, perhaps, the chocolate thief of Lucerne resides in my hotel. I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I cannot even laugh when Wilhelm Tell shakes his back leg with delight as he is doing right now.’
Freja smiled and scratched harder. Wilhelm Tell’s hind leg stamped up and down like a jackhammer.
‘But where are my manners?’ cried Manfred, kneeling beside Freja. ‘Is my favourite guest hungry? Does she want a little midnight Raclette? A mug of hot chocolate with a swirl of whipped cream? A chunk of the cheese with the big holes? A pickle with a sausage and a bun?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Freja. ‘I just wanted to stretch my legs.’
Manfred nodded and stood once more. ‘But if there is anything I can do, Fräulein Freja, you know I am at your service.’
Freja looked up at him. ‘Is Monsieur de la Fontaine still staying at the hotel?’
‘Monsieur de la Fontaine?’ asked Manfred. ‘But we have no guest here by that name.’
‘So he’s gone now?’ asked Freja.
‘Nein,’ said Manfred, frowning. ‘We have never had a guest here by that name.’
‘But you have!’ cried Freja. ‘I’ve seen —’ She stopped, for she could not explain where she had seen the carton of chocolate without confessing to her use of the secret passageway.
Manfred pulled back his shoulders and tugged his jacket so that it was perfectly smooth. ‘I do not mean to brag, Fräulein Freja, but there is not a guest in my hotel that I do not know by name and I can assure you that we have never had a Monsieur de la Fontaine staying here. Not this year. Not last year. Not any year this century!’
Freja blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Manfred. Of course you know. It must be my mistake.’ She stood up.
Wilhelm Tell, sensing that the scratching was done, wagged his tail once more and waddled out the door into the cool night air.
‘Aaah!’ Manfred chuckled. ‘It is time for our late night rounds. Wilhelm Tell sniffs and snuffles and does a little Pipi on the grass. I check all the windows and the doors.’
Freja looked over to the clock on the wall behind the reception desk. ‘Two a.m. That’s late — even for late night rounds! Two a.m. is early morning rounds.’
Manfred sighed, his shoulders drooping. ‘It used to be a routine for eleven p.m. But in these troubled times of crime, we start at eleven, then repeat our rounds at midnight and one a.m. and two a.m. And then, at last, we come inside and go to bed.’ He raised his blond eyebrows. ‘And perhaps it should be bedtime for you, too, Fräulein Freja? Two o’clock is late for a little girl to be about on her own, ja? Even a brave heroine like yourself.’
Freja nodded. ‘Goodnight, Manfred.’
‘Gute Nacht, Fräulein Freja!’ Manfred clicked his heels, nodded and marched outside after Wilhelm Tell.
Freja slipped back along the service corridor and into the cloakroom. Taking a last puzzled look at Monsieur de la Fontaine’s carton of Berna Schokolade, she opened the shelf that was really a door and headed up the secret spiral staircase. And strangely, as she climbed the steps, an image of pillows floated through her head.
Pillows like the nurse had held that afternoon.
Pillows that she had run into and mistaken for a fat man’s belly.
Pillows.
Big fat squishy pillows.
‘Huh,’ she said as she reached the top of the staircase. ‘I must be tired and ready to sleep at last, because all I can think of is pillows.’