William tiptoed down the hallway until he reached his sister's room. Even from the outside, there was no doubt the room was hers. The door bore shallow nicks her mother had cut into the wood to track her growth, and the faint smell of dandelions still lingered outside. Though the room's owner had been absent for quite some time, Emma had still left her mark on it the same way she'd left a gaping hole in William's heart.
Even now, William couldn't face her door without his throat tightening. He knew how it felt to seek solitude when something was troubling him, although he'd long since forgone cornering himself in his room in favor of slipping away to the banks of the Tantalus. Even that mighty river could only provide him a temporary escape from his father, but a brief respite was better than none at all.
Someday he'd teach Emma how to climb out of her window unnoticed and how to erase her footsteps from the muddy banks. For now, he had no choice but to bring her to the very person he longed to avoid.
William tapped his knuckle against the door. "Is everything alright?"
"Go away!" Emma's voice pierced through the worn wood without an ounce of hesitation.
William winced. Thank goodness he was the one fetching Emma rather than Mother. If she'd heard Emma yell to be left alone after being gone for so long, it would have broken her heart. As it was, her words hurt him far more than Father's ever could.
"I'm sorry Baron scared you," he said softly. "I had no idea he'd act like that."
Something rustled on the other side of the door. Something faint like the shushing of skirts brushing against each other or the breeze sneaking through the window. Whatever it was, at least Emma didn't tell him to leave this time. She was listening.
"Mother and Father missed you at supper today," he began again. "I saved some bear bread from the celebration. If you come to the table, I'll give you every piece I've got."
Normally the promise of Mrs. Norton's famous bear bread would be enough to make Emma run out of her room, but not tonight. All he received in response was the faintest of whispers, so quiet he couldn't make out a word of what she said.
The sound of Mother pouring yet another tankard of ale echoed from the kitchen. At this rate, Father would be well and truly drunk by the time William returned to the table.
His temper always flared once he'd had plenty to drink.
"You really ought to come out," William said, struggling to keep his voice calm as his heart quickened and sweat broke out on his forehead. "Father doesn't like to be kept waiting."
There was no response. She wouldn't come out unless he made her.
William gripped the doorknob with trembling fingers. The door's rusty hinges squeaked as he eased it open.
Emma turned to face him with the brightest smile he'd seen from her since she came home. Her lips parted as her eyes brightened with joy.
A high-pitched squeak pierced the air. William's muscles tensed, fully prepared to kick any rat that dared to show its whiskers. A swarm of those pests had ravaged Hamelin years ago, leaving the town to ration the meager remains of their harvest in order to survive the winter. The lean months had left fields decimated, stomachs empty, and tempers short.
If even one of those creatures dared to venture into town, more were bound to follow. Who knew how many could be feasting in the fields already, robbing them of their harvest once again?
"Where is it?" William crouched and cast his gaze around the room. No paws scuffled under the bed. No hairless tails peeked out from behind the toy chest. No droppings dotted the floor. Where had that awful sound come from?
"Where's what?" Emma's brow wrinkled with confusion, her smile gone.
"The rat." William tiptoed inside her room and rummaged through her toys. His movements awakened nothing but a cloud of dust. Still no sign of whatever had made that sound.
"Don't be silly. There aren't any rats, just Mr. Bear." Emma scurried over to her bed where the button-eyed stuffed animal sat perched atop her pillow with his fur just as raggedy as always. She waved one of his dark brown paws, deepening her voice. "Don't mind me."
William waved back, forcing his lips into a smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Bear. You haven't had any unwanted visitors, I hope?"
Emma turned the bear's head from side to side. "Nobody's been here but me and the pillows." What she said next was not in the deep, friendly tone she used for Mr. Bear but something far too sharp for someone so young. "See? I told you so."
"You about done, boy?" Father's voice rumbled from the kitchen. The ale had slurred his words, but it couldn't mask the impatience boiling beneath.
"Just a minute!" William hollered, his pulse quickening. Searching for whatever had made that sound could wait. Father couldn't. "Sorry for disturbing you, Mr. Bear. If you'll please excuse us, I'd better get Emma to the table. There will be plenty of time for you to play later."
William braced himself for Emma to stomp her feet and refuse to leave. Instead, all she did was nod and tuck Mr. Bear under the covers. "Okay."
She trailed behind him without so much as glancing back at her room. Whatever irritation had sharpened her words was gone, leaving only a quiet reticence. She slipped into her seat without saying a word to her parents.
"Thanks for joining us, sweetie," Mother said. She dared not breathe a sigh of relief, but William saw the way she eased against the back of her chair.
"It's about time." Father downed the last of his ale, slamming his tankard on the table. "What took you? Any longer and I would have had to fetch you myself."
"It's not her fault," William blurted out. "I thought I heard a squeak in her room." That wasn't the only reason for the delay, but the last thing he needed was for Father to interrogate Emma about why she'd been so reluctant to join them.
"I told you it was Mr. Bear." Emma stabbed a parsnip with her fork. Though her share of the meal had gone cold, not a single word of complaint passed her lips as she ate her supper.
"He's a toy, sweetie." Mother's eyes darted around the kitchen as if she expected a whole colony of rodents to emerge from the walls. "Should we tell the Farnsworths? Folks might need to start the harvest early if the rats are getting into the fields again."
"Best not to until we know for sure," Father said. "You know Henry fusses over the harvest as it is. If I tell him those damn pests are back, he'll have us all kneeling in the fields from dawn until dusk."
"I could try to find it," William said. "I looked around a bit while I was in Emma's room, but I didn't want to take too long in case her food got cold." Or in case Father grew tired of waiting for her and decided to drag her to the table himself.
Emma kicked him under the table. Though the chunk of bread in her mouth kept her from protesting verbally, her expression made her displeasure clear. Even when the town had been forced to slaughter rats by the hundreds to protect their fields as best they could, she'd always wept whenever one was slain.
"That's a wonderful idea," Mother said. "After you're done, maybe you could tidy up Emma's closet, too. With how long she's been gone, she's grown so much I need to see which of her clothes I can tailor to fit her and which ones I can sell at the market."
"And I expect us to be fully stocked with firewood when I come home from the forge," Father said. His gaze burned with the heat of coals brightened by a blaze. "If you're going to be frittering away the day at home, the least you can do is chop enough to last us through the Harvest Festival. I trust you can handle that much."
"Yes, Father." As long as he stayed out of the forge, that was fine by him. Callouses covered William's hands not only from the hours he spent playing the guitar but also from the countless logs he'd split with his father's ax. Though his arms were nowhere near as strong as his father's, they'd both developed lean muscles that could make quick work of such a menial chore.
Besides, Emma was having a hard enough time adjusting to being home as it was. The last thing either of them needed was another rat infestation.
Hamelin had barely survived the last one.