LITMIR.BIZ

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small door printed with letters that were far too large. The letters said INK INC., and the doorbell was in the shape of a small, dark ink stain. It was the name of the largest business in Stain’d-by-the-Sea. Theodora stuck out a gloved finger and rang the doorbell six times in a row. There was not a doorbell in the world that Theodora did not ring six times when she encountered it.

      ALL THE WRONG QUESTIONS

      “Why do you do that?”

      My chaperone drew herself up to her full height and took off her helmet so her hair could make her even taller. “S. Theodora Markson does not need to explain anything to anybody,” she said.

      “What does the S stand for?” I asked.

      “Silence,” she hissed, and the door opened to reveal two identical faces and a familiar scent. The faces belonged to two worried-looking women in black clothes almost completely cov-ered in enormous white aprons, but I could not quite place the smell. It was sweet but wrong, like an evil bunch of flowers.

      “Are you S. Theodora Markson?” one of the women said.

      “No,” Theodora said, “I am.”

      “We meant you,” said the other woman.

      “Oh,” Theodora said. “In that case, yes. And this is my apprentice. You don’t need to know his name.”

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      “WHEN DID YOU SEE HER LAST?”

      I told them anyway.

      “I’m Zada and this is Zora,” said one of the women. “We’re the Knight family servants. Don’t worry about telling us apart. Miss Knight is the only one who can. You’ll find her, won’t you, Ms. Markson?”

      “Please call me Theodora.”

      “We’ve known Miss Knight since she was a baby. We’re the ones who took her home from the hospital when she was born. You’ll find her, won’t you, Theodora?”

      “Unless you would prefer to call me Ms. Markson. It really doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

      “But you’ll find her?”

      “I promise to try my best,” Theodora replied, but Zada looked at Zora—or perhaps Zora looked at Zada—and they both frowned. Nobody wants to hear that you will try your best. It is the wrong thing to say. It is like saying “I probably won’t hit you with a shovel.” Suddenly

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      ALL THE WRONG QUESTIONS

      everyone is afraid you will do the opposite.

      “You must be worried sick” is what I said instead. “We would like to know all of the details of this case, so we can help you as quickly as possible.”

      “Come in,” Zada or Zora said, and ushered us inside a room that at first seemed hope-lessly tiny and quite dark. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see that what had first appeared to be walls were large cardboard boxes stacked up in every available place, making the room seem smaller than it really was. The dark was real, though. It almost always is. The smell was stronger once the door was shut—so strong that my eyes watered.

      “Excuse the mess,” said one of the aproned women. “The Knights were just packing up to move when this dreadful thing happened. Mr. and Mrs. Knight are beside themselves with worry.”

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      “WHEN DID YOU SEE HER LAST?”

      Zada’s and Zora’s eyes were watering too, or perhaps they were crying, but they led us through the gap between the boxes and down a dark hallway to a sitting room that appeared to have been entirely packed up and then unpacked for the occasion. A tall lamp sat in its box with its cord snaking out of it to the plug. A sofa sat half out of a box shaped like a sofa, and in two more open boxes sat two chairs holding the only things in the room that weren’t ready to be carried into a truck: Mr. and Mrs. Knight. Mr. Knight’s chair was bright white and his clothes dark black, and for Mrs. Knight it was the other way. They were sitting beside each other, but they did not appear to be beside themselves with worry. They looked very tired and very confused, as if we had woken them up from a dream.

      “Good evening,” said Mrs. Knight.

      “It’s morning, madam,” said either Zada or Zora.

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      ALL THE WRONG QUESTIONS

      “It does feel cold,” Mr. Knight said, as if agreeing with what someone had said, and he looked down at his own hands.

      “This is S. Theodora Markson,” continued one of the aproned women, “and her apprentice. They’re here about your daughter’s disappear-ance.”

      “Your daughter’s disappearance,” Mrs. Knight repeated calmly.

      Her husband turned to her. “Doretta,” he said, “Miss Knight has disappeared?”

      “Are you sure, Ignatius dear? I don’t think Miss Knight would disappear without leaving a note.”

      Mr. Knight continued to stare at his hands, and then blinked and looked up at us. “Oh!” he said. “I didn’t realize we had visitors.”

      “Good evening,” said Mrs. Knight.

      “It’s morning, madam,” said either Zada or Zora, and I was afraid the whole strange conver-sation was about to start up all over again.

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      “WHEN DID YOU SEE HER LAST?”

      “We’ve come about Miss Knight,” I said quickly. “We understand she’s gone missing, and we’d like to help.”

      But Mr. Knight was looking at his hands again, and Mrs. Knight’s eyes had wandered off too, toward a doorway at the back of the room, where a round little man was gazing at all of us through round little glasses. He had a small beard on his chin that looked like it was trying to escape from his nasty smile. He looked like the sort of person who would tell you that he did not have an umbrella to lend you when he actu- ally had several and simply wanted to see you get soaked.

      “Mr. and Mrs. Knight are in no state for visi-tors,” he said. “Zada or Zora, please take them away so I can attend to my patients.”

      “Yes, Dr. Flammarion,” one of the aproned women said with a little bow, and motioned us out of the room. I looked back and saw Dr. Flammarion drawing a long needle out of

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      ALL THE WRONG QUESTIONS

      his pocket, the kind of needle doctors like to stick you with. I recognized the smell and hur-ried to follow the others out of the room. We made our way through a skinny hallway made skinnier by rows of boxes, and then suddenly we were in a kitchen that made me feel much better. It was not dark. The sunlight streamed in through some big, clean windows. It smelled of cinnamon, a much better scent than what I had been smelling, and either Zada or Zora hurried to the oven and pulled out a tray of cinnamon rolls that made me ache for a proper breakfast. One of the aproned women put one on a plate for me while it was still steaming. Anyone who gives you a cinnamon roll fresh from the oven is a friend for life.

      “What’s wrong with the Knights?” I asked after I had thanked them. “Why are they acting so strangely?”

      “They must be in shock from their daugh- ter’s disappearance,” Theodora said. “People

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      sometimes act very strangely when something terrible has happened.”

      One of the aproned women handed Theodora a cinnamon roll and shook her head. “They’ve been like this for quite some time,” she said. “Dr. Flammarion has been serving as their pri- vate apothecary for a few weeks now.”

      “What does that mean?” I asked.

      “Flammarion

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