Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

“Hats,” said the man in the chair. “It means black hats.”

“Whatever,” said Rachel. “It’s a weird name for a . . . what is it, exactly?”

Swallowing his annoyance, Nico Posholsky said, “We’re a radical anarcho-syndicalist collective. Saboteurs. Our one aim is to free the proletariat from the yoke of the industrialist state.”

Elsie looked to her sister, her brow knitted. “Is that French?”

“That might be English,” said her sister.

Michael, being the oldest boy of the group, nodded knowingly, though it was unclear whether he’d been able to unpack the man’s language any better than the other kids. “Fair enough. But what are you doing here? Why were the stevedores after you?” he asked.

The man spat angrily. “It was a stupid mistake. The wires got tied. I couldn’t get the explosive rigged in time, so I couldn’t get far enough away. By the time they’d come running, I was cut off from my escape route. They trapped me. Managed to set a few decoy explosions, but in the end, it was just chat et souris.” He eyes scanned the room before he added: “Cat and mouse.”

Elsie spoke up. “You make those explosions?”

“We do,” the man said proudly. “The Chapeaux Noirs. We’re gaining strength. Soon, we’ll have the whole Quintet by the ankles.” He cast his eyes around the room, studying the children. Elsie suddenly became aware of their desperate circumstances, their greasy hair, their unwashed clothes. She hadn’t seen an adult in a full two months; as the man’s look fell on the destitute mass of parentless children, Elsie knew her own poverty.

“That’s how you do it,” the man said. “When you’re fighting with a giant. Get ’em by the ankles and see how quickly they’re on their knees.”

Michael was silent.

The confined man took a deep breath and spoke again. “I’ve told you who I am. Now, it might be helpful if I knew who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“The Unadoptables,” said Michael, attempting the same tone of pride the man had taken. “We live here.”

“The Una—” Nico began, before realizing: “Are you the orphans from Unthank’s slave shop? Escaped after the fire?”

Michael was quick to correct: “We started the fire.”

The room hummed in agreement.

“Wow,” said Nico. “Nice work. I’d applaud if my hands weren’t tied tightly around my back.”

Rachel and Michael exchanged a glance. The boy next to Nico with the machete waited for instruction. “We can’t let you go yet,” said Michael. “Not till we’re sure you’re not an enemy.”

“We all thought that fire had been an accident, like maybe Joffrey had overextended himself,” said Nico. “Pushed you tykes a little too hard and some mechanical slipup caused the whole thing. That was the word, anyway.”

“You’re right about the pushing us too hard bit,” came a voice from the crowd. It was Angela Frye, a longtime belt operator who’d survived five years at the Unthank Home with only a single demerit to her name. “But there weren’t no mechanical slipup. We rebelled.”

“Well, I’m very impressed,” said the man. “You managed to do something in an evening that we’d been trying to do for years. Knocked out one of the arms of the Quintet. Very nice work.”

“I see what you’re doing,” said Michael. “Don’t think I don’t. Nice words aren’t going to win you any friends here.”

“Hey,” said Nico. “Don’t get all riled up. I’m not trying to make friends. I’m a saboteur. I destroy things for a living. I don’t need friends.”

Elsie tugged on Rachel’s jumper; the entire room was fixated on the man in the chair. She could feel the tension in the room growing and wanted to somehow dispel it; to her, it exuded danger and violence. It didn’t feel right.

Just then, Michael looked at Cynthia Schmidt, his fellow elder among the Unadoptables, and said, “What do we do?”

“I say we kill him,” said Cynthia.

Nico Posholsky turned very suddenly and very dramatically pale. Elsie stared in disbelief at the elder children.

Michael, unfazed, looked back at the man. “She thinks we should kill you,” said Michael. “And I might just agree with her. We can’t afford for any adult to know our whereabouts. This is our territory. You are a trespasser. Trespassers are dealt with harshly.”

“Michael,” Rachel whispered, attempting a tone of conciliation. “Let’s not get too carried away. Maybe he can help us find Martha—”

“Quiet,” said Michael. “Let me deal with this one.”