The Water and the Wild by Katie Elise Ormsbee Page A

on the outside.
    Maybe it was just the dust getting to Lottie’s brain, but it seemed to her that each of those colors had a very personal feeling, all to itself, and that each of those feelings was obvious at a glance: the sapphire blues were wistful and those were not
just
blacks, but mournful blacks, and those the most content of violets. Beakers, candles, and other strange contraptions lay on the two long, brass-clawed tables that lined the room. This place looked nothing like the rich, spotless foyer outside, but it was just as overwhelming.
    As fascinating as the laboratory was, Lottie was still looking for the letter-writer. The trouble was that there was no letter-writer in sight.
    â€œHello?” called Lottie, her voice bouncing back in distorted echoes.
    She tucked her hands into the pockets of her tweed coat and walked carefully onward. Then she heard a trickling sound, followed by a long hiss. A scent, strong and chemical, wafted past her, stinging the edges of her nose. Just as she was about to call again, she saw something move by one of the tables. She hurried toward the movement.
    â€œEx-excuse me?” she called.
    The figure stopped moving. Then it began to grow larger, and Lottie realized that this was because the figure was a man who had been stooped over a fizzing beaker and was only now straightening up to face her. The man lifted a pair of large, silver-rimmed goggles from his eyes and set them atop his head. He took a long look at Lottie. Lottie took a long look back at him.
    The man’s face was grooved, stubbly, and tired. The hair around his ears was thin, and his eyes were squinty. He dropped his goggles back on his face and squinted harder at Lottie through them. Then he removed the gloves from his hands.
    â€œMoritasgus Horatio Wilfer,” said the man. “It’s a pleasure.”
    His voice shook, but he smiled. That was a relief. He was nervous, and he was nice. Nothing at all like a Quincy Francis Eugene Wilfer.
    â€œAnd you are, I presume,” Mr. Wilfer continued, “Miss Charlotte Grace Fiske.”
    â€œLottie,” she corrected, shaking his hand. “My name’s Lottie, and I’ve got to get that cure for my best friend.”
    Mr. Wilfer let go of her hand. “My! You don’t lose a minute, do you?”
    He shook his head and laughed. It was the sort of laugh that Lottie heard adults make every so often, to themselves, as though they were in on a private joke from their past. Lottie didn’t like it; that laugh always made her feel left out.
    â€œ
Lottie
Fiske,” Mr. Wilfer said, turning back to his place at the table and setting aside some jars. “You’re very grown up. More than I was expecting.”
    â€œI’m not grown at all,” said Lottie. “Mrs. Yates’ friends say I look too young for my age.”
    Mr. Wilfer laughed the same laugh again. Lottie grimaced.
    â€œExcuse me,” said the man, checking himself and wiping his hands on an apron tied around his waist. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Would you be so good as to join me in my study?”
    He led Lottie farther into the room, past more rows of vials, beakers, and strange instruments. At the end of the laboratory was another set of double doors. Mr. Wilfer flung them open, onto a snug, tidy room as different from the laboratory as the laboratory had been from the foyer before it.
    It was dim inside the study, but a fire was crackling in the fireplace, and its light waltzed on the rug beneath Lottie’s feet. The ceiling was shorter here, and sloped, producing a cozy effect. Mr. Wilfer motioned for Lottie to take a seat, as he took his own chair behind a mahogany desk. Lottie’s chair sagged dangerously, and as soon as she was stuck in its velvet cushion, she began to panic about whether she would ever get
un
stuck again.
    Just before her, on Mr. Wilfer’s desk, was a silver abacus strung with beads that looked like