couch until he lands on my lap and I jump out of my skin. Joe is five and was only a year old infant when Emme and her mother arrived. He is an imp, with red hair and freckles and a mischievous personality that makes Emme look like a saint.
“Gotcha, Auntie Sonnet!” He crows, triumphantly, pumping his fist in the air.
I wait for my heart to resume its normal beat and resist the urge to thump his cute little red head. “You scared me half to death, brat!” I tickle him, which is of course what he is waiting for and the whole reason he is on my lap to begin with. When he has had enough and is properly winded, I roll him off my lap and onto the floor. He scampers off in search of snacks in the kitchen.
“Mum is out today so I’ve got him all day,” Emme explains. Emme’s mother, Bea, does all sorts of needle work and sells them, or attempts to, at craft shows and flea markets. Sometimes she even lays them out alongside Prue’s food cart but since Bea is terrified of Prue, she only does it when she is really anxious for customers. Bea is sweet and shy and easily embarrassed, and Prue is – well, Prue is Prue.
“We should take him to the park,” I suggest casually, examining my fingernails. As usual they are chewed short. Emme’s are long and shaped and the contrast makes me sigh. I resolve to stop biting them first thing tomorrow.
“So you can look for Rose?” Emme’s nose is tucked in her book again. “Have you thought maybe she isn’t Rose, but just someone who looks like…well, like the way you imagine she would look today?”
“Of course I’ve thought of it, but I’m telling you, she’s exactly how Dad describes with plenty of Mother thrown in, and even a little of me. Our eyes aren’t exactly common,” I remind her, pointedly.
“Your eyes are creepy. Oops, I meant to say creepy in a beautiful way,” Emme laughs.
“You’re no help at all,” I answer, crossly. “Tell me what to do!”
“Alright, luv, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Let’s piece this puzzle together, shall we? Rose was left behind when you, your mum, and your dad disappeared back in what, the seventeen hundreds?”
“1741, I think.”
“What do you remember? Anything about that time? If she was left behind, what would it have been like for her?”
“Well, it was France. It was cold; at least my only memories are of being cold. I think I remember,” I falter, “I think I remember the night we left. There was a fire in the hearth and Mother was in her rocking chair.” Of course, it’s my dream I’m really thinking of, but it describes what Dad has told me of our home there and it felt so real; as if it could be more of a memory and less of a dream. “We lived in the countryside and there was a neighbor woman named Old Babba, kind of an old crone lady. She hobbled around with a walking stick and muttered a lot. I never understood much of what she said; I think I might have been a little scared of her. She used to come by almost every day, share her hen eggs and she had a goat, Dad says, so she shared her milk with us. We always hoped she found Rose the next day, and we always assumed she would have raised her or at least found a family to raise her.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that she would be Lost, too?”
“But she didn’t come with us that night.”
“What if she’s only a half sister?” Emme asks, lightly.
“Why?” Then it dawns on me. “If she wasn’t full blooded Lost she could be traveling less frequently? I suppose only my mother would know and she isn’t exactly here to ask, is she?” It’s not the first time I’ve been bitter about that. More often than not I simply miss my mother, miss the long talks we should have had, miss the hair-braiding, and the arguments, and the lessons, and the companionship. But occasionally, like now, I am simply angry with her. Angry that she left me, intentionally, to fend for myself and to never know her the way a daughter should. “But I’ve never doubted Dad is Rose’s dad too. I mean, I guess I haven’t thought about it, but he has never alluded to any -,” I pause, feeling