The Case of the Fickle Mermaid by P. J. Brackston Read Free Book Online

but something suddenly gave Gretel the impression that a figure had just swung through the rigging. Not a person, but someone smaller. Or something. She put her hand to her eyes to shade them and squinted upward, expecting to find, perhaps, a monkey. She had heard of sailors who acquired such exotic pets on their far-flung travels. Now she glimpsed whatever it was, a silhouette against the sun. It scampered along a boom, its tiny feet seeming to scarcely touch the slippery wood. And then it was gone, vanished among the sails before she could obtain a clear view.
    Blinking, she rubbed her eyes and her mind at once returned to the irritation that was Birgit. It was too bad, having to suffer her company on board, but she knew that she must not let this irksome development hinder her investigations, and she resolved to start interviewing the crew forthwith. Given her gnawing hunger, she decided that the ship’s cook might be a good person to start with.
    The galley was a place of heat, steam, noise, and raised voices. It looked to Gretel’s eye woefully small, given the size of the ship and number of mouths to be fed. She sidled through the entrance and wedged herself between a tallboy and a stack of barrels so as to be out of the way. Breakfast over, it was evident preparations were already under way for the nextmeal. The sight of slabs of chocolate being melted, the sound of something sizzling in a pan, and the aroma of freshly baked bread combined to render Gretel quite faint with desire. So much so that as a tray of warm brioche flashed past her, held aloft by a red-faced boy, she snatched one up for herself and stuffed the thing whole into her mouth. The sweetness of the new dough, its glorious buttery texture, the delicate flakiness of it as it melted on her tongue nearly caused her to swoon. She felt instantly better, and pondered the fact that healthy lungfuls of ocean air could not compete with a tummy full of sugar and fat when it came to giving one a boost.
    â€œWhat are you doing in my kitchen!” yelled a small, round-faced man dressed in the whites of a chef and sporting a black bandanna and a sparse goatee. He held a fearsome knife with a curved blade and bone handle, which he seemed to be in the habit of gesticulating with as he spoke. The effect was unnerving.
    â€œForgive the intrusion,” Gretel began. “I was called away during breakfast, and—”
    â€œPassengers are not allowed in the kitchen!” he barked.
    â€œOf course, I have no wish to interrupt your excellent work—”
    â€œIf you want something to eat, ask the steward. You cannot come in here!”
    Gretel remained steadily impervious to the man’s blustering and played what she believed to be her trump card. “Sadly, my brother, Hans, is indisposed. He mentioned what an exceptional poker player and a thoroughly helpful fellow you are . . . Herr Frenchie, if I have it right?”
    â€œHans?” The little man’s face twisted through a variety of expressions, touching on puzzled and passing through surprised before arriving at delighted. “Ah, Hans! My good friend! He is unwell? Why didn’t you say so? Do not tell me the seahas unsettled his digestion, no! I refuse to believe this. Hans is a man of substance.”
    â€œFew would argue with that.”
    â€œA man of iron will!”
    â€œIron stomach, certainly.”
    â€œIf he is ailing, he must eat. I will prepare him a fish broth.” He waved his knife and snapped orders at his sweating minions. “I am famous for my bouillabaisse,” he explained, gathering handfuls of ingredients. “I trained in Paris under the great Alphonse Dubois. There is no other living who has this recipe.” As he talked he chopped, sliced, and diced with alarming speed and impressive dexterity.
    â€œI am certain if anything can restore Hans to good health, it will be your cooking,” said Gretel, her mouth watering as the