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  “Having shared this shocking experience with you, Lavinia looks on you as friends,” he said, as he saw us into our railway carriage. He shook and squeezed our hands till they hurt. “And it’s obvious that Toby benefits from Poppy’s good sense and good manners.”

  “Well,” said Poppy. “After all, I am a good excumble.”

  “You probably are,” said Mr Ross, and patted her head in a kindly way. “So you’ll come and visit?”

  “We will,” said Miss Deane, and then the whistle blew and the train steamed out of the station.

  “Will we?” Miss Deane turned to me. “I have a feeling you didn’t like Mount Macedon very much.”

  “I think I will like it much better without Mrs Honeydew,” I said. “We shall see. But … but you know, I’m very anxious to get home to Alhambra.”

  Anxious? I could hardly wait. I’d scarcely thought about Papa in the past few days but now my mind was full of him. Poppy’s tummy didn’t misbehave this time, thank goodness, but I thought mine would. I felt sick. Or was it just butterflies? Once out at Spencer Street and into a cab, time seemed to stand still. Can that horse possibly go any slower? I fretted. As if reading my mind, Lucifer swore so loudly that we were all embarrassed. When we turned into our street and I could see the chamber-pot tower on top of Alhambra, it was all I could do not to jump out and run on in. But I entered through the big polished doors of Alhambra like a young lady should. Then someone came out of the sitting room and into the hall, and I gave a shriek.

  “SP!”

  I flew into his arms and hugged him. “You’re home!” And then I realised what I was saying. He was home. He was here in Melbourne, back from Queensland and that meant he’d given up the search for Papa. I took a step back and searched his face for bad news.

  SP had changed. It wasn’t just the sunburn. He seemed older somehow. His green eyes, so fun-filled and mischievous, were serious now. That silly, dandyish manner was gone.

  He took me by the hand. “Verity, before you go up, I need to tell you something. He’s still very weak. The blow to the–”

  I felt as if I’d burst. “He? Who do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you get the telegraph message?”

  Miss Deane was now standing behind me. “We didn’t get any message,” she said.

  Mrs Morcom had come out of the sitting room.

  “Papa?” I asked.

  “Yes, Pierre is here,” said Mrs Morcom with a tremble in her voice. She put a hand on SP’s arm. “This clever boy brought him home this morning.”

  But I was already halfway up the stairs. I burst into Papa’s room, and the nurse, with a cross face, stood up with her fingers to her lips.

  “He’s asleep.”

  I could see that. Oh, Papa. Gaunt and sunburned, with a bandage around his forehead and long white hair straggling onto the pillow. One hand was lying outside of the covers, and even his wrist looked thin. His chest rose and fell with long, deep breaths as he slept. I kneeled on the floor beside his bed. Papa. Alive. Home and safe. All the misery and despair melted away like dew under the morning sun, and for some odd reason Alexander’s face flashed into my mind as I reached out to stroke Papa’s hand. Odd? No, not really. I think – no, I know – that it was Alexander who saved Papa’s life. Just as he’d saved mine and Miriam’s.

  Papa opened his eyes. “Is it you? Veroschka?”

  “Yes, Papa.” I put my cheek next to his. “I’m here Papa,” I said.

  “As long as I was alive, I knew I would get back to you, Veroschka. L’espoir fait vivre,” he said. “A French proverb this time. What is it in English?”

  “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” I said. Hope. How I’d needed it, in those dark days when it seemed that Papa would never be found, dead or alive. I thought of Alexander again. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Can you help me sit up, please, nurse?” His voice was now a little stronger. “I want to look at my daughter.”

  “Certainly, Mr Savinov, but you mustn’t get too excited. We don’t want any shocks.”

  “A shock of joy can only do me good,” he said, looking at me as if I was a dream come true. The nurse helped him up and fussed with the pillows, and then had the tact to leave the room.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.

  “Ah,” said Papa with a deep sigh, taking my hand in his. “This is why I hung on in the waves and the storm. This is why I clung to life. My dear child.” He stirred. “But you are hurt. You are limping. Your face is scratched.”

  “It’s nothing, Papa; I fell over in the bush, that’s all.” I wasn’t going to tell Papa about my Mount Macedon adventures until he was quite, quite well.

  “Where are my spectacles? I want to look at you properly …”

  I looked around. They were not on the bedside table. And then my fingers itched. They itched as I picked them up off the floor where they’d fallen, and they itched until I’d settled them on Papa’s nose. He didn’t know why I was laughing.

  “What is so funny, chérie?”

  “What’s lost is found, darling Papa,” I said, kissing him ever so gently. “At last, what’s lost is found.”

  31

  POSTSCRIPT

  It was a Tuesday evening. The day had been warm, but it was now early March and so the nights were cooler. There’d been a delicious breeze blowing as we waved goodbye to Lavinia and Toby at Railway Pier. Their ship, the Seagull, would reach home in around three months, just in time for the English summer.

  “Well, they’re gone,” said SP. He pulled a large handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to Miss Deane. Hers was already soaked with tears.

  “Thank you, SP,” she said, blowing her nose. “It’s just …”

  “I know,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But soon she’ll be with her father, and all of this will seem like a bad dream.”

  “I just hope Andrew doesn’t suffer the fate of Lavinia’s first two husbands.”

  “No, no, we mustn’t think about that,” said Daniel. “They’re going to have a long and happy marriage. Poor lady, she deserves some luck.”

  “An’ Toby needs a dad,” said Poppy, firmly. “To make ’im behave.”

  “Is that what fathers are for?” laughed Papa, catching her up in his arms and tickling her.

  “Shh, shh,” hushed Judith, hugging the tiny white-shawled bundle closer to her. “You’ll wake Horace.”

  The ship’s sails billowed in the breeze as she sailed out into the bay.

  “Goodbye!” I called, although none of them could hear me. “Good luck!”

  “Come on,” said Papa. “Let’s go home.”

  When we arrived back at Alhambra, Kathleen handed me a package. It was flat, and had a fancy cream and maroon label on it.

  “A messenger boy brought it soon after you went out,” she said.

  “It’s from Mr Riva,” I said, turning to Miss Deane. It was so long since we sat for our portraits, I thought he must have forgotten about us.

  I untied the string. The photographs were protected by yet another layer of tissue paper.

  “Here you are, Miss Deane.” I took it out of its tissue and handed it to her. “How pretty you look,” I said.

  Attached to the wrapping of the other photograph was a note.

  My dear Miss Sparks-Savinov,

  As I told you, I do not believe in so-called spirit photography, and disapprove strongly of those who use the photographic arts to trick vulnerable people. Therefore, I have no explanation for what I send you in this package.

  Yours, etc etc

  Gabriel Riva

  “Aren’t you going to look at it, Verity?” asked Miss Deane.

  Slowly, I unwrapped it. I saw a small, slim girl with serious eyes and a little pointed face, wearing her second-best dress and posed stiffly beside an artificial rosebush. Standing behind her, rising out of a sort of mist, was a fair-haired young man in a white shirt. There was no doubt as to who it was.

  It
was my half-brother Alexander, and he was smiling.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to Mary Verney, my editor at Walker Books, for all her work on this book.

  And to Howard and Lachlan, for their love and patience.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Susan Green lives in the historic gold-rush town of Castlemaine in Central Victoria with her husband, son and Gus the miniature schnauzer. She has been a teacher, radio producer, youth worker, cook and book seller, but she knew she wanted to be a writer by the time she was eight years old. She has written eleven books for children and young adults. Susan’s first novel for Walker Books, The Truth about Verity Sparks, was awarded Honour Book for Younger Readers at the CBCA Book of the Year Awards, 2012. Verity Sparks, Lost and Found is her second novel with Walker Books. To find out more about Susan and Verity, go to www.veritysparks.com

  Published in 2013

  by Walker Books Australia Pty Ltd

  Locked Bag 22, Newtown

  NSW 2042 Australia

  www.walkerbooks.com.au

  This ebook edition published in 2014

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted.

  Cover Illustration © 2013 Lisa Coutts

  Text © 2013 Susan Green

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Green, Susan, author.

  Verity Sparks, lost and found / Susan Green.

  For primary school age.

  Subjects: Ability – Juvenile fiction.

  Suspense fiction.

  Children’s stories.

  A823.3

  ISBN: 978-1-925081-54-1 (ePub)

  ISBN: 978-1-925081-53-4 (e-PDF)

  ISBN: 978-1-925081-55-8 (.PRC)