Coronets and Steel (10 page)

He smiled at the ceiling. “More of the false identity, and you said ‘dude.’ I don’t think Aurelia has ever heard it, in her circles.”

“Well, my Gran doesn’t like slang and worked hard to educate me out of it. But it slips out.”

“Then there was your verbal fencing—Ariosto—Nabokov. I feel like I’m in a Jean Genet play. I suggest the Zwölfapostelkeller. I don’t know what to expect, but you come along easy enough, as if this is a casual tourist encounter—but you hint that you are leaving Vienna soon. Kilber follows, waits outside, after mentioning his potion again. I waver. Was your hint about leaving the city soon a slip or a warning?”

“Whoa.”

“When you said your name was
Aurelia
I thought, it has to be a warning of some kind, and I’ve got to get you out of there. This decision is based on the logic of twenty-four hours’ lack of sleep on top of drinking half a liter of wine. And so, while you are in the ladies’, I go outside to Kilber, get his powder, order the half-liter of wine, drop the powder in a glass.”

I grinned. “Would’ve served you right if someone had grabbed the glass.”

“That occurred to me as I waited for you to come out. Nothing funny about it at the time. There was also the prospect of getting you out with the least amount of attention. Then, when we had managed that, and had fetched your things from the pensione, there was the fun of getting you across the train station.”

I laughed. “And then I disappeared.”

His own laughter showed in the narrowing of his eyes. “At the same time you were scrambling out the window of that compartment, I was drinking my sixth cup of wretched coffee while trying to work up the nerve to face Aurelia’s quite justifiable ire before I tried to find out the reason for the masquerade. When I sent Emilio in with a peace offering of tea, he found an empty compartment and an open window. So began the chase around the countryside in search of you. And when we did catch up, you still persisted in the masquerade.” He spread his hands. “I thought you were doing it to piss me off. So there you have my story.”

“And now you have to do it all over again.”

He glanced up with mild inquiry.

I gave him the hairy eyeball. “You do intend to give me back my stuff, my papers and money, that is, as my clothes can’t be helped? So I can enjoy what remains of my trip?”

“I was going to offer to drive you out tomorrow—seeing as it’s raining right now, and you must know that you are perfectly safe—to try to find your bag. If you remember where it is.”

“Of course I remember where it is. That is, from the village with the stinky meat I do, anyway.”

“St—oh. Yes. I think I know which you mean, the last one we were through before finding you. Strange dialect out there, they said something about you walking through trailing ghosts. I have no idea what that particular idiom means, but the point is, they were terrified of you. Anyway if we don’t find it I’ll replace your things before you do go your way.” He rubbed his fingers across his eyes and stood up in a leisurely movement. “What a long, hellish day!”

“Another question.”

“Yes?”

“Why did you want to know my mother’s last name?”

He picked up the coffee cup and balanced it in his hand, a curious gesture. He did not want to answer my question. “Can it wait until morning?” he asked finally. “We both need sleep.”

“Yeah.” I sighed, tiredness overwhelming me in waves. As he said, we weren’t going anywhere.

“Good night.” He flicked up a careless hand and turned to the door.

“Good night.”

He went out. I eased to my feet, turned out the remaining lamp, and began limping slowly to the bedroom allotted to me.

My feet creaked on old, much-scrubbed floors as I felt about for the lamp; yellow light flared as the other bedroom door opened. Alec stood in the doorway, his shoulders leaning against the frame. “A moment,” he said.

I stiffened and folded my arms squarely across my front. The yellow light from his room shone in a golden haze through some of his fine dark hair, but the rest of him was in silhouette.

“I won’t be able to sleep unless I also apologize for having riffled through your personal effects.”

I reached back to switch on my lamp. Dim yellow light slanted out softly across his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. I propped my bad foot against the door behind me as I said, “Oh, it’s okay. Not like anything there was
personal
personal. If it had been, maybe you would have figured things out sooner.” Or maybe not. There seemed to be crucial bits missing from his story. But it was too late to ask. “So . . . Well, let’s forget it.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay,” I said awkwardly, embarrassed. And because I was embarrassed, I had to get back to humor. “My turn.”

He’d straightened up, his hand on the door, but leaned again. “Question?” his voice was light, his expression hidden.

“You said ‘my people.’ Does that mean you have minions?”

His head tipped back against the door and he laughed. It was a quick laugh, hardly audible, but genuine, his voice warm.

“You’d better ask them,” he said with a casual wave.

“I have too strong a sense of self-preservation to ask that Kilber if he’s a minion.”

Alec’s humor faded. “Ah, Kilber. If you were to ask if he was my father’s minion, he’d agree with pride. As for the rest, despite the evidence that I regret more every time I think about it, let’s say we’re not completely stuck in the past. Good night.”

I fluttered my fingers and shut my door. And locked it.

O
N A CLEAR, pleasant morning I woke, swung my feet out of the bed, and experimentally set the bad one down. Swollen and ached like it had been kicked by a buffalo.

I hopped across the room to my clothes. In Southern California they would have been completely dry by midnight. My undies were damp and limp, but bearable. I picked up my jeans. Wet. Cold. Even in the uncertain light from the high north-facing window the seams were gray with—and slick and slimy from—unrinsed soap. The top was almost as bad. Ew.

After pulling Alec’s dressing robe back on, I yanked my door open and hobbled to the bathroom—where I found a brand-new toothbrush and some unopened toothpaste labeled with Slovenic lettering.

When I reached the makeshift sitting room I found Alec drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.

He stood up courteously. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

“Yes,” I grumped as I hunted fruitlessly for the comb I’d dropped the night before. “Despite my foot. And blistered palms. And I can hardly wait to slog all over Eastern Europe searching for my no doubt wet and mildewy suitcase while wearing cold, wet, slimy, gritty jeans.” I finally spotted the comb, lying neatly on a side table next to a tray of fresh tea things.

“Sit down. Drink your tea. Breakfast will be along shortly. As for clothes, you can have some of my own. I can’t vouch for their fit, but they are clean. Put the others out and Kilber will take them to a laundry for you.”

Which is what happened, and with an orderly, matter-of-fact haste. Whether or not these toffs are trained to smoothly manage all the ridiculous logistical flaps in getting rid of one day and beginning another while on the road, I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing more high-bred than the possession of cash. But an awesome breakfast appeared and then its remains disappeared, then that silent, burly Kilber drove off in the battered borrowed taxi with an armload of miscellaneous stuff (including my wet jeans and top), and finally Alec and I descended through the inn to the parking lot to find a beautiful light green Daimler waiting for us. Probably (I bet myself) with a full tank of gas.

Alec’s subdued brown slacks were too long, and the white shirt volumes too large—which was a fashion statement some places in LA. My biggest problem was trying to fit my sandal on without hurting my ankle.

“Shall we find a doctor?” Alec asked, watching me wince and hiss.

I shrugged. “What would they say? Wrap it and stay off it? I already know that. I’ve done this before. It’ll be okay in a day or two, as long as I don’t try any more marathons. There.” I’d adjusted the buckles, and I set my foot down. Then I rolled up the dragging cuffs of his elegantly tailored slacks.

The result looked terrible, but when I straightened up and eyed him he said merely, “Ready?”

“Lead on!”

As we climbed into the Daimler I said, “Nice ride. I’m surprised you wanted to mess around with trains.”

“It was much easier, under the circumstances.”

Much easier to cross the border with a sleeping woman in a train cabin attended by a bearded minion standing helpfully outside with passport and ticket, as opposed to a groggy prisoner in a car who might make a fuss.

“Ri-i-i-i-ght,” I drawled.

He flashed that quick grin. “I apologize. Again.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop harping on it, since you did explain, and you’re about to make up for it.”

He started the engine, which hummed with the unmistakable expensive-car lack of grinding noise. “Where to?”

“I think I can manage from that last village.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start.” He pulled away from the inn, driving with the skill but not the speed of yesterday. I relaxed into the contoured seat and watched the pleasantly rolling hills move smoothly by.

The sky was partly clear, but the streaky gray clouds that drifted westward promised another front on the way. The air was balmy and a trifle humid. Inside the car the air-conditioning made it cool and pleasant.

The silence was so curious, almost timeless, yet with a sense of promise. No, of proximity.

Alec’s profile was somber and his gaze seemed far more distant than the road. Driving on automatic pilot.

I discovered my hand gripping my other arm. I forced my hands to relax in my lap. Safe topic? “Um. About the pensione. Did you grab my stuff and skip out, or did you pay my tab?”

“We settled up, of course.” He seemed amused. “I thought I had convinced you I’m not part of an international gang of desperate criminals. You can go back there with impunity.”

“Good to know at least that Interpol is not out hunting my blood. I wish I wish I’d known, because I would have gone to a ballet every night.”

He laughed.

And his temper remained even and pleasant throughout the next three totally useless hours. I had been certain I knew where to go but once we started out from that village, each turn, each cliff was familiar—until I got close. Then it turned frustratingly unrecognizable.

Several times I tried exploring anyway, each time hobbling out of the car only to stare around helplessly. The worst moment was when I was so certain I recognized the curve of hills above that farm where I’d gotten the drink of water. There
was
a farm, but the only buildings in view was a cluster of plain houses built sometime in the early twentieth century, and a tractor growling away in the distance.

After the fifth dead end he said, “On the other side of the railroad tracks there’s a Gasthaus that’s supposed to have great food.”

I sighed. “Haven’t you got better things to do? You’ve got to find your Aurelia.”

“I’m waiting for a call.” He touched the pocket where he kept his cell phone—one of the super expensive ones with satellite everything, I’d noticed. “Which isn’t likely to come in before afternoon. Until then the least I can do is place myself and my car at your disposal. We might begin to replace your belongings.”

“That’s all right. With my own cash back, I’m ahead since you paid off the pensione. All I need is another pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts since my trip is almost over. But before I depart,” I said, “you did promise to tell me why my grandmother’s married name was so important. What the connection is between my name, her name, and your Aurelia?”

“When we stop. Will that do?”

“I can wait that long.” I sat back, and tried to breathe out the annoyance of my still-missing suitcase.

I turned my attention to the gentle hills, so green compared to the parched desert landscape beyond LA’s endless urban sprawl. I enjoyed the expensive car that he guided so smoothly. He was a good driver, something my father had taught me to be. But driving at home was fraught with tension, what with 24/7 traffic and with the constant fear that my elderly VW would break down on the freeway. You have to have been negotiating LA traffic in a junkmobile older than you are to fully appreciate spectacular scenery in a ride like Mr. I’m-a-Crown-Prince’s.

I watched his hands on the wheel as he steered us with hardly a check through a knot of erratically driven dilapidated vehicles that seemed to want to play me-first through an intersection of three roads.

Hands. He had beautiful hands, I thought, studying the shape of his long fingers so casually resting on the wheel, the latent strength there, enhanced by the unconscious grace of his movements.