Mucha was trying to depict in his window—her hagiography was a little muddled—but the blues and greens were pretty.
“How long have you been here?” Sarah murmured.
“A month,” Eleanor replied. “There are enough Ernestines to devote a whole room to them for exhibition. If we can raise the money to repair them. They’re in deplorable condition. I’ve rather fallen in love with all my ladies. Wait till you see them.”
“If you’ve been here a month then you must have known Professor Sherbatsky,” Sarah said.
“It was . . . very shocking.” Eleanor lowered her voice. “Terrible. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to know him very well. Miles spoke very highly of him. They were good friends, I believe. You were the professor’s student, weren’t you?”
Sarah nodded. Maybe this all-knowing Miles Wolfmann person could illuminate something about the supposed suicide of her beloved professor.
“Were you there when he . . .” Sarah hesitated.
“I was in Germany,” Eleanor said quickly. “A little field trip to the place of Ernestine’s death. It’s proving terribly difficult to find anything about her. When I came back from Mengerskirchen I learned . . . well, everyone was very upset.” Eleanor placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Were you close?”
Sarah hesitated. She had felt close to Sherbatsky, but their intimacy was musical. What did she really know about his personal life?
“He was a brilliant man,” Sarah said. “I’m still kind of in shock about it. So it was Nicolas Pertusato who found him?”
“Well, it was the prince who found him,” Eleanor frowned. “Prince Max. The current heir. But Nicolas was there, too. The prince . . . well.”
Sarah waited.
“Anyway,” Eleanor chirped. “Did I tell you why the cathedral is dedicated to St. Vitus? King Wenceslas was interested in converting the local population to Christianity. And apparently he had acquired the arm of St. Vitus on his travels—a relic, you know.”
Sarah nodded, wondering how she could get her enthusiastic tour guide back into the twenty-first century.
“Now over on the other side is the Chapel of St. Wenceslas,” Eleanor chirped on. “It was built in 1345 and there are 1,345 jewels decorating it. On special days they display his skull!”
Sarah threaded her way through gaping tourists. The Chapel of the Good King was cordoned off and they had to wait their turn to peer in.
“Mmmm,” Eleanor said. “Marvelous.”
Sarah began to feel a little claustrophobic, which was odd considering the enormity of the place.
“Wenceslas was murdered by his brother, Boleslav the Cruel,” Eleanor said, brightly. “And over here through this door are the Crown Jewels. We can’t go in, naturally. They’re said to be very unlucky. A few days after the Nazis’ head honcho tried them on he was assassinated.”
“Coffee,” Sarah mumbled. She had only been in Prague for what felt like ten minutes and already her head was swimming with tales of dead people and murder. “I need some coffee.”
“Oh, but you’ll want to see the tomb of St. John of Nepomuk,” Eleanor insisted. “Wenceslas IV had him flung from the Charles Bridge. It’s all silver! And legend has it there’s a hell portal somewhere in the cathedral—”
Sarah reached out a hand and braced herself against the nearest pillar.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Eleanor cooed. “Did you fly British Airways? They stuff you with salty chips. You’re probably dehydrated.”
Sarah and Eleanor exited the cathedral. Sarah riffled through her bag to find her sunglasses, even though the morning was turning cloudy.
“There’s a nice little spot over in front of the Schwarzenberg Palace,” Eleanor said, leading Sarah back outside the castle gates. Sarah glanced up at the Sexy Stabber on the way out. He no longer seemed quite so sexy.
“Watch out!” Eleanor cried, grabbing Sarah by the arm as a glossy red vintage Alfa roadster
“How long have you been here?” Sarah murmured.
“A month,” Eleanor replied. “There are enough Ernestines to devote a whole room to them for exhibition. If we can raise the money to repair them. They’re in deplorable condition. I’ve rather fallen in love with all my ladies. Wait till you see them.”
“If you’ve been here a month then you must have known Professor Sherbatsky,” Sarah said.
“It was . . . very shocking.” Eleanor lowered her voice. “Terrible. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to know him very well. Miles spoke very highly of him. They were good friends, I believe. You were the professor’s student, weren’t you?”
Sarah nodded. Maybe this all-knowing Miles Wolfmann person could illuminate something about the supposed suicide of her beloved professor.
“Were you there when he . . .” Sarah hesitated.
“I was in Germany,” Eleanor said quickly. “A little field trip to the place of Ernestine’s death. It’s proving terribly difficult to find anything about her. When I came back from Mengerskirchen I learned . . . well, everyone was very upset.” Eleanor placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Were you close?”
Sarah hesitated. She had felt close to Sherbatsky, but their intimacy was musical. What did she really know about his personal life?
“He was a brilliant man,” Sarah said. “I’m still kind of in shock about it. So it was Nicolas Pertusato who found him?”
“Well, it was the prince who found him,” Eleanor frowned. “Prince Max. The current heir. But Nicolas was there, too. The prince . . . well.”
Sarah waited.
“Anyway,” Eleanor chirped. “Did I tell you why the cathedral is dedicated to St. Vitus? King Wenceslas was interested in converting the local population to Christianity. And apparently he had acquired the arm of St. Vitus on his travels—a relic, you know.”
Sarah nodded, wondering how she could get her enthusiastic tour guide back into the twenty-first century.
“Now over on the other side is the Chapel of St. Wenceslas,” Eleanor chirped on. “It was built in 1345 and there are 1,345 jewels decorating it. On special days they display his skull!”
Sarah threaded her way through gaping tourists. The Chapel of the Good King was cordoned off and they had to wait their turn to peer in.
“Mmmm,” Eleanor said. “Marvelous.”
Sarah began to feel a little claustrophobic, which was odd considering the enormity of the place.
“Wenceslas was murdered by his brother, Boleslav the Cruel,” Eleanor said, brightly. “And over here through this door are the Crown Jewels. We can’t go in, naturally. They’re said to be very unlucky. A few days after the Nazis’ head honcho tried them on he was assassinated.”
“Coffee,” Sarah mumbled. She had only been in Prague for what felt like ten minutes and already her head was swimming with tales of dead people and murder. “I need some coffee.”
“Oh, but you’ll want to see the tomb of St. John of Nepomuk,” Eleanor insisted. “Wenceslas IV had him flung from the Charles Bridge. It’s all silver! And legend has it there’s a hell portal somewhere in the cathedral—”
Sarah reached out a hand and braced herself against the nearest pillar.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Eleanor cooed. “Did you fly British Airways? They stuff you with salty chips. You’re probably dehydrated.”
Sarah and Eleanor exited the cathedral. Sarah riffled through her bag to find her sunglasses, even though the morning was turning cloudy.
“There’s a nice little spot over in front of the Schwarzenberg Palace,” Eleanor said, leading Sarah back outside the castle gates. Sarah glanced up at the Sexy Stabber on the way out. He no longer seemed quite so sexy.
“Watch out!” Eleanor cried, grabbing Sarah by the arm as a glossy red vintage Alfa roadster
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