driving way too fast swung by them, screeching to a halt next to the little man’s car. Sarah half-stumbled, the muscle in her calf sending out a warning twinge.
The driver of the Alfa flung open the door and whirled around toward the two women. Sarah had the confused impression of a tall, thin man dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. A homburg shaded his face.
“Where’s Pertusato?” he shouted, so loudly that several pigeons flew up in alarm around him.
“At the palace,” Eleanor called back. “They only just arrived. Let me introduce—”
The man pounded angrily on the top of his car and then set off in a dead sprint through the gate without a backward glance.
“Who was that?” Sarah asked.
“That was Prince Max,” Eleanor said. “Maximilian Lobkowicz Anderson.”
“I thought Maximilian Lobkowicz died in the seventies or something,” Sarah mumbled, trying to remember what she and Bailey had gleaned of the recent family history on Google.
“That was the
grandfather
of this Max,” Eleanor replied. “He died without any male heirs, so it all passed to a daughter’s family, the Andersons.”
“Oh. He seems like kind of an asshole,” Sarah said.
“He’s a little strange,” Eleanor said, sighing. “I’d try to stay out of his way if I were you.”
EIGHT
S arah had to hand it to the anonymous architects of this spired city—the place had a vibe. And vibe central was the Prague Castle complex, which would be her home for the summer. Even the espresso wasn’t totally keeping her brain activity centered on the logical left side. That old loony right side kept saying “for a thousand years, people have lived and died on this very spot.” But then she imagined that the right side of her brain was speaking in a pirate accent (“on this very spot—
argh
”), and she felt normal again. This place was just a pile of old stones. Pretty stones arranged in intriguing ways, but just old stones.
“And outdated wiring,” her father would have added.
Eleanor fluttered her way past the entrance to St. George’s and Golden Lane. “You can see those later,” she said. “You must be dying for a shower.” Sarah was desperate to brush her teeth, and to massage her aching calf muscle, which made her feel even more like a pirate, as she dragged it along like a wooden leg.
At last, as the cobbles began to descend toward the gate at the narrow end of the wedge-shaped castle complex, they came to Lobkowicz Palace. The façade was completely hidden behind scaffolding. Sarah could hardly hear Eleanor over the sounds of men wielding power tools above them. “Steam cleaning,” Eleanor shouted. “Poles.” Poles? Finally Sarah understood that Eleanor meant the workers themselves were Polish, and that the building had suffered years of neglect, now being remedied.
< vt>
As they stepped around tarps and sheets of plastic and coils of tubing, Eleanor muttered to Sarah, “I don’t think there’s a licensed contractor in the whole city. Sometimes I wonder if this whole place isn’t going to come down on our heads. I suspect Prince Max wouldn’t even care. Secretly some of us are rooting for the cousin.”
“Cousin?”
“Marchesa Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti. Head of the Italian branch, and my dear, you wouldn’t believe the
style
. There’s been quite the kerfuffle between Max and the Italian Lobkowcizes over who is the rightful heir, but Marchesa Elisa and Max are friends. She’s charming.”
They made their way through rooms where men were painting and plastering. The building hadn’t looked that big from the outside, but they seemed to walk and walk until finally they came to a door with a note stuck to it.
“Oh dear,” said Eleanor, reading the note. “It’s from Jana, the prince’s assistant.” She pronounced it “Yunna.” “They’ve moved you to the basement.”
In her fatigue, Sarah lost track of how many stairs she and Eleanor went down. The sound of the power tools
The driver of the Alfa flung open the door and whirled around toward the two women. Sarah had the confused impression of a tall, thin man dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. A homburg shaded his face.
“Where’s Pertusato?” he shouted, so loudly that several pigeons flew up in alarm around him.
“At the palace,” Eleanor called back. “They only just arrived. Let me introduce—”
The man pounded angrily on the top of his car and then set off in a dead sprint through the gate without a backward glance.
“Who was that?” Sarah asked.
“That was Prince Max,” Eleanor said. “Maximilian Lobkowicz Anderson.”
“I thought Maximilian Lobkowicz died in the seventies or something,” Sarah mumbled, trying to remember what she and Bailey had gleaned of the recent family history on Google.
“That was the
grandfather
of this Max,” Eleanor replied. “He died without any male heirs, so it all passed to a daughter’s family, the Andersons.”
“Oh. He seems like kind of an asshole,” Sarah said.
“He’s a little strange,” Eleanor said, sighing. “I’d try to stay out of his way if I were you.”
EIGHT
S arah had to hand it to the anonymous architects of this spired city—the place had a vibe. And vibe central was the Prague Castle complex, which would be her home for the summer. Even the espresso wasn’t totally keeping her brain activity centered on the logical left side. That old loony right side kept saying “for a thousand years, people have lived and died on this very spot.” But then she imagined that the right side of her brain was speaking in a pirate accent (“on this very spot—
argh
”), and she felt normal again. This place was just a pile of old stones. Pretty stones arranged in intriguing ways, but just old stones.
“And outdated wiring,” her father would have added.
Eleanor fluttered her way past the entrance to St. George’s and Golden Lane. “You can see those later,” she said. “You must be dying for a shower.” Sarah was desperate to brush her teeth, and to massage her aching calf muscle, which made her feel even more like a pirate, as she dragged it along like a wooden leg.
At last, as the cobbles began to descend toward the gate at the narrow end of the wedge-shaped castle complex, they came to Lobkowicz Palace. The façade was completely hidden behind scaffolding. Sarah could hardly hear Eleanor over the sounds of men wielding power tools above them. “Steam cleaning,” Eleanor shouted. “Poles.” Poles? Finally Sarah understood that Eleanor meant the workers themselves were Polish, and that the building had suffered years of neglect, now being remedied.
< vt>
As they stepped around tarps and sheets of plastic and coils of tubing, Eleanor muttered to Sarah, “I don’t think there’s a licensed contractor in the whole city. Sometimes I wonder if this whole place isn’t going to come down on our heads. I suspect Prince Max wouldn’t even care. Secretly some of us are rooting for the cousin.”
“Cousin?”
“Marchesa Elisa Lobkowicz DeBenedetti. Head of the Italian branch, and my dear, you wouldn’t believe the
style
. There’s been quite the kerfuffle between Max and the Italian Lobkowcizes over who is the rightful heir, but Marchesa Elisa and Max are friends. She’s charming.”
They made their way through rooms where men were painting and plastering. The building hadn’t looked that big from the outside, but they seemed to walk and walk until finally they came to a door with a note stuck to it.
“Oh dear,” said Eleanor, reading the note. “It’s from Jana, the prince’s assistant.” She pronounced it “Yunna.” “They’ve moved you to the basement.”
In her fatigue, Sarah lost track of how many stairs she and Eleanor went down. The sound of the power tools
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