backward glance. Munroe stepped into the room, the door shut behind her, and she stopped.
Filling the room, floor to ceiling, on shelves along each wall, in glass cases, resting on chairs, and standing on credenzas, were porcelain dolls: small and life-size, hand-painted and air-brushed, richly clothed with waxen hair, curled and styled. They stared out at her—more lifeless eyes than she could count—each doll in perfect condition: items a collector had doted on and cared for, with not a speck of dust to tarnish them.
The rest of the office resembled any other random business, although from the fixtures, the window, and the radiator beneath it, she was clearly not in Texas—or the United States for that matter. Europe. She suspected the Balkans based on the languages she’d heard in the big room and the old stone architecture and the impressionof a courtyard beyond the window—beyond the man who partially blocked her view.
He sat behind the desk, hands folded upon it, head haloed by the morning light that left his face in shadow. Munroe nodded an acknowledgment. He nodded back, and if she guessed correctly, he was smiling.
He stood and reached for the vertical blinds. Tilted and pulled them across the window so that Munroe no longer squinted at his shadow and in English without any trace of the young one’s accent invited her to sit. His smile was genial, his manner gracious, and while Munroe tipped her head again, matching geniality for geniality, the primal side of her brain calculated the odds of the window frame having been reinforced, the glass replaced with shatter-proof, the difficulty with which she might plunge into him and take them both out the window to the cobblestones below.
He followed her eyes as they wandered from the dolls to the window and back again and, as if reading her reaction upside-down, said, “They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
Munroe offered a half-smile in answer.
The Doll Man stood and walked to the shelf on her left; starting near the window, with hands behind his back like a general surveying troops on parade, he worked his way along the wall, pausing to admire and occasionally reach out and touch a lock of hair or rearrange a dress.
He was five-foot-six at the most, and small, not just in height. Had he been a woman, petite would have been a better description. He was immaculately clothed in a suit, surely custom made, his tie perfectly knotted, his shoes at a high shine. Thinning hair and hands with ample sun spots put him in the upper range of sixty-plus, though from his posture and controlled energy, it would be a mistake to think of him as aging.
“Perfection,” he said, his fingers to lace, his voice soft and full of admiration. “They have no flaws, only beauty.” He paused and, still gazing at the dolls, whispered, “Only beauty.”
The man turned toward Munroe and his voice returned to room volume. “I have others,” he said, “but these are my treasures. I keep them close; they bring me joy.” He stopped to stroke a porcelain cheek and then with a sigh walked back to the desk and returned to his chair.
“But I am rude,” he said. “And you have questions.”
Munroe waited a beat, allowed silence to engulf the room while she studied him and he studied her. “Where am I?” she said finally. “And why am I here?”
“You are in Croatia for an assignment,” he said, and punctuated the statement with a dismissive wave. He shifted and crossed his legs. “To repay the debt.”
Munroe held back a snort. It would be reasonable to ask for clarification in order to understand this obligation of which he spoke so casually, as though he took for granted that she was familiar with the matter, but instinct told her to hold back. “Most people simply request my help,” she said. “No matter what it is you want, kidnapping me, putting me in a cell, and keeping me under guard is the worst kind of way to get it.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Most people
Filling the room, floor to ceiling, on shelves along each wall, in glass cases, resting on chairs, and standing on credenzas, were porcelain dolls: small and life-size, hand-painted and air-brushed, richly clothed with waxen hair, curled and styled. They stared out at her—more lifeless eyes than she could count—each doll in perfect condition: items a collector had doted on and cared for, with not a speck of dust to tarnish them.
The rest of the office resembled any other random business, although from the fixtures, the window, and the radiator beneath it, she was clearly not in Texas—or the United States for that matter. Europe. She suspected the Balkans based on the languages she’d heard in the big room and the old stone architecture and the impressionof a courtyard beyond the window—beyond the man who partially blocked her view.
He sat behind the desk, hands folded upon it, head haloed by the morning light that left his face in shadow. Munroe nodded an acknowledgment. He nodded back, and if she guessed correctly, he was smiling.
He stood and reached for the vertical blinds. Tilted and pulled them across the window so that Munroe no longer squinted at his shadow and in English without any trace of the young one’s accent invited her to sit. His smile was genial, his manner gracious, and while Munroe tipped her head again, matching geniality for geniality, the primal side of her brain calculated the odds of the window frame having been reinforced, the glass replaced with shatter-proof, the difficulty with which she might plunge into him and take them both out the window to the cobblestones below.
He followed her eyes as they wandered from the dolls to the window and back again and, as if reading her reaction upside-down, said, “They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
Munroe offered a half-smile in answer.
The Doll Man stood and walked to the shelf on her left; starting near the window, with hands behind his back like a general surveying troops on parade, he worked his way along the wall, pausing to admire and occasionally reach out and touch a lock of hair or rearrange a dress.
He was five-foot-six at the most, and small, not just in height. Had he been a woman, petite would have been a better description. He was immaculately clothed in a suit, surely custom made, his tie perfectly knotted, his shoes at a high shine. Thinning hair and hands with ample sun spots put him in the upper range of sixty-plus, though from his posture and controlled energy, it would be a mistake to think of him as aging.
“Perfection,” he said, his fingers to lace, his voice soft and full of admiration. “They have no flaws, only beauty.” He paused and, still gazing at the dolls, whispered, “Only beauty.”
The man turned toward Munroe and his voice returned to room volume. “I have others,” he said, “but these are my treasures. I keep them close; they bring me joy.” He stopped to stroke a porcelain cheek and then with a sigh walked back to the desk and returned to his chair.
“But I am rude,” he said. “And you have questions.”
Munroe waited a beat, allowed silence to engulf the room while she studied him and he studied her. “Where am I?” she said finally. “And why am I here?”
“You are in Croatia for an assignment,” he said, and punctuated the statement with a dismissive wave. He shifted and crossed his legs. “To repay the debt.”
Munroe held back a snort. It would be reasonable to ask for clarification in order to understand this obligation of which he spoke so casually, as though he took for granted that she was familiar with the matter, but instinct told her to hold back. “Most people simply request my help,” she said. “No matter what it is you want, kidnapping me, putting me in a cell, and keeping me under guard is the worst kind of way to get it.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Most people
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