While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) by Petra Durst-Benning Page A

straight over to one of the younger drivers. She knew her way around such men, and despite some difficulties understanding their dialect, she quickly settled on an equitable price with the man.
    With every mile they traveled, the Black Forest terrain grew hillier, the road rockier and more winding. Rarely could she see beyond the next curve, and steep slopes thickly forested with conifers loomed on all sides. The forests looked dark and downright somber. Was this gloom the reason this region was called the Black Forest? Once, they passed a mill, its enormous water wheel turned by a rushing stream. A few barefoot children were standing at the edge of the stream, poking the water with sticks as if they were looking for something. A short distance farther on, a resinous smoke suddenly filled the air. The two horses snorted and swung their heads from side to side with such force that they flung white spittle onto their sides. Fire! Josephine felt her stomach begin to knot and the old, familiar fear start to rise. She quickly pressed the sleeve of her jacket over her nose to escape the odor.
    “A charcoal kiln,” said her driver as he pointed to an enormous wooden dome covered in earth. “They make charcoal here for the glassblowers who work nearby. Goldsmiths and silversmiths use the charcoal, too, and several armorers get their supplies here.” There was pride in the man’s voice.
    Soon, the forests thinned, and the road, still climbing, wound through more open country. Relieved to have escaped from the smell of the smoldering charcoal pile and the grim forests, Josephine closed her eyes.
    “Wake up. We’re here.” The wagon driver stood beside her. He shook her roughly by the arm, then walked forward to tend to the horses.
    For a moment, Josephine had no idea where she was. It had grown dark and streetlamps were burning. At the sight of the half-timbered houses, she remembered. Schömberg. The town in the Black Forest. The sanatorium. She had arrived.
    While the driver set about retrieving her suitcase from the back of his wagon, Josephine looked at the large building in front of her. The words “Stag Guesthouse” stood out in large letters on a wooden sign attached directly beneath a gabled roof. Underneath hung a second sign made of metal that looked considerably younger than the first. “Schömberg Mountain-Air Sanatorium,” Josephine read. So this was the sanatorium where she was to be cured of her cough. The place certainly looked inviting.
    Josephine looked up the main street. The town was considerably larger than she had imagined. Numerous streets led off to the left and right, and Josephine spotted a church tower and several rooftops that obviously belonged to other large buildings. Could those be other sanatoria?
    “Have a good rest, miss!” The driver tipped his hat then jumped back up to his seat.
    Josephine watched the wagon roll away, then she picked up her case and walked up to her new quarters.
    “This is your room!” The receptionist at the Schömberg Mountain-Air Sanatorium enthusiastically unlocked one of the doors in a row of ten or so rooms. “Mr. Roth, our caretaker—he’s the one we received your registration from—said you would be quite satisfied with one of the smaller rooms.”
    Josephine stepped inside, her heart pounding. A smaller room? This was at least as big as her room at home! And much nicer and cozier, too. Beside a bed with pink-and-white checked linens was a table with a tablecloth of the same material and a chair; a large wardrobe and a washbasin occupied one wall. Everything was clean, tidy, and attractive.
    “My own washbasin. I’ve never had such a luxury in my life,” she said, her voice husky as she stroked her fingers almost reverently over the porcelain.
    “A novelty for which we can only thank Hugo Römpler, the founder of the sanatorium. It is his belief that many diseases are, in fact, exacerbated by a lack of physical hygiene,” the receptionist said, a