Read Online Coronets and Steel by Sherwood Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sherwood Smith
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that damned dosed wine.”
I stared stonily back at him. “Not that it makes it okay, because it doesn’t, but you had a reason?”
He leaned his head back against his chair and said, “Aurelia von Mecklundburg is probably capable of imitating an American accent, and she could have bought a forged passport, the California clothes, and all the rest, but the one thing she could not have done is grow her hair a meter and a half in less than six months.”
“Aurelia von Mecklundburg?” I repeated, totally confused.
He nodded, his blue gaze appraising. “You are her size, and shape, you have the same complexion, and you’ve got the same eyes the color of honey. You’ve even got the same single dimple in your left cheek when you laugh and the same mole on the nape of your neck. You could be her twin. You could be her!” And, as I stared in disbelief, he went on with some of the old irony, “I wondered what had inspired her to whack three years off her age in the passport, yet dress like—well, like a student from California. But Aurelia—or Ruli, as she likes to be called now. Still trying to get used to it. She’s what the French call BCBG.”
Bon chic bon genre —not merely the height of fashion, but always perfectly put together. I nodded, for neither observation would fit me. “Well, I must confess my style in haute couture could best be summed up by ‘LA laid-back.’” I laughed. “Meanwhile, is craziness contagious?”
“So you’ve never heard of Aurelia von Mecklundburg?”
“Never.”
“Armandros Danilov von Mecklundburg?”
“Nope.”
“Marius Ysvorod?”
A shake of my head. “Wow, when they were first graders, did it take half a week to write their names?”
“How about—” His tone softened, more tentative. “—Maria Karoline Sofia Aurelia Dsaret?”
“Nada. Except the name Aurelia, of course. Must be a more widely used name than I’d thought.”
“Particularly in Dobrenica. Heard of it?”
I rubbed my forehead, trying to call up an image of the age-battered European map tacked to the wall above my desk. “I think, um, ah I might have heard of it. Only there was something funny about it, but I don’t remember what. It would be one of those little Eastern European burgs swallowed up by the Germans during the war, and the Soviets after, right? Somewhere in the Carpathians?”
“Somewhere in the Carpathians,” he repeated, smiling.
Then I remembered the train, and I said slowly, “You weren’t taking me there, were you?” And at his nod, the comb dropped out of my numb fingers. “What?” I moaned. “Nothing makes any sense at all.”
He glanced down at his watch. It was a thin, discreet type that cost a year of my parents’ salaries. “We’ve a few minutes till eight. Why don’t you drink your tea. I could use some myself.”
He leaned down, poured a cup of the now lukewarm tea, and drank it straight down.
I picked up my own cup and gratefully sipped.
He put the cup down and said, “I’ll give you the rest of it over dinner. No interruptions. Right now I’d better see to some things.” He held up his cell and left.
I reached for the tea, then heard clatters and thuds lumbering up the steep stairway. Madam and her helpers toiled in, bearing heavy trays of food. They set places for two; Alec reappeared as they finished. No sign of Mr. Big.
Alec sat down, politely said, “Bon appétit,” and I devoted myself, with the dedication inspired by nearly twenty-four hours of enforced abstinence, to a splendid dinner. Slovene-style veal stew with corn dumplings, sharply spiced, and savory chicken Djuvec, Sarma in cabbage leaves . . . My mouth waters today when I think about how good that meal was.
The atmosphere had altered from anger to truce. For a while neither of us spoke, except about easy things—the food, the rain. At last I sat back, toying with the last few bites of the layered apple gibanic. He was already finished.
One of Madam’s waiters
I stared stonily back at him. “Not that it makes it okay, because it doesn’t, but you had a reason?”
He leaned his head back against his chair and said, “Aurelia von Mecklundburg is probably capable of imitating an American accent, and she could have bought a forged passport, the California clothes, and all the rest, but the one thing she could not have done is grow her hair a meter and a half in less than six months.”
“Aurelia von Mecklundburg?” I repeated, totally confused.
He nodded, his blue gaze appraising. “You are her size, and shape, you have the same complexion, and you’ve got the same eyes the color of honey. You’ve even got the same single dimple in your left cheek when you laugh and the same mole on the nape of your neck. You could be her twin. You could be her!” And, as I stared in disbelief, he went on with some of the old irony, “I wondered what had inspired her to whack three years off her age in the passport, yet dress like—well, like a student from California. But Aurelia—or Ruli, as she likes to be called now. Still trying to get used to it. She’s what the French call BCBG.”
Bon chic bon genre —not merely the height of fashion, but always perfectly put together. I nodded, for neither observation would fit me. “Well, I must confess my style in haute couture could best be summed up by ‘LA laid-back.’” I laughed. “Meanwhile, is craziness contagious?”
“So you’ve never heard of Aurelia von Mecklundburg?”
“Never.”
“Armandros Danilov von Mecklundburg?”
“Nope.”
“Marius Ysvorod?”
A shake of my head. “Wow, when they were first graders, did it take half a week to write their names?”
“How about—” His tone softened, more tentative. “—Maria Karoline Sofia Aurelia Dsaret?”
“Nada. Except the name Aurelia, of course. Must be a more widely used name than I’d thought.”
“Particularly in Dobrenica. Heard of it?”
I rubbed my forehead, trying to call up an image of the age-battered European map tacked to the wall above my desk. “I think, um, ah I might have heard of it. Only there was something funny about it, but I don’t remember what. It would be one of those little Eastern European burgs swallowed up by the Germans during the war, and the Soviets after, right? Somewhere in the Carpathians?”
“Somewhere in the Carpathians,” he repeated, smiling.
Then I remembered the train, and I said slowly, “You weren’t taking me there, were you?” And at his nod, the comb dropped out of my numb fingers. “What?” I moaned. “Nothing makes any sense at all.”
He glanced down at his watch. It was a thin, discreet type that cost a year of my parents’ salaries. “We’ve a few minutes till eight. Why don’t you drink your tea. I could use some myself.”
He leaned down, poured a cup of the now lukewarm tea, and drank it straight down.
I picked up my own cup and gratefully sipped.
He put the cup down and said, “I’ll give you the rest of it over dinner. No interruptions. Right now I’d better see to some things.” He held up his cell and left.
I reached for the tea, then heard clatters and thuds lumbering up the steep stairway. Madam and her helpers toiled in, bearing heavy trays of food. They set places for two; Alec reappeared as they finished. No sign of Mr. Big.
Alec sat down, politely said, “Bon appétit,” and I devoted myself, with the dedication inspired by nearly twenty-four hours of enforced abstinence, to a splendid dinner. Slovene-style veal stew with corn dumplings, sharply spiced, and savory chicken Djuvec, Sarma in cabbage leaves . . . My mouth waters today when I think about how good that meal was.
The atmosphere had altered from anger to truce. For a while neither of us spoke, except about easy things—the food, the rain. At last I sat back, toying with the last few bites of the layered apple gibanic. He was already finished.
One of Madam’s waiters
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