5. Nina
5
NINA
Maia and I stay arm-in-arm on the short walk to Dominik. The uneven stones trip us up every so often while the evening sun cuts right into my vision. We walk up exterior winding steps that resemble a castle. But it’s Europe; it very well could be. I inhale crisp evening air, reveling in the distant sounds of acoustic guitars and clinking glasses.
The steps reveal a huge restaurant patio with dozens of tables and a hostess who smiles and greets us in Maldanian.
Glass panels line the patio, and our table is along the edge with an umbrella angled perfectly to block the sun. Down below, the ancient buildings of a neighborhood protrude from the cliff. The people in the narrow streets look small, showing me how high up we are.
I shiver and have Maia sit at the edge instead.
“Was it hard to get such a good reservation like this?” I ask, marveling at the ocean view.
“I made them early enough,” Dad says with a smile.
A waitress brings us water and English menus. I stick to the Maldanian one for as long as possible, but it doesn’t take much to decipher that the dishes are thirty euros a piece. Early reservations? An expensive restaurant? I bristle at this newfound side of him.
“They serve veal ?” Maia blurts, making a disgusted sound.
“Oh, stop it,” Dad chides as Ruby seems to search for the veal listing.
“No,” she insists. “It’s a baby .”
“Then don’t get it,” he says, his voice sharpening.
She shakes her head and drops the menu in front of her. “I can’t eat at this table if anyone gets veal. I’m sorry.”
“No one’s getting veal,” I say, covering Maia’s hand with mine. “So that won’t be a problem.”
I don’t look at Dad or Ruby to confirm. Although my sister’s reactions are pretty fiery, I don’t disagree with her.
I spot two men at the table diagonal from us only because the grey-haired man with his back to me is rigid, while the man across from him is the opposite. He relaxes, slumped in a chair he’s too big for. His dark hair and trimmed beard send a spark through my stomach, so I look away. Even with sunglasses on, he’s still fine as hell. But I shouldn’t jump on the first man I see.
After the deliciously expensive dinner, we wander the neighborhood below within the cliffside, which is a leg workout with all the hills and stairs. The uneven street is about four or five people wide, yet motorbikes still honk and rev their way through fast enough to frighten me. Maldanians don’t care. If we’re not perusing the stores, we’re looking over our shoulders for passing bikes.
I fall behind the group to stop at a jewelry stand until the owner lights up a cigarette. The stench drives me away. All too quickly, I step without a glance behind me, and the vibrating engine and beep-beep of a moped sends my heart into my throat. A person walking in my direction lurches and pulls me from the bike’s path, his hands on either of my bare arms.
“Prosítentto,” the man says and continues his walk without another word. I double-take as he strides off, for his soft hair and scruff match that of the man I saw at the restaurant. What are the chances? It’s not until he’s long gone that I realize what he said in Maldanian. Be careful . I shake off the whole incident and rush to catch up with my family.
I roll over in bed, huffing at the time: 7:32 a.m. For once, can my body let me sleep in?
I lay cuddled in the surprisingly soft comforter. The fabric feels expensive; its pristine fibers brush my skin. I drift in and out of sleep for at least another hour, dreaming of peaceful bliss, until Maia sneaks into my room and leaps onto me.
“Good morning!” she yells. Her minty breath and glowing cheeks greet me. She’s a breath of fresh air, cutting into my sleep so brusquely. “How’d you sleep?”
I shut my eyes and push her face away. “No.”
“Hey,” she squawks, swatting my hand. “Oh, come on. These beds are so comfortable, aren’t they?”
I flip sides.
“Dad and Ruby are waiting for us for breakfast.”
I groan, pulling the pillow over my face. “Too many words.”
Maia huffs, yanks the pillow, and crashes into my back. “Get up ,” she says, leaning in and singing, “There’s french toast.”
My eyes pop open to find her sly grin. “Really?”
She nods, and I haul ass out of bed.
Maia and I walk downstairs, clad in our robes, to find a woman serving Dad and Ruby in the back garden. Dad introduces us to Theodora—Dora for short—who will be our caterer for our stay.
“Our caterer?” I echo. She’s not much older than I am! It’s uncomfortable to be served by someone I could be friends with. She’s short and curvy with tanned skin and loose brown curls.
Nonetheless, I order french toast while my sister asks for pancakes. When the two of us gather fruit from the buffet, Maia leans in and mutters, “Dora’s got a donk.”
I snort, clamping my hand over my mouth. It’s funnier because I noticed Dora’s big ass, too. Not in a bad way, though. I’m envious, and Maia’s scrawny ass definitely is, too.
After eating breakfast in the back garden illuminated by the abundant flora, Dad lays out the day ahead: a history museum, a vegetarian restaurant he found, and then a private tour of the palace. Maia and I look at each other but don’t say anything. We both know that Dad isn’t a palace type of guy. He’d prefer to bar-hop and explore local neighborhoods. But he and Ruby seem excited, so we go with it, no questions asked.
It’s a hot, cloudless day, so I step into a spaghetti-strap dress that reaches my calves. The sun-yellow fabric hugs my body just enough to keep airflow. I twist my curls into a messy claw clip and slide in daisy stud earrings to match my simplistic gold pendant. James bought me this necklace, and I fight the stinging reminder. He’s already taken my confidence; I won’t let him take my favorite necklace.
The word stunning cannot adequately describe the royal palace.
We pass through decadent ballrooms and abandoned bedrooms of historical kings and queens. The tour guide is so attentive and personable it’s almost unusual; it’s as if he’s hanging out with friends.
“Do people still use this?” Maia asks, her neck tilted to look at the detailed paintings on the ceiling.
“Yes,” our tour guide Andrew says. “This wing of the library is just for the museum.”
“Those are from the thirteenth century,” I tell my sister, looking at the paintings with her. “It took the artist, Sacco Andreas, five years to complete.”
“That’s correct,” Andrew says to me. “You’ve studied our history. I’m impressed.”
I blush. I don’t tell him that my “studying” was a Google search on the drive over.
“Wow.” A hint of awe covers Maia’s tone. Her neck is still craned back and it looks almost comical. “It’s incredible how it still looks so pristine.”
“Come on,” Dad interjects, “we still have a lot to see.”
“But—”
“Let’s go, girls,” Ruby says, beckoning us forward with a manicured hand.
We pout, wanting to bask in our love of academia for a few moments longer. With our arms still linked, my sister and I begrudgingly follow Andrew and our parents through a gargantuan set of doors.
“Gracea,” I say to the two men who opened the doors for us. A look of gratitude passes their otherwise deadpan faces. I want to use every chance I get to practice Maldanian, even if it’s to thank a couple of museum employees.
The room we enter doesn’t appear to be a showroom, but a sitting one. The tall windows and French doors to my right allow the late-afternoon sun to paint everything in a yellow hue, emboldening the already golden decor. Between two couches is a coffee table, and farther back is a fireplace. Above it, a large, classical-looking painting of a pale woman in an elegant dress and bejeweled sash. A woman I’ve seen before. My stomach tingles. It can’t be.
“Maia.” I stop walking, which forces her to stop, too.
“What?” She follows my gaze, then smothers a gasp. “Is that…?”
“Our birth mother? Definitely.”