Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
REECE
The express train from the Munich airport to Freiberg runs fast and quiet. We pass between buildings recently frosted by the first snow of the season, then out into the countryside. I relax into my seat and close my eyes, exhausted from the long flight.
Andi has been gone for seven weeks. My mum finally told me to come over here because my moping was driving her crazy. I booked the next available flight, spending an obscene amount of money for a cramped economy class ticket.
A family of five surrounded me during the flight—mother and two toddlers behind me, the father on my right, and a preschooler on my left. I tried to trade seats with the father so they could sit together, but he refused to give up the aisle seat and the kid insisted on the window. The five-year-old talked the entire trip, commenting on every scene of the eight hours of cartoons he watched. If I never see the Wibbles again, it will be too soon. When the kid wasn’t talking, his sibling was kicking the back of my seat.
But the train is blissfully quiet and kick-free. I fall asleep before we leave the station and wake as we slow for our destination. The mountains surrounding the city wear new coats of snow, and the red tile roofs of the old buildings glint damply under the brilliant sun. As we slow, the train slides into a tunnel, then switches tracks and pulls to a halt inside the underground station.
Climbing off the train, I shoulder my backpack and hike to the glass-fronted station at the end. Since Freiberg is part of the European Union, we don’t have to endure customs again. I push through the double glass doors, then pause to catch my breath.
The modern glass exterior hid an incredible gothic interior. Stained glass splashes color over the black and white tile floor. Rows of benches stand in formation across the wide lobby. Uniformed attendants sell tickets at tall counters with brass trim.
I stride through the lobby, dodging around other travelers, to the front entrance. Outside, a rank of taxis wait for passengers, and people stream across a cobblestone square. To the right, stately Baroque buildings line the street. Across the plaza, close-set buildings, mostly in a Tudor style, look similar to Rotheberg, but with a more authentic, well-used appearance that makes them less theme-park-like. Beyond the square, the ancient half-timbered buildings give way to stately baroque facades.
I climb into a little black Audi and hand the driver the address Teo provided.
The man reads the slip of paper, then turns to look over the seat back at me. “ Rosenh?uschen ?” He rattles off a question in German.
“I’m sorry, I don’t?—”
“Ah, American. I did not think you looked like visiting royalty. But you’re going to the palace?” His brows rise as if this is highly unusual. As I suppose it is.
“Yes.” I’m not sure what I need to say to convince the man. “Teo—Prince Sebastien? He’s a friend of mine. He wrote that note.” It doesn’t have any kind of fancy royal seal, so that doesn’t really prove anything.
“ Also gut .” He turns around and starts the car. “I will have to leave you at the gate.”
“That’s fine.” I hope it’s fine. I’m not sure Teo told them I’m coming, but surely if he expects me to stay there, he would have greased the skids.
The driver pulls away from the curb and plunges into a narrow street, barely avoiding a parked delivery truck that blocks most of the road. He mutters under his breath, then looks back at me. “You’re a friend of the family?”
I’m not sure how much I should say, but I get the feeling he won’t turn back to the road until I answer. “Yes. From Rotheberg.”
“Ah. Rotheberg. Alles klar !” He swings around in his seat just in time to hit the brakes and shudder to a stop as a group of pedestrians cross the street mere inches from his front bumper. Neither they nor the driver appear concerned by the close call. As soon as the people reach the sidewalk, we’re off again, plunging into a busy traffic circle. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then look out the side window so I won’t see death as it approaches.
The city gives me plenty to distract my exhausted and terrified brain. Ancient buildings pass by in the blink of an eye. My driver throws the names of streets or neighborhoods at me as we go, but I’m too tired yet wired to remember anything.
We rumble through a section of narrow cobblestone lanes where black beamed, whitewashed buildings lean across the street, blocking out the sky, then burst out into a wide boulevard of Georgian townhouses. Then back into another older neighborhood where the streets narrow again. A few more turns, and we skid to a halt in front of a vast iron gate with golden accents. Guards in dress uniforms with tall furry hats stand on either side of the gate, holding ancient-looking rifles. Beyond the gate, an enormous Baroque building—four or five stories high and as long as a football field—presides over a brown lawn surrounded by a row of leafless trees.
“ Schlossplatz . That’s the palace.” My driver thrusts a thumb at the site, then guns the motor. “But you’re going in the back.”
My heart sinks. I thought surprising Andi with a visit would be romantic. Now I’m having second and third thoughts about being here at all. With the true difference in our stations in my face like this, I feel like I’m drowning in quicksand. We pull across the mouth of a street bordered on both sides by high stone walls. As the car jerks to a stop, I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs feel frozen.
“We’re here.” He turns to look over the back seat and taps the back of his headrest. “Use the QR code to pay. Are you ill? You look a little green.”
“I’m… just tired.” I use my phone to pay him, adding a nice tip, although I think he might have taken the scenic route. “Fresh air will help. Thanks for the ride.”
He looks at his screen and whistles. “Thank you for the tip! I love Americans. Go USA.”
I chuckle a little as I climb out of the car. Closing the door, I slap the roof. He takes that as his signal to race away.
The driver has dropped me at the end of a narrow street. The stone walls on either side narrow my field of view, drawing my attention to the iron gate about half a block away. Beyond this, waist-high bollards block the road and several guards gaze back at me. Unlike their ceremonial brothers on the front gate, these men and women don’t stand frozen in front of little house-like stations. They wear black tactical gear, carry dangerous-looking automatic rifles, and move freely behind the gate. One comes closer, calling through the tall iron bars in German.
“Hi.” As I approach, I hold up my passport and my phone, as if I’m surrendering to enemy combatants. “I’m Reece Turner. Prince Sebastien told me to come here?” I can’t help ending the statement on a questioning upswing under the guard’s hard stare.
The man at the gate beckons me closer with his free hand. “Come forward. Papers, please.” With his heavy German accent, I feel like I’ve strayed into a World War II movie.
Swallowing hard, I move closer and hand him the passport. While he looks over my document, I give myself a stern pep talk. You were invited to visit. You’ve done nothing wrong. It doesn’t help much.
The guard disappears beyond the stone wall. I wait, conscious of the scrutiny of his brethren. None of them speak to me, and their eyes flick from me to the road beyond me and back. I try not to fidget under their vigilant stares while I contemplate bolting back to Oregon. Only the fact that they have my passport keeps me from running.
After what feels like hours, a small metal door in the stone wall to the right of the gate opens. The man who took my passport beckons to me again. “Come inside, please.”
I step into a brightly lit, white room. The guard has retreated beyond an open window in the side wall. The glass—probably bullet-proof—is open. He motions for me to stand in front of him. “I will take a photograph and fingerprints. Please.” He motions to a tablet embedded in the counter.
An image of two hands appears on the screen, and I place my fingers on the indicated spots. It turns green. “You may remove your hands.” The guard taps a small round camera atop a long flexible stalk. “Look here, please.”
I look at the camera, and it flashes.
The guard hums as he works, tapping his keyboard. Machines whir. He reaches beneath the counter, then slides a plastic card with a lanyard to me. “Thank you, Herr Turner. Frieda will escort you to Rosenh?uschen . You’re free to walk about the grounds while you’re in residence as long as you wear that, but you’re only authorized to enter Rosenh?uschen . Welcome to Freiberg.”
As I return my passport to my backpack, the guard comes out from behind the counter and opens a door in the far wall. Another guard pops to attention, blocking the doorway, then steps aside. A woman in black, but not carrying an assault rifle, nods pleasantly to me and gestures to a long road with tall hedges on the right and the high wall on the left. “This way, Herr Turner.”
She strides beside me, clearly keeping me in view as we walk. I try to think of something to say, but all I can come up with is my name, which she already knows. Besides, these guards look so modern and efficient, they could be part android. Maybe she has my dossier pulled up on her internal heads-up display.
Maybe I shouldn’t read so much science fiction.
We reach an intersection where our paved road meets a gravel cross street. The wall on the left makes a corner away from us, and the hedge ends, revealing a broad lawn. Away to the right, I can make out the tops of the palace beyond more hedges. A few low buildings stand between us and the royal residence—probably garages and outbuildings. Ahead, at the end of the gently curving road, stands a four-story neoclassical mansion.
My footsteps slow. “Is… that Rosenh?uschen ?” It looks nothing like the “royal flophouse” Teo mentioned.
“ Ja .” Frieda is a woman of few words.
We walk up the drive and climb the shallow steps. Frieda reaches for the doorbell, but the door opens before she touches it to reveal a huge, dramatic entry with tall ceilings, a sweeping stairway with a balcony across the top, and massive paintings on the walls. My guide snaps to attention and salutes.
I gulp, feeling even more ill.