Page 9 of Into Darkness (Night Prowler 6)
Needless to say, the abortion business thrived in New Vienna.
Liesel said, “Well, there you are. That’s how it was before . . .”
Her hesitation was filled with the unspoken terror of the Flash. Of everything it triggered, the wars and turmoil, the food and water shortages, the scorched sky and the barren earth and forever after the lurking stink of death. Though Lu had never known any other sort of life, Liesel was old enough to remember life before the Flash, and to mourn it.
“Anyway, my favorite story was called ‘The Hermit’s Foundling with the Golden Hair.’ It’s about, as you might guess, a man who finds a child in a basket on a stream when he goes to fetch some water. A golden-haired child. Just like you.”
In the sticky dough, Lumina’s hands stilled. The light in the room seemed suddenly too bright.
“It was a boy, in the story, though.” A derogatory grunt, as if the sex of the child offended her. Liesel worked the dough between her rough hands. “There was a note attached to the basket with the little baby boy. It said that the child was the illegitimate son of a princess, who’d sent the baby away for fear of her shame being discovered. That story always reminds me of you. Because of the name, I mean, not because your mother was a princess.” She laughed, as if the idea was profoundly funny. “Though his was the male version of the name, Lumino.”
Liesel brushed a wrist across her forehead to push away a strand of hair, leaving a damp smear of flour behind. “Was your mother Romanian?”
Lu didn’t answer. She couldn’t; her mouth was too dry. Liesel took her silence as a yes.
“Makes sense, I suppose. Naming you after the Romanian word for light.” Liesel’s friendly gaze flickered over her. “You’re so pale you probably glow in the dark when you take off all your
clothes, eh?” Another laugh, and Liesel flipped the dough, punching it down and smoothing more flour over the surface.
Filled with an odd, chilling premonition, Lu whispered, “What happened to the baby?”
“Oh, well, the story was a fairy tale, so of course there were talking lions and dragons and elves, and the boy had to face many trials as he grew, including his father’s death, and flight to a new land, and battles of wit and swords. But he was a strong one, that Lumino. He had royal blood, which gave him courage. He never gave up, not even when his enemies killed his—”
“Did you hear the news? The Grand Minister is coming today! Can you believe it? Today, of all the days! We didn’t get any of the supplies I ordered because the delivery truck was attacked by those verdammt Dissenters, and now there won’t be fresh vegetables or those special sausages I wanted! Scheisse!”
Lars, Hospice head chef, burst into the kitchen with the heated intensity of high noon. Though small and wiry, with the furtive, darting eyes of a rodent, he possessed the energy of ten men. And the ego of twenty. His diminutive frame was topped with a shock of flaming red hair, in which he took great pride and had a habit of running his fingers through when agitated. Which meant his hands were almost always clenched atop his head.
“I think the Grand Minister will be too busy sniffing out his prey to be worried about supper,” muttered Lu to the dough, irritated he’d burst in right when Liesel was getting to the best part of the story. She needed to know what happened to that boy. And who had been killed?
“My schnitzengruben is legendary, woman!” shrieked Lars, pulling at his hair. “Of course he’ll want to stay for supper!”
Beside her, Liesel kept her eyes on her work, unaffected by Lars’s outburst. “You could make sauerbraten. Your recipe for that is legendary, too. And the meat’s been marinating long enough; it’ll be perfect.”
This was Liesel’s gentle way of deflecting attention from Lu. She’d done it a thousand times before. But today—maybe because of the shock of finding out Dieter wasn’t who she thought he was, or because she was just so, so tired of holding her tongue—Lu spoke up.
“How could it be anything but perfect? It’s from Lars.”
Liesel flashed a warning look in her direction as Lars narrowed his rodent eyes. Lu felt his inspection as a flush of heat on the nape of her neck. He was trying to decide if she was mocking him or not, but she figured ego would win out in the end.
It did. Lars sniffed and made a sound of agreement, lowering his hands to his hips. “You’re right. My sauerbraten is the best in the district.”
“Probably the entire Federation,” agreed Liesel, sending Lu a conspiratorial wink. Caught up in planning for the change, Lars didn’t notice. He clapped twice and began barking orders.
“Listen up! Finish the apfelstrudel, chop the cabbage, make the dumplings, get the spätzle ready—”
“And then we’ll set the tables with the good lace cloths and the Federation china while you put the finishing touches on the meat,” said Lu, turning to give Lars a wide, innocent look over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, herrchen, we’ll make sure everything is smooth as silk for the Grand Minister’s visit.”
Lars’s nose twitched in pleasure, reminding Lu of a happy ferret. He loved it when she called him “master,” never recognizing the sarcasm in her tone.
“You better.” He brushed past with an imperious lift of his chin. “Because I’ve heard that son of a bitch is as cold as a witch’s tit and twice as ugly. If anything goes wrong with the meal, I’m holding you responsible.” He swept from the room just as abruptly as he’d arrived. The scent of cheap cologne lingered behind him in a sour cloud.
Liesel muttered a curse in German. “All the responsibility and none of the benefits. Typical.”
“At least we won’t have to suffer through another of his ‘legendary’ batches of schnitzengruben today. Last time I thought I’d contracted dysentery.”
Liesel grunted.
“And what is that stupid saying, ‘cold as a witch’s tit’? What does that even mean?” Lu was growing more and more irritated, irked by her earlier premonition of doom inspired by Liesel’s story, her father’s fraught warning, and the pending visit from the goon squad.
