Robin hesitates. “Maybe not that one. When I went in there once, they warned me that you abducted women from the village.”
I laugh. “Perhaps they need to ask themselves why those women were so anxious to disappear.”
“Let’s go in here,” Robin says diplomatically, suggesting another tavern. It sits at the heart of the village, its timber and stone construction weathered by centuries of mountain storms. The wooden sign above the door depicts a rampant wolf—the old symbol of protection in these parts.
Robin pushes open the heavy oak door, and I follow her into warmth scented with woodsmoke, roasted meat, and something that might be home-brewed ale. The interior is exactly what I expected—low wooden beams, rough-hewn tables, a crackling fire.
What I didn’t expect is the way conversation falters when the patrons see me. Not with fear this time, but with something deeper. Recognition. Respect. And underneath it all, genuine sorrow.
Before I can process what’s happening, an elderly woman approaches our table. Her weathered hands are gentle as she lays one over my gloved fingers, her eyes kind but tired.
“Your father was a hard man,” she tells me in our region’s dialect. “But he kept us safe. He kept us protected.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly, and for a moment I can’t breathe around the sudden ache in my chest.
“Thank you,” I manage.
But the woman isn’t the last of them. One by one, other villagers approach our table. A man with arms like tree trunks clasps my shoulder briefly. A young woman offers stammered condolences. An old man removes his cap and bows his head respectfully from the bar.
Their words are simple, honest, emotional: “He was great man.” “We will remember him.” “He will be much missed.”
I pull myself together and thank each of them with the same cool dignity my father would have expected. Their respect for Zoltan Novak—genuine, uncomplicated respect—settles over me like the warmth from the tavern fire.
It’s…comforting.
Robin, Leon, and I have settled at a table in the back near the fireplace, where the heat chases away the chill. The innkeeper—who turns out to be the same elderly woman who first approached me—bustles over, before we’ve even ordered, with steaming bowls of stew, thick slices of dark bread, and mugs of ale that smell like herbs and honey.
“With our thanks,” she says. “For Zoltan’s daughter.”
I watch Robin thank the woman with that radiant smile, engaging her in a halting English conversation that involves more gestures than words but somehow conveys perfect understanding. The sight makes something in my chest squeeze tight.
“How do they know?” Robin asks quietly, once the woman has gone. “About your father, I mean? I noticed when we came back from—” She cuts herself off and goes on instead, “After he died, the village was in mourning, too. Black ribbons and banners. ButI thought no one knew he was, well…” She looks around guiltily as though someone might overhear.
“They knew,” Leon says simply. “And they will never speak of it to outsiders.”
The exchange should irritate me, with Leon’s inference that the villagers speak freely in front of Robin because she isnotconsidered an outsider. But she doesn’t even seem to pick it up, and so to avoid responding, I take a long drink of the ale. I faintly taste the wildflowers of the region, familiar and welcome.
“Tell me more about these friends you made in the village,” I ask her instead.
Robin shrugs, tearing off a piece of bread. “I met a girl called Mira up at the castle. She wanted to practice English with me. But down here in the village—I mean, they were kids. Kids don’t care about language barriers. They just want someone to play with them. And once the children like you, their parents usually at least try to be polite.”
The casual explanation makes it sound so simple. Make friends with children. Smile at their parents. Show kindness without expecting anything in return.
It’s a completely alien worldview.
“You know, the village school is kind of run-down,” Robin continues conversationally. “Could use some new paint, maybe a weekend project to clean up the playground area a little.”
I scoff, the sound automatic. “You think I’m going to perform manual labor in a schoolyard?”
“Of course not,” Robin says, but there’s something in her tone that suggests she thinks I should consider it anyway. “I justmeant someone should look into it. These kids deserve better than crumbling walls and rusted swing sets. The wooden seesaw is rotted through. I think it must be as old as the village itself.”
Her words stick with me through the rest of our meal. Long after we’ve returned to the castle, after I’ve dismissed Leon and retreated to my study, I find myself staring into the fire and thinking about paint and playgrounds and children who smile at strangers.
The village school. The Novak family has always donated to it. A small thing in the grand scheme of Consortium business. Insignificant compared to arms deals and territorial disputes and the constant chess game of criminal enterprise.
But Robin’s voice echoes in my mind: “These kids deserve better.”
I’ve never in my life even thought about the village children. My own childhood was spent in education abroad, boarding schools and finishing schools and Oxford University…
