“Who might he be?”
“Klemens Lindenstein.”
“Occupation.”
“Student.”
“Age.”
She paused. “Twenty-eight.” Was he? She wasn’t sure, entirely. She’d known Klemens for years. How could she not know his precise age? But twenty-eight seemed like a good number.
The man promptly noticed her hesitation and commented, “That’s rather old to be a student.”
Pippa did not deign to answer.
On and on he snapped questions, and she answered. When it came to answering why she did not have any papers, she explained how her reticule had been stolen.
The man assessed her with sharp green eyes. He tapped a finger against the paper on which he’d written. Pippa met his gaze. She refused to be intimidated.
“Fräulein Cranwell.” He gave her another penetrating stare. “If that, indeed, is who you say you are. From what you tell me, you have no family, job, or placeto stay, and your betrothed has gone missing. That is very convenient, is it not?”
Pippa grew cold. “What do you mean?”
“You claim to be Professor Cranwell’s daughter, but since the man has died, where, precisely, is the proof that you indeed are who you claim you are? You have nothing and no one here who can identify you.”
Pippa winced. But it was true.
He crossed his fingers. “You know what we do with people we can’t identify?”
She licked her lips, which had gone intolerably dry. “You treat them to a hearty bowl of goulash soup?” Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten in two days.
The man remained unamused. “A cheeky, fearless young thing, aren’t you?”
Pippa certainly tried her best to appear fearless, even though she quailed inside. She met his eyes squarely. “I am certain it isn’t anything pleasant, nor something I care to know, so why ask?”
“Yet you should know, because this is about to become your fate, too. We hold people without papers here until positive identification can be acquired. In gaol.” He bent forward with a smirk. “They call it the bottomless pit because people disappear inside, never to return.”
Pippa felt the blood leave her face.
“As you can imagine, it’s not a good place to be. Lately some disease seems to have broken out which emptied the place in no time,” he said meditatively. “Solved our problem of an overpopulated prison rather easily. However, my dear, you are very lucky, indeed.”
“How so?” The man was, without doubt, an idiot, and there was nothing more she wanted to do than to punch him in the nose. Next to numbers, the only other thing Pippa knew how to do well was to throw a good punch. But something told her that this was not advisable to do in the current circumstance.
“Indeed, you may be spared that fate. You seem to be a reasonably intelligent girl.” Tap-tap-tap, his finger went on the paper. “Fluent in French and in English. Particularly English, which might come in useful…” Tap-tap-tap. “In short, I have a proposition.”
Pippa narrowed her eyes. She’d heard of those so-called propositions that newly arrived country girls in the city were often given. They were promised the blue from the sky, only for them to end up walking the streets, or worse. But she was no naïve milk-and-water-miss, no she was not! She would not fall for it.
“What proposition?” She tilted her head inquisitively.
“I can get you a position.”
Ah. There it goes.
“How fortunate! What position could this be, I wonder? A position as a maid in an aristocratic household, maybe?”
He threw her a short, surprised look. “Indeed.”
She glared at him.
