The space between us fills with the sound of animals chewing, wood creaking, and our breath.
I feel the itch to say something stupid, deflect, turn it back into banter. For once, I do not. I lean against the stall door and watch her instead.
She stands between two stalls, grinning like a little girl as she offers a handful of hay to the greedy donkey. Stray bits of hay have caught on her hem. One is tangled in the hair at her shoulder, glittering in the stable light. She does not notice.
She lifts a hand to stroke Seppi’s nose again. The donkey leans into it, eyes half closed, as if being petted by a posh princess is the most normal thing in the world.
Something in her shoulders loosens.
All day, I have watched those shoulders tense as she looked over them. Here, no one knows her name. Here, she is just a woman in a fancy coat trying not to get mud on her shoes. She relaxes when she is nobody.
“Do they all have names?” she asks, voice softer, eyes still on the donkey.
“Most of them,” I say. “My mom would kill Claus if she heard he forgot any.”
She smiles faintly at that. The smile fades. Something flickers across her face, doubt, maybe, or memory.
“But you are from Salzburg, how do you know Claus?” she asks.
“No idea,” I say with a shrug. “His family knows my family. We go a long way back.”
She nods once. Her hand drops from Seppi’s nose.
Silence settles, thicker this time. The good kind and the dangerous kind, both at once.
Her throat works. She keeps her gaze on the straw at her feet when she speaks.
“I never told you why I ran away the day we met last year.”
I stay quiet.
“The Olympics,” she adds, as if I might have forgotten that detail. “We were at a party. Father was desperate to make contacts. He said our family might soon outgrow Austria. We needed friends in Italy.”
She shifts her weight, boot heel crunching straw. The words come haltingly at first, then faster.
“That night, my mother felt unwell. She said she wanted to retire. He caught her wrist. I saw her wince with pain and paste a smile on her face. I told her to go, told Father that a daughter would do to entertain his contacts.”
Her fingers curl at her sides.
“Father had big plans, you know. We were to meet the Italian president. Big opportunity. I am a good daughter; I played my role. Laughed at the old man’s jokes like a schoolgirl, moved my head so my earrings would jingle, leaned close so he could ogle my breasts at the exact moment Father wanted to lure him into some vague promise.”
Her hand strokes Seppi’s head absentmindedly, as if his smooth forehead might erase the memory.
“When the president left, Father just looked at me, pleased.” She shivers. “He said, ‘Élise, one day you will own everything I have. Remember that in the business world, being a woman might be your advantage. If you are clever.’”
She looks at me, her eyes a little hollow.
“My stomach turned, and I could not breathe. I walked out of a hotel lounge full of ministers and sponsors. Met a journalist and paid her five hundred for her clothes and badge. Walked around Ortisei, watched the fans, and ended up in the Olympic village. I do not even know how.”
She finally looks up at me. Her eyes are bright and flat at the same time.
“He found me, of course,” she says. “He always does.”
“Did he…” I start, then stop. I do not actually want to picture Laurent Moreau with his hands on her.
She understands anyway and shakes her head.
“He does not yell,” she says. “He does not need to. He just removes things. Access. Money. People. Parts of your life go dark until all that is left is what he allows.”
