“Which one?” This time her eyebrow arches.
“Both.”
She types again, face smooth and professional. “I’ll need two forms of identification and a signature authorization.”
I slide my ID and driver’s license across the desk.
It takes fifteen minutes. She counts out twenty hundred -euro notes, slides them into an envelope that feels both too thin and impossibly heavy in my hands, and prints out the new account details on crisp white paper. My name at the top. Just mine.
“Your card will arrive by post within three business days,” she says. “You can access the account online immediately with these credentials.”
“Can I pick it up instead?” The words come out too fast. “At a branch?”
She blinks, polite confusion crossing her face. “You mean… this branch?”
“No.” I glance at the screen, at the little map icon in the corner of her browser. “Is there a branch near Schladming?”
She types, clicks. “We have a partner location in Haus im Ennstal, about fifteen kilometers from Schladming. They can issue the card on Wednesday if you call ahead to arrange it.”
“Perfect. I’ll do that.”
She writes down the address and phone number on a slip of paper and slides it across the desk with the account details.
“Thank you.”
I walk back to the car with two thousand euros in my purse, five thousand in an account my father doesn’t control. It’s hard to know if that’s enough, especially when I don’t even know why I did it exactly—just a vague, nauseating feeling that it might come in handy.
Jacque is leaning against the hood, arms crossed, face tilted toward the weak winter sun. When he sees me, he straightens and opens the driver’s door without a word.
I slide into the passenger seat this time, not looking at him, thoughts scattered. It’s even harder to do the math when I have no idea what things cost. Things like rent, food, gas…
As he starts the engine, I look at him.
“The tank is full?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
He blinks for a second and glances at the panel.
“I’ll drive to the gas station after lunch,” he says. Because that’s what drivers do. Take care of our cars so that our rides don’t have to be interrupted, so that our aristocratic noses don’t have to pick up the smell at the gas station.
“How about we do it now?” I suggest. “You know, spare you some time.”
“Your father said drive straight home,” he answers carefully.
“All the more reason for me not to hurry, Jacque, please.”
He nods. Because he understands. Because he’s more family to me than my parents will ever be.
"Your father is home," he says quietly as the Hohensalzburg Fortress comes into view on the hill. "He wants to have a chat."
My stomach drops. "Of course he does."
"Do you want me to tell him you're not feeling well?"
I almost laugh at his meager attempt to save me. "No. I'll deal with it."
The underground garage smells of gas, and my stomach has hard time dealing with it.
Jacque reaches for the door handle. "I'll park the car and bring your bags up."
