Wren takes the first corner of the drive too fast. I hate to admit it, but I’m focusing really hard on not gripping the armrest and appearing as casual as I can.
“You’ve lived in New York City for a decade without a car,” I say as evenly as I can manage.
“It’s not something you forget. I drove all the way down here from Zurich. And I had to drive through the village to get to the castle. It’s not far.”
“Not far, right?” I’m not thinking about the five, no, six accidents Wren had between the ages of sixteen and twenty. My parents refused to let me learn how to drive because Wren already had a driver’s license and her insurance cost too much. “Do you have directions to the inn?”
“It’s easy to find. It’s on Main Street.” Wren parks the rental. “See? We’re here in one piece. Nothing to worry about.”
“You did a good job, Wren.”
“Giving me praise isn’t going to make me love you any more than I already do.”
“So keep it up,” we say together and laugh all the way to the front desk. The lobby is quaint. Not a shabby rundownquaint but really quaint, with old ski prints from the ’30s framed on the wall. There are giant wooden skis mounted behind the oak desk.
“I have a reservation for Fischer, party of two. First names Wren and Raine?” Which is the whole issue with having unusual first names: people think our first names are last names.
“Ah, yes. I see you here. Can I see your passports?”
Wren lifts her vest and takes hers from a thin fanny back beneath it. “Excuse me. Once you hear the horrors of someone losing their passport in Asia, you never let the thing out of your sight again.”
“I’ve had more than one guest accuse me of keeping their passports, only to find them in their handbag later.”
“Guests, they can be horrible.” Wren bonds with the agent while I fish mine out of my bag and hand it over.
The agent taps on her laptop. I was kind of hoping she’d have a large leatherbound book filled out in cursive handwriting. But then she pulls a key off a hook behind her and hands it to me. “Here you are, Miss Fischer.” She hands us one key on a giant bell keychain, though the striker’s been removed from it, so it doesn’t make any noise when Wren shakes it. “Yes, we used to have real bells, but guests complained about the racket in the corridors.”
“I can imagine.”
“Would you like some help with your bags?”
“Oh, we don’t have much.”
“Right. You’re up the stairs on the third floor. Room 301.”
“Thank you.”
We’re halfway up the stairs. My sister has one of her bags in each hand and is charging up the stairs in her heels like it’s nothing while I’m huffing with my tiny gym bag. “Holy crap, Wren, slow down.”
“You need to get out of your painting cave more often if you can’t keep up with me in these shoes.”
“The fact that you’ve always been athletic while I’ve been a bookworm has nothing to do with it.”
“Book dragon,” she corrects me. But she stops on the landing too. “You always said you’re a book dragon.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m a bookworm.” I don’t want to think about being a dragon. The massive underbelly of Kieren coming down at me flashes before my eyes. His shiny black talons reaching for me...
“Don’t go all pale on me. Geez, sis. You really do need to take it easy. Come on, we can both take a power nap before we head out to see the town.” She climbs the rest of the way to the top floor.
I’m still behind her, but only a few steps. She pushes the key into the door and turns it with a satisfying click.
“Holy shit, Raine. Did you get a really good raise, or did you get the manager’s special?”
42
RAINE
“Holy crap.” I drop my bag on the thick carpet. There’s a lot to take in, but it’s the delicious smell that hits me the hardest. Apples, cinnamon, and wood. So much wood. It’s dark and cozy.
