“I don’t know what to do, either,” I said. “But we’ve got to try something.”
“Yeah, I know.” He flipped up the wide collar of his peacoat and held it tight around his neck while a streetlamp flickered to life above us.
“Maybe before we decide anything, we should find someplace warm that has food, because I’m cold and starving, and I can’t think straight.”
“Now, that’s an idea I can get behind,” he said from behind his collar, bouncing on his heels to stay warm. “Think I saw a place on our way here to Creepy Brother Shopkeeper Lane.”
I snorted a soft laugh. “All right. Food truce?”
“Food truce,” he agreed with a soft smile. “C’mon, before we turn into ice sculptures.”
We hurried down the lonely street and cut through an alley until we were back in the town square. It wasn’t busy here exactly, but it wasn’t deserted either. Looked to be a couple of restaurants open, but Huck pointed to a golden-windowed tavern on a corner.
Ducking beneath a painted wood sign—a raven with a snake in its claw—that jutted over the tavern’s entrance, we opened a heavy timbered door and headed inside to blessed warmth.
The sharp scents of ale and garlic floated on a haze of cigarette smoke. The tavern looked as if it were built in the 1500s and apart from electricity and running water, nothing much had been changed. Under a low ceiling, wooden tables were packed with tourists and more than a few burly local men. Several of them looked up at us with dark, suspicious eyes that followed us to the bar. The barkeep, busy pouring ale into pint glasses, informed me when I inquired that there were empty tables upstairs in a loft that overlooked the main floor and to sit where we pleased. So we hiked up old wooden stairs that creaked and groaned with age, and after surveying the loft—only two other customers—we claimed a small corner table that sat between a roaring fireplace and a window with a view of the moonlit town square.
Within minutes a curvy girl with plaited brown hair greeted us. No older than me and wearing a traditional dress and apron, she chatted affably about the snow and my black eye and where were we from? Then she brought us water, chewy bread, and an intoxicatingly spiced paprika chicken stew with dumplings that tasted as good as it looked.
The fire warmed my back as we ate, and I gazed through the paned window at silhouettes of snow-covered chimneys and sharp gables that lined Bra?ov’s historic rooftops. It was an idyllic view, even at night. I couldn’t help but think of my mother and wondered if she’d ever eaten dinner here or at any of the charming restaurants below, with their terraces draped in white lights.
I wondered what she’d do if she were in my shoes right now.
She’d figure out a way to find Father. I knew that much. Elena Vaduva was not afraid of anything. Maybe because she was descended from the notorious warlord who once wore the band in the box by my feet? Who might have supped in this very tavern and dipped his bread in the blood of his enemies? The red of the paprikash chicken’s oil-slicked broth pooled at the bottom of my bowl, and I lost my appetite for the last bite.
“I’m going to find the restroom,” I told Huck, who reached under the table and squeezed my fingers like he used to do before our long separation. Any aggravation I’d been nursing since his outburst outside the Zissu brothers’ shop vanished.
“When you come back, we’ll make a plan,” he told me, eyes shining in the firelight. “It’s not the end of the world. I was wrong. Happens on occasion.”
“What’s the proverb for that? Never point out the mistakes of others with a dirty finger?”
“Just for the record, you can put your dirty fingers on me any ol’ day, banshee.”
I laughed softly. And as I stood up, I leaned over the table and stole a quick kiss while the other patrons weren’t looking. His lips were warm and tasted of the dusky, red spice in our dinner. “I’ll take that under consideration,” I told him with a smile, and then I grabbed my satchel and trotted downstairs.
The tavern’s public restroom was near the bar, and after waiting for a large man with beer-dazed eyes to emerge, I locked myself inside, took care of business, and then removed the iron ring box from my satchel. The metal was still warm, which gave me pause and quickly quashed any stupid ideas I may have entertained about opening it. Best to follow the brothers’ advice and leave it be. I did, however, inspect the etched symbols on the outside of the box. They were unfamiliar and strange, worn by time—not easy to see in the bathroom’s dim light over a dirty sink. If only I hadn’t pawned my beloved Leica camera, I could snap photographs.
Ah well. I repacked the box safely into my satchel alongside my father’s journal, splashed water on my face, and headed back up the tavern staircase, determined to figure out what to do about this mysterious Barlog Castle and Rothwild and finding Father.
But as I crested the creaking wooden stairs, I had a moment of panic. Our table was empty. No Huck. Yet his rucksack still sat behind a pulled-out chair.
I glanced around the loft. A lone elderly man was still drinking.
Had he gone downstairs to the restroom? Wouldn’t I have seen him? I raced back down and surveyed the main floor. No tall Irish boy. No flat cap. No Huck.
When I was turning to jog back upstairs, our friendly waitress strode toward me with a pint of beer. “Hello, miss? Are you looking for your friend?”
“Yes!” I said, breathless, trying not to sound as panicked as I felt.
“He just left with two priests.”
I stared at her, unable to make my voice work for a moment. “Two... priests?”
“They looked like the ones from the cathedral?” She gestured down her body. “Long black vestments. Your friend seemed to be quarreling with them. I do not interfere with bar fights. I’m sorry.”
This was no bar fight! “Where did they take him? When? Which way did they go?”
She only shook her head at me. “It just happened. They just left a few minutes ago... out the back door,” she said, gesturing across the crowded room.
