Why did the English language not have a collective word foryou? So inconvenient. He meant to invite everyone in the room, but how did one say that?
Justine’s dark brows rose in surprise and delight. “Me, you say?”
Karl nodded, and then looked at each of the rest gathered. “And you, and you, and you.”
“And me?” squealed Herr Bridewell in a falsetto. His fellow card players laughed, and his wife tossed a crust of bread at him.
Glancing back at Justine, he noticed her cheeks had reddened. She had thought he’d meant only her. Which he did, but thought was inappropriate. Was it not inappropriate? He didn’t know any more. All he could hope was that his language blunder was not ill-received.
“Anyone who would like to go outside today. I will warn you that it is colder than it was when you arrived, and you will need more layers than you typically wear.”
“Mr. Vogel,” a gentleman said, and Karl swung his gaze over to the thin man who accompanied their afternoon hikes well enough, but was not listed on the expedition. The husband of the Mrs. Prudence Moon, a woman who was on the expedition list, which confused Karl, but he was learning not to question these English ladies. “Is this cold spell typical for this time of year? In England, we usually have a springtime.”
Karl nodded. “This is what happens here. We have a thaw, and then another frost. This will not last long. Then another thaw. Then summer.”
Herr Bridewell let out a low chuckle. “Sounds delightful.”
Karl nodded. “It is very muddy for a time.”
“Even better,” Herr Bridewell added. The man glanced at his bride, and then his sister, and announced, “I am having a jolly time where I am. My wife and I decline your generous offer, Mr. Vogel, and I do hope that Mr. and Mrs. Moon do likewise.”
Herr Moon nodded. “Of course. Card playing is not a terrible way to spend a day.”
“Very well.” Karl nodded and turned back to the long dining table.
“My old joints are not too keen on the cold, I admit. I’ll sit this one out,” said Lord Rascomb, looking pointedly at Lady Rascomb, who raised her eyebrow.
Fräulein Bridewell frowned back at her mother. She whispered something to her mother that Karl could not hear, and Justine shot her a look. The three of them debated in hushed tones, and all Karl could get from it wasinappropriate, which was what he’d been worried about in the first place.
Justine glanced at him, her big brown eyes full of some kind of emotion he didn’t understand. All he could do was standthere like some big cow and wait for a decision. He would go outside no matter what was decided, for the cold didn’t bother him. The key was to be in it, accept it, be a part of it. To suffer against weather was the greatest folly. A person would never win against nature.
Finally, the conference broke apart and Justine stood. She was very pretty; Onkel Peter was correct. And he did think she was the prettiest of all the women here, petite and fierce, quick and full of blazing health.
“I’ll go,” Justine said, her eyes downcast, as if she were embarrassed. That was strange.
“I need to get my warm things, as do you.” Karl said.
Fräulein Bridewell sat back down at the table, her brow furrowed. She did not meet his eyes either. That did not seem to be a good sign.
“I can be back down in ten minutes,” Justine said, skirting the table to run upstairs.
Karl nodded, watching her go. “I’ll meet you at the front desk.”
She did not bother to turn around to acknowledge that she’d heard him, not that it was terribly important. They always met at the front desk, why should this time be any different?
Glancing around, he found that none of the other clients looked at him. They were all absorbed in their own business, not wanting to speak to him. How strange. English people were strange. Unease pricked at him as he went to the pegs behind the bar where he kept his few outdoor options. His thick coats with fur lining, his woolen scarves and gloves and mittens. His extra thick socks and the underlayers that protected him from the wind that could slice right through the wool.
He waited at the desk, sweating as minutes ticked by. Finally, she appeared, and he pushed himself off the desk andpropelled himself out the door. How relieving to finally be rid of the sweating.
She hurried after him, her steps coming one-two, one-two. Leaving the front of the inn, the wind screamed down through the valley and cooled him at once. He loved this feeling, this change, of keeping warm, knowing it was so cold out.
“Come,” he said to her, wanting to get away from the inn and all of the strange whispered words that sat in the air. He led her over towards Täsch, not wanting to take on too much today, but also not wanting to go far in case her clothes did not keep her warm enough or if the weather suddenly changed for the worst.
By the river, however, he found exactly what he was looking for: different types of snow.
“Look,” he said pointing at where the new, brittle, dusty snow met with the hard-packed crusty white bank.
She came and stood beside him, looking, but not saying anything. Her silence was odd. He didn’t like it. But he also didn’t understand it. From what he’d been told by the Frenchman he’d guided, the English would rather sweep problems away, as if they never existed, than discuss the trouble.
