Instead he was the expedition pack mule, and Mr. Brewer’s mark. But Karl had dealt with men like him many a time. One could not be a traveler and not encounter those who could smell another man’s card hand. But he had no desire to do so tonight. It was nearing eleven, and he would be up early again for animals, and then a hike where he would carry everyone’s midday meal, because heaven forbid any of these British people were hungry for more than a minute or two.
“Come now, we don’t even have to play for real money. We could play for pine cones or pebbles or whatever you have around here.” Mr. Brewer shared his sister’s complexion and shiny brunette locks. On his sister, they cascaded down her shoulders in gentle waves. In Mr. Brewer, they were tightly curled and lay placed like eggs in a hen’s nest atop his head.
“You must forgive me, for I am very tired,” Karl said, remembering with some satisfaction that this man was not born as an aristocrat, and therefore did not require any deference from him. They were both sons of merchants.
“What do you do around here for fun, then?” Mr. Brewer threw his cards on the table and leaned back in his chair. “Where are the wine, women, and song of Zermatt?”
“We don’t have enough leisure time to facilitate such things.” Karl put the chairs up on the tables, trying to indicate in another way that he’d very much like Mr. Brewer to leave.
“And I’m stuck here for two months?” Mr. Brewer let out a groan of misery.
Karl could see the resemblance between the siblings once again, in their lack of formality and verbose nature. “Mr. Brewer—”
“Get out, Francis.” Justine appeared in the doorway, her robe over her nightrail, her silky brown locks loose and gently curling.
“What are you doing down here like that?” Mr. Brewer demanded of his sister.
“Trying to get you to respect our hosts. Go to bed.”
“You go to bed.”
“Francis.” Justine stepped further into the dining room. “This is where Mr. Vogel sleeps. He cannot go to bed until you leave.”
“I had no idea—” At least the man had the decency to look abashed.
“You didn’t ask. There is no gambling here, no painted ladies for you to woo, so go on. You’ll be hiking with us tomorrow, and you aren’t acclimated yet. You’ll be exhausted. Let us go up.” Her voice was soft, an explanation, not a demand or even a command. Only some gentle information about what was expected of him.
“I say, I am very sorry, Mr. Vogel. I had no idea.” He looked contrite as he swept up his cards into his hand and stood. “If I had but known—”
Karl waved away his apology. “All is forgiven, Mr. Brewer. I will see you both tomorrow.”
For the first time in weeks, Justine met his eye. She even gave a small apologetic smile. It did strange things to his heart, or maybe his stomach, or maybe both. He finished stowing the chairs on the table and set out his pallet next to the fire. Pleased by Justine’s gesture, he fell asleep before he had a moment to pine for her.
**
“My toenail is coming off,” Justine announced, picking at the blackened tile that barely hung on to her foot.
“Mine came off two days ago,” Ophelia said. “At least the blister on my little toe has turned into a callous.”
“Mine formed weeks ago,” Justine countered, pulling off the black shingle that was purportedly once a toenail. It stung a little as she tore the last bit of skin from it. But the nail underneath was already growing, which was something. “So glamourous.”
“I had to take in the gowns that Francis brought.” Ophelia brushed her hair until it shined. Not that it took very long.
“Mine feels like it was swimming around me, and I remember when I wore it last year it felt tight.” She eyed the green dress. It had once been one of her favorites because it was so over the top. Frills and ruffles and pearlescent ribbons withtiny eyelets running through every hem. There were jet spangles running in patterns all over the bodice, and she fairly jangled as she’d waltzed.
Here, the dress felt foolish. Silly. Not that it was beneath her somehow, to wear the dress she once loved. No, it was more like she’d outgrown it. More akin to requiring a new pinafore at school because last year’s no longer fit.
“Does it not feel odd to do this?” Justine asked.
Ophelia twirled one of her strands of shiny gold hair and pinned it in place. Her dress was a new French silk frock, dark blue with white and pink roses climbing up the skirt and the bodice, with cream-colored lace on the sleeves and the low, swooping neckline. “To do what?”
“To pretend to have a formal dinner here. It seems excessive. And I feel bad for Frau Brunner. This isn’t what she normally cooks. To dress this way seems—”
“Odd.” Ophelia finished her sentence, twirling up another golden strand. “You mentioned. And yes, it is odd, for us to go to other countries and try to make the other places Britain, instead of enjoying the decided not-Englishness they have.”
She slid on silk stockings for the first time in months. They were very fine things, and she knew how costly they were. Six months ago, she had drawers and drawers full of them, reveling in the different clocking patterns on the backs. Now, she couldn’t bring herself to even miss wearing them, despite their smoothness.
She stepped into the green dress, and without asking, Ophelia stood and helped her with the buttons.
