Below them, the rustling of the goats’ neck bells alerted them to the outside world. Karl looked at the sky, and then down below where movement could be heard in the hotel.
“I have to go,” Karl said. “I help Tante Greta with the morning chores.”
“Go,” she said, shooing him. “But I’m going to stay a bit longer on my rock. I’m enjoying it here.”
He gave her a boyish grin and trotted down the hill. She heard the bell for breakfast, but didn’t feel like eating, so she stayed on her rock as the sun came up and perched over the mountains.
Worse, was that according to Francis, her parents would arrive that morning. She certainly did not want to explain to her mother what had happened. Nor did she want to be nearby when Francis told them, either.
Most likely, she considered, she would become the Frau Vogel to whatever mountaineering venture Karl next undertook. She didn’t know any words of Bavarian German. Or Swiss German. Or really anything. Her French was terrible as well. But she would figure something out. She always did.
“Good morning,” Ophelia called as she trudged up the hill to join her on her rock.
“Good morning. How did you find me?” Justine asked, scooting over to make room.
“Well, I went outside because that would be where you would go, and then I looked up.”
“I’m not hiding,” Justine said, just in case Ophelia thought she was.
“I know,” Ophelia said, nodding.
“How is your father?”
“His eyes fluttered, and he’s almost swallowing the broth now, not just letting it dribble out.” Ophelia’s tone was measured.
“But not really awake yet?”
Ophelia shook her head. “No. Not yet.”
They were silent, looking out at the mountains. Justine picked at the lichen on the rock. “Turns out I’m getting married.”
“I heard.”
“Already?”
“Francis told everyone. Frau Brunner is very happy. She’s singing in the kitchen. You can hear it all over the hotel.”
Justine scrunched up her face. Even if Frau Brunner was happy, there would still be scoldings from Lady Rascomb. “And your mother?”
“She has a hard time not thinking about my father. But I believe her exact words were, ‘It’s the only way that girl was getting married, and I’ve said it since the day I met her.’”
Justine’s cheeks heated. “That doesn’t sound very complimentary.”
“I don’t think she meant you’re loose, I think she meant you’re stubborn.” Ophelia’s words were kind, but Justine could see the sadness coming off her as if it were water vapor.
“Oh.” Justine looked at Zermatt, wondering if she and Karl would live there year-round. She wouldn’t mind it. She’d figure out how to make cheese and bread, and all those things. Perhaps her father would still give her a dowry. That was something to think about. She’d insist on buying a very big stove.
“There’s an Anglican bishop in town, it turns out,” Ophelia said after a while.
“An Anglican one?” Justine frowned. There wasn’t an Anglican church—only the funds being raised for one.
“Precisely. They laid the foundation stone last month for the new church. The bishop stayed on to enjoy the mountains.”
“How do you know this?” Justine asked.
Ophelia looked at her in surprise. “Your mother, of course.”
Justine’s heart started pounding. “She’s already here?”
