“Please, won't you stay for lunch?” said Hanna Ritter.
“Thank you for the generous invitation,” Greta told the mistress of the house as she tugged on her cloak over her slightly burned dress. She had refused Sophie Ritter's suggestion that she borrow a dress—her pride refused the handout despite the fact that her own clothes appeared to be shabby imitations next to the Ritters' rich garb. “But I'm afraid I have business that cannot wait.”
“You're welcome at Ritter House any time,” Josef Ritter offered. Josef had the look of his mother, the same pragmatic face, only younger, more masculine, and with an impeccably groomed mustache. He made a striking counterpart with his wife, Hanna, who looked like a porcelain doll with her pale complexion and blonde ringlets. His mouth quirked upwards, “no matter what the Margrave says.”
Franz snorted. “Right. The Margrave doesn't own this house.”
“Franz!” exclaimed his mother. “It's not polite to speak that way of the Margrave of Baden.”
The teenager crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “I don't know how he talked me into that summoning last night.”
“Well, no harm done,” said Sophie. “The Margrave isn't here to hear that, is he? Besides, Franz, the last that I recall, you were practically begging to be included in the ceremony. Weren't you quite eager to see ghosts?”
Greta fastened her last button. “Don't be too hard on the boy. I was quite curious about things when I was his age as well.” She nodded towards Josef. “Your offer is quite hospitable of you, Mr. Ritter. I will keep that in mind. But don't worry about it. My matters are between the Margrave and myself. I will, perhaps, call tomorrow once I have my affairs and schedule looked after.”
“You will call tomorrow, won't you?” said Lena as she tugged at Greta's hem. In a matching pink gown, the girl looked like a miniature version of her mother.
She faintly smiled down at the little girl. “I will try. But I cannot make any guarantees.” She reached down and plucked a wooden coin from behind her ear. A trick that her father had taught her when she was very small. Lena giggled as she placed the coin in her small palm. “Keep that close. It'll bring you good luck.”
As Greta moved toward the entrance of the foyer, the door swung open, surprising the Ritters' butler and revealing Wechsler on the door step. The Margrave's man of affairs was out of breath and red in the face as if he had run a mile. He pointedly ignored everyone as he waved an envelope and shouted at the butler, “Where's Baden?”
“In the library, sir.”
As Wechsler rushed off to the interior of the house, Sophie remarked, “What a rude little man. Perhaps the Margrave should fire him. Then perhaps his manners might improve.”
Greta hid a smile behind a gloved hand as she stepped out of the Ritters' residence.
The air was bitingly cold as she pulled her cloak closer to her body. Unnaturally cold. Snow frosted the streets and rooftops and ice dripped from eaves like transparent teeth. The streets were also unnaturally empty. Even on a December, one could see the city's poor and homeless tromping about, trying to make their meager living. But when April had come and gone without a sign of a thaw, those that had the ability to leave left. The rest were either taken in by the churches which had made make-shift shelters for them or the poorhouse at the edge of town.
And now, it was June and there was still no let up of winter despite news from surrounding towns that were currently enjoying summer.
Greta missed the warm summer sun. She was tired of the constant overcast skies and the weak white light during the day. She wanted to move elsewhere. Almost anywhere. She drew the line at the locations that had turned into Napoleon's battlefields. But her father's debts tied her down to Heiligenberg. And until she paid all of them off, she couldn't go anywhere.
There were, of course, rumors about the unnatural winter. Some said that it was a spell that had gone wrong. Others said it was a curse, a sign of God's displeasure. Yet others posited that there must be a scientific explanation. Even the mad Count-Palatine who ruled over Heiligenberg in his ruined castle overlooking the city had offered a reward to anyone who could lift the unnatural winter. But despite the influx of sorcerers and scientists alike, no one had yet succeeded.
Greta passed the Church of the Holy Spirit, the Heiliggeistkirche, heading west from Hauptstrasse to the fish market. The square where the fishermen would normally sell their day's catch was layered with a pristine layer of fresh snow. Normally, in June, the place would be filled with people hawking the bounty of the Neckar, but with the strange weather, everything had been moved to one of the larger common houses on Steingasse. She turned a corner onto Lauerstrasse and involuntarily hunched her shoulders as she made her way past an avenue of dead trees. Beyond, she could pretend to see the glitter of the Neckar River—normally sapphire bright under a summer sun. Now, it flowed past the town under a cloud of vapor.
She entered a narrow alleyway just south of the intersection between Lauerstrasse and Bussemergasse. Here, the buildings were so close together that a visitor could almost touch the walls on either side of the alley. The snow from the previous night had missed this small street, leaving only treacherous ice. Greta gingerly made her way across the slick cobblestones to the worn shop front that was the apothecary. A raven perched on the faded wooden sign overhead that depicted a mortar and pestle. The silent bird watched Greta as she approached.
A woman, rendered squat in a voluminous green cloak, was already waiting at the door. She stopped pounding on the door when she noticed Greta nearing and turned a fleshy frown at her. “Well, now, I thought you had died or something. And look at you, all out an about.”
Greta winced as she dug into the pocket of her coat for her key. “Mrs. Wismar. I had not expected you until Friday. What brings you to the apothecary today?” The question was mostly rhetorical. Mrs. Wismar was a hypochondriac and stopped by the apothecary due to any excuse. Which normally wouldn't have bothered her, except that Mrs. Wismar never bought anything.
“My gout has been acting up,” the woman huffed. “It's this terrible weather, I tell you. It has always acted up when the air is cold. It's probably the imbalance of my humors.”
“Hm.” Greta finally took out her key and fitted it into the lock of the door. “Well, I do have just the thing for gout or aligning the humors. We have plenty of herbal supplements that would solve those problems.”
“Bah. I hope you don't advocate me eating the stuff. I hate the taste of herbs. Now if you could just let me smell them, that would be just fine with me.”
It was time to put her foot down on the woman's antics. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Wismar, but the efficacy of the herbs has only be observed by the consumption of them. If you truly want to treat your medical problems, you will have to purchase and eat them. Of course, if you dislike the taste, you can always disguise it with some other food.”
The woman frowned. “Of course I know that. I just want a look around to see what's on your inventory. Then, when I see the doctor, I can make some suggestions.”
Greta ignored the tingling sensation that was beginning to pulse in her bandaged hand like a particularly bad insect sting. Instead, she twisted the knob to her shop. “Suggestions, Mrs. Wismar? I didn't know you were so learned. You could be a doctor yourself.”
The sarcasm went right over the woman's head. “I'm only a doctor for myself. I don't like touching other people. Besides, whoever heard of a woman doctor anyway? I take care of the hearth and that's good enough for me.”
As the pain in her hand sharpened, the raven overhead flapped its wings and cawed in warning. Greta gritted her teeth and pushed the door open. Despite the woman's attitude, her presence was but a minor annoyance to what was coming in her direction. “You look a little chilled, Mrs. Wismar. You should be inside.”
“Yes, thank you. I tell you, it shouldn't be this cold at this time of year. Completely unnatural.”
Greta nodded as she stepped over the threshold into the dark, cool shop. “Absolutely. Unfortunately, no one has any idea how to change it.”
“Only God can,” the woman replied as she made the sign of the cross.
A shadow fell between Mrs. Wismar and the apothecary door, barring her way. “Excuse me, madam, but I must have an urgent word with the apothecary's proprietress.”
“Mr. Schmidt! Imagine seeing you about today. I heard from that old busybody Margaret Dessau that you were bedridden with lumbago.”
The Margrave held up his good hand to stop Greta from closing the door. He gave Mrs. Wismar a charming smile although there was a hard gleam to his eye at the news of the fake rumors. “How unfortunate. As you can see, I'm quite healthy. I'm afraid Mrs. Dessau probably got me mixed up with someone else.”
“Unfortunate, indeed.”
Finally deciding that if she had to deal with the Margrave at that instant, she might as well have a buffer between her and him, Greta suddenly pulled the door open as he continued applying pressure. With grim pleasure, she watched him trip over the threshold. Her small act of pettiness was worth whatever retribution his glare promised. “Please, Mrs. Wismar, you look like you're about to freeze out there. I'll start the stove.”
“Bless you, dear,” the woman patted her arm. “I'll just take a look around and you have your little confidential conversation with Mr. Schmidt. Perhaps he has some other affliction that he doesn't want to blurt out to the world.”
“Oh, I can think of a couple afflictions. Some of them, very peculiar gentlemanly afflictions, in fact.” Greta moved towards the far end of the counter on the side of the shop where the stove was located.
“Gentlemanly afflictions?” said the Margrave as he moved towards her.
She ignored his position to take a tinderbox from a nearby shelf to light the stove. When she started shoveling in some coal, she replied, “Of course, isn't that what you wanted an urgent word with me for? Although I mostly prescribe these medicines to older men, I'm sure it would work for you too. In no time at all, your wife will be quite happy that you will be able to perform your husbandly duties again.”
“You can't be serious.”
She briefly glanced at him and then at Mrs. Wismar who appeared to be looking intently at the rows of drawers containing various herbs on the opposite side of the shop. Greta strongly suspected that the woman wasn't looking at the herbs at all but avidly listening in on their conversation.
“Of course I'm serious,” she replied as she placed the shovel back and scooted behind the counter where she felt she had some defense. If all else failed, she could always throw one of the glass jars filled with medicinal licorice at his head. “I'm given to understand that even though a gentleman's overall health is not compromised by his lack of ability to perform...”
“Perform?!”
“His emotional health will be compromised due to his worsening marital relations. There's a theory that...”
“I don't want theory.” The Margrave placed his hands on the counter and leaned close, perhaps barely restraining from throttling her. His voice lowered, almost to a growl. “And I'm not here to talk about that, although I'll have you know that I have absolutely no problem in that department.”
She suddenly felt warm, although it had nothing to do with the stove. “Then what are you here to talk about? I thought you were busy at the library.”
“This.” He slapped an envelope in front of her. It looked familiar. “Wechsler gave this to me right after you left Ritter House. It is an invitation to Heiligenberg Castle.”
“I don't see what that has anything to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you. I must attend, but I cannot be there and here at the same time.”
“If you're worried about this,” she said, waving her bandaged hand, “Then just send Wechsler here periodically to check up on me. It's not like I'm about to move anywhere. Or drown myself in the Neckar.”
“I need Wechsler with me up at the castle. There are things going on that you do not yet understand. I need you somewhere I can keep an eye on you, where I will know that you won't get in trouble and compromise me.”
“Since you believe I won't understand, then explain it to me. I'm not an idiot.”
He raked a hand through his hair, further mussing it. “If I didn't have to do this, I wouldn't. But this,” his eyes flickered toward their bandaged hands, “is going to take time to undo. So meanwhile, you will have to come with me.”
“There is absolutely no way I'm going with you,” she replied. “You might have the freedom to hobnob with all the other nobles, but I have to work. To pay off my debts.”
“Speaking of debts...”
She reflexively took a step back. “Oh no.”
He gave her a cold smile. “You happen to owe me quite a bit. I'll strike a bargain with you, Miss Silber. My aunt is arriving in Heiligenberg this afternoon and is need of a companion for the next two weeks. Take the post and I will consider half of your debt to me repaid.”
“And last night's debacle didn't count?”
“If I was less generous, I would have added it on the considerable amount that you already owe.”
She curled her fingers against her bandaged palm. “It's not only an inconvenience on your part, you know.”
“Oh believe me, I know.” His eyes narrowed. “Think about it. If you're sensible, present yourself at the Ritter House by two this afternoon.”
As she watched his black greatcoat swirl out the door, she considered shoving him into the Neckar River's watery grip.
