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Renate gives the big man an even more thorough look up and down, her gaze appreciative. “Of course. This way, Lukas.”
The rest of us follow them up two flights of stairs. Renate opens the door to a beautifully appointed bedroom. “This is her room. Will she be able to get downstairs tomorrow? Or will you come back to carry her down?” She raises a brow with a humorous smirk as she folds back the fluffy, dark green duvet.
“I could be available.”
“It’s her arm, not her leg,” Eva says, completely missing the interplay between her host and the big man.
After Lukas puts Lina on the bed, Renate shoos us out of the room. “Go. Eva will help Lina get ready for bed.” She follows us down the stairs, then slips past us toward an open-plan kitchen. “Would you like a beer?”
“Yes, please!” Hans scurries across the room in her wake.
Lukas plants his feet by the stair railing, his face impassive, arms crossed. I give him a questioning look, which he ignores. I’m sure it’s against the protection team’s protocol to drink while on duty, although I get the distinct impression he’d like to sit down with Renate. I’d offer to let him off the hook, but I know from past experience he won’t agree.
Although Lukas has accompanied me to many places over the years, it feels awkward to have a drink in Renate’s kitchen while he stands here guarding me from nothing. “Hans, it’s kind of late. We should let the ladies go to bed.”
“It’s only one thirty.” Renate opens a cupboard to pull out a pilsner glass. “It’s really no problem.”
I point at Hans. “He’s been yawning every ten seconds since we left the clinic.”
Hans stands in the middle of the dining room, shifting from foot to foot as if he can’t decide which way to go. After a few seconds, he shrugs. “I guess we should take a rain check.” He turns to Renate. “Do you mind if I come back tomorrow to check on her?”
“Of course not.” Renate puts the beer glass away. “Bring him with you.” She nods in my direction, but I’m pretty sure she’s referring to the large man behind me.
“Sure thing.” Hans shakes hands with Renate. “Thank you for taking care of Lina.”
Renate escorts us down the steps. “She’ll be fine. Thank you for bringing her home. Feel free to visit tomorrow, but not before noon.” She gives Lukas a flirty look. “I need my beauty sleep.”
Lukas’s face flushes, but he gives a quick headshake. “No, you don’t.”
Two days later, another summons to attend the Grand Duchess arrives on my phone. This time, her secretary Regina directs me to the family parlor—an elegant room reserved for receiving distant cousins, not the more comfortable lounge where my grandparents hosted family gatherings. In fact, I haven’t been in that room since Opa passed away ten years ago and my aunt ascended to the throne. Rare family gatherings have been held at Rosenhäuschen rather than the palace.
This room is pleasant but very formal. The furniture is all antique, and although the upholstery was updated a couple of years ago, the padding is stiff and uncomfortable. The Grand Duchess sits in a large wing chair that is much more modern than the other pieces but still fits into the décor. When Regina announces me, my aunt looks up from her embroidery and sets it on a spindly side table.
I’m pretty sure the needlework is just for show—I’ve never seen her actually do it.
I stop a few feet from her chair and bow. “Good morning, Madame.”
She waves to a chair nearby. “Be seated, Teodor.”
I settle onto the firm cushion and try not to fidget. Since I received the text from Regina at seven this morning, I’ve been trying to figure out what to tell her. I decide to take the tactic I used with the Deutsche Bundespolizei—volunteer nothing.
“How has your mission progressed?” The Grand Duchess raises her carefully penciled brows at me, then lifts a delicate china teacup to her lips.
How do I answer that very open question? “I spent some time with Eduard a couple of weeks ago, but he’s been… busy.”
She frowns. “Busy with unsavory acquaintances. Did you know he hosted a party for some Americans? In his suite!”
I make a noncommittal sound. Her tone makes it clear she doesn’t approve of those visitors. No way I’m admitting I was there, too. Even though she probably already knows.
“I’m told they had pizza.” She sniffs. “How very American.”
I refrain from mentioning that pizza is Italian.
She sets the cup down with a click that makes me cringe, amazed the heirloom china survived the contact. “Do you know who this American girl is? This Eva?”
“I know a girl named Eva,” I say slowly. “She’s from Rotheberg.”
“She has blue hair.”
