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I laugh and pull up a video of a Rotheberg rodeo parade. A line of horses prances down our little main street, followed by a Girl Scout troop tossing Smarties to children along the sidewalks.
“Can you imagine Moritz or Klaus throwing candy?” Lina nods at the bodyguards walking beside the carriage.
Now that I think about it, this is probably where Lukas would be. If they let the unofficial heir’s guards mix with the regular ones. “I imagine they’d be deadly.” I throw an imaginary dart, then clutch my chest.
A Polizei car follows the last of the security personnel, then the man on duty opens the barrier, and we stream across the road.
Andi lives in a crooked house not far from Schlossplatz. The stonework on the bottom floor looks ancient but solid, and the whitewashed upper stories are crisscrossed with heavy dark beams. Narrow windows with tiny panes stand at regular intervals on the lower floors, and a couple of lopsided dormers stick out of the roof. The whole thing leans over the narrow street, casting shadows on the cars parked at the curb.
There are no names listed on the intercom panel, just numbers, but she told us she’s in apartment three. A small, dark dome in the corner probably hides a video camera. Lina reaches for the button, but the speaker buzzes. Then Andi says, “Hey, girls, Celeste will let you in!”
We wait a few minutes, then the door buzzes and clicks. I push open the heavy, iron-studded door, the wood smooth under my fingers from centuries of use. Warm air wafts out, bringing with it that weird old-building smell. It’s faint—more of a reminder that we’re in the presence of ancient architecture than unpleasant. Polished wood floors stretch across the small lobby to a heavy wood staircase. The tiny windows beside the door let in very little light, but fake gas lamps provide enough light to see the blue and white tile stove tucked under the steps. A competent-looking woman wearing all black looks us over, then turns to lead the way upstairs.
We follow the narrow carpet running from the door to the stairs and jog up in her wake. A narrow landing wraps the top of the staircase, and we loop around to ascend another floor. There are two doors on each landing, and all of them are closed.
The staircase ends with a landing barely big enough for both of us. Celeste swings the single door open as we approach, stepping back to allow us to enter. Inside, a middle-aged woman wearing a smock waits. She steps back to let us enter, then leads us through a small foyer, past a table bearing a bright red bowl full of keys and an arrangement of dying daisies. Celeste trails behind.
“I’m back here!” Andi’s voice filters out to us. We follow the sound into a beautiful living room with a polished, black and white checkerboard floor, sleek black furniture, and a vase full of those bright red, heart-shaped flowers from Hawaii. On the side of the house, a huge triangle of windows has been retrofitted into the beams that support the vaulted ceiling, providing excellent natural light. To the left, overlooking the street, a modern kitchen is tucked under the eaves, with a sink in one of the dormers and the stove in the other. On the right, a wide balcony has been cut into the sloping roof, offering a view of the surrounding buildings and the small courtyard behind this one.
Andi sits in front of the sink. Another smock covers her clothing, and her hair is wrapped in foil and plastic. She waves a hand at our guide. “That’s Mareike. She’s doing my hair. And you met Celeste.”
I frown. I didn’t realize Andi’s art sold well enough to afford an amazing apartment like this and home visits from a stylist. Maybe the Feltzes are even more affluent than I realized. “Hi, Mareike. Celeste.”
“Show her your hair, Eva.” Andi jumps out of the chair—a real hairstylist’s chair with hydraulic lift and footrest—and hurries across the room to me, reaching for my beanie. “I showed her pictures of what I wanted, but?—”
“It’s grown out a lot. And I’m sure it’s a mess.” I let her pull off the hat, then I smooth a hand over my French braid, fluffing my bangs.
Mareike frowns and pushes me toward a footstool in the middle of the living room. I drop to the tufted surface, wishing I’d taken a bit more care when my butt encounters the poorly padded seat. The hairdresser circles me like a vulture around roadkill, swooping closer, then drifting away again. “Gut gemacht. Aber es könnte eine Auffrischung vertragen.”
“Isn’t it pretty?” Andi retreats to the chair. “You should have seen it before it faded. I mean, it’s still pretty, but the first time I saw it...” She does a chef’s kiss.
As Mareike stalks back to the kitchen muttering under her breath, I finger the end of my braid. “Are you doing blues, too?”
Andi shakes her head. “I didn’t want to copy you! We’re going with greens. Auntie is going to have a fit!”
Lina smothers a laugh.
“Auntie?” I rise to pull off my coat since we’ll obviously be here a while.
Andi’s eyes narrow, then she shrugs. “Our mother’s sister. She’s a bit… judgmental. She never liked my pink streak. Wenn sie das sieht, explodiert sie.” She laughs, a little manically, then translates, “She’s going to explode when she sees me! Grab a drink, if you want. Coffee, tea, juice, whatever. Help yourselves.”
I wave my insulated tumbler at her. “I’ve had enough coffee for this morning.”
“There’s no such thing.” Lina throws her coat over the back of the sleek, black couch and strolls into the kitchen.
“Mareike, can you touch up Eva’s roots while my hair processes?” Andi jumps out of the chair again and pats the seat. She grabs my arm and guides me into the chair. “It doesn’t look bad, but we can definitely see your natural brown.”
I touch the top of my head where an inch or so has grown out. “Tami said it would be almost impossible to match?—”
Mareike cuts me off, spewing a barrage of heavily accented German at Andi. I only catch a few words, but I think she’s agreeing with my stylist back home. Tami wove five different shades of blue and purple into my hair. Matching all of those would be next to impossible.
Still lecturing Andi, Mareike yanks the scrunchie from the end of my braid and swiftly unravels it. She paces in a semi-circle behind me as she talks, shaking her hand through my hair so it falls naturally around my shoulders.
“What’s she saying?” I try to turn to look at the three women behind me, but Mareike grabs my head and turns it forward, her strong fingertips like a vise on my head.
“She says she can add a little color up here at the roots, but it wouldn’t match. It would be better to redo all of it.” Andi sighs. “She doesn’t have blue with her today, though.”
I slide off the chair, carefully disengaging from Mareike’s claw-like hand. “It’s fine. I kind of like my brown roots. It’s edgy, right?”
