Fernando jumped to his feet, tugging Sterling’s arm. “You heard the man,” he said.
Sterling rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
As everyone donned their coats, she whispered to Fernando, “We have to find the key. So just this once, I’ll let you clean and reorganize my room.”
That got Fernando moving. He dashed out, heading back to the Orient.
Christoph lingered, inspecting his scarf in the warped reflection of a brass canister. “Care to walk me to my appointment?” he said.
“I can’t. I have to look for the key.”
His chest sunk. “I thought we’d be alone today.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re young. Youshouldbe shirking plans with your crusty old uncle. But to go out, drink too much, and make mistakes while you’re spry enough to recover from them overnight. Not to stay home sorting through dusty trinkets to solve murders,” he said,shivering in response to the draft creeping under the front doors, that curled around their ankles like a black cat who’d just stepped in from the cold.
Christoph pulled gloves from his pocket. As he did, a square piece of paper floated to the floor. He gasped. Her throat tightened.
Sterling checked her own pocket, and felt a square of paper. She eyed Christoph. He crouched and lifted the note, hands shaking. “Outside,” he whispered.
They huddled by the plague memorial statue on Graben, each holding one edge of his note as they read.
We’re watching. Tell the redhead to stop looking for us, or she’ll meet the same fate the blonde did.
Stamped with Nightingale’s symbol.
Sterling pulled the other paper from her own pocket. It had no words, but the message was clear.
Above the seal was a kiss mark in Mata Hari red. Her signature shade, discontinued years ago. She was down to her last tube. She recognized how it looked on paper from years of sealing letters with a kiss. It was Hedy’s favorite shade too. Before that, Serafina’s.
Christoph’s eyes darted around the street. He wrapped her in his arms in a frail attempt to shield her. From who or what, she had no idea. That was the problem with Nightingale. They could be anyone, anywhere. And that was the problem with family—they tried to protect you from the world, even when their efforts were futile.
Christoph’s shallow breathing stuttered with panic. He clutched her to his chest with weak desperation, kissing the top of her red curls. His breath had a hint of acetone, his sweat perfumed with fear. His tears traced into her hair.
“I lost her. I can’t lose you. If these people killed Hedy, you could be next. Leave it. Let the police handle it. Please.”
She pressed her nose to his bony ribs, the scent of his cologne dulled by cold. She said nothing.
He sighed. “You won’t stop, will you?”
She shook her head subtly, scrunching him tighter. But he was right. It didn’t matter if he begged or reminded her of the risks, she’d keep chasing Nightingale.
Even if it killed her.
— 36 —Sechsunddreißig
Back in her bedroom, Sterling tore through shelves, opening every book and box in search of a key. Fernando followed, feather duster in hand and mad grin on his face. While she left a crime scene–worthy trail of destruction in her wake, he cleaned each item and replaced it, whistling cheerfully.
Sterling upended a vintage cocoa tin of paper clips, buttons, and a handful of keys in various shades of rust.
Serafina’s green mystery box loomed on the coffee table. Sterling and Fernando bounced onto her couch, and tried keys together. The first was too large. The second fit but wouldn’t turn. With each key, their hope waned. Until the last one.
Which also didn’t fucking work.
She slumped back in despair. Fernando joined her. Her key ring, chained at her hip, had snagged awkwardly beneath him. She yanked it free, then held it up with a hopeful gleam in her eyes. “What if it’s been in front of us this whole time?”
Alas, those keys were all too large. Sometimes, size did matter.
