Clutching Mum’s hand, Clara pushed through the crowd making their way across Prague’s famous Stone Bridge.Dozens and dozens of strangers heading toward or away from Old Town. Dozens and dozens of bodies clogging the bridge like too many autumn leaves attempting to float down the same narrow stream. She tucked her free hand in a pocket, grasping the journal that contained Grand’s note and promise of great treasures, the thought of which held no allure. All she desired was to reach Old Town and locate Grand’s next clue before day’s end. Perhaps that tangible victory would relieve the ache of watching the owl leave her behind, or at least offer a distraction from the reproof she couldn’t get out of her head.
“Arthur isnot Rupert, you know.”
Of course she knew. Logically, no one else was Rupert ... and yet, in the murky depths of emotion, somehow ... everyone was Rupert. Names might vary, faces might possess different features, but the sense of trepidation they evoked felt the same. Once stung by a hornet, it was natural to shy away from anything that buzzed, was it not?
A yank on Clara’s arm brought her to an abrupt standstill, and Mum’s hand slipped from her grasp—for the tenth time since they’d stepped on the bridge. Stars above, was Mum going to straggle the entire sixteen hundred and ninety-two feet across?
She turned to find Mum becoming acquainted with yet another avian. This time a great cormorant with dark feathers and beady eyes, roosting on a statue of Saint Augustine. Carpetbags in hand, Mr. Arthur leaned against the crutch pinned beneath one arm and watched the interspecies exchange with an exuberance that sparked that “genuine smile” Mum so loved. And Clara distrusted.
As Mum made introductions between Fred and the cormorant, Clara tapped her boot. If they continued at this snail’s pace, the whole day would be wasted on the bridge. “We ought to keep moving. The bridge will only draw more of a crowd as the day progresses.”
With a guttural grunt, the cormorant bid Mum farewell and alighted from the bridge. Excellent. Now they could be on their way. “Let’s—”
“Just a few more minutes, ducky. Come here.” Mum drew Clara to her side. “What did your granny always used to say when you were fixated on a task?”
A smile tugged Clara’s lips even as her heart ached anew. “‘Don’t get so busy tending the garden that you never sit back and enjoy the view.’” She could still hear the words in Granny’s voice. Still feel the touch of her hand, soft and warm, as it gently tapped her chin, encouraging her to look up from her work and admire something of beauty she’d been too occupied to notice. The ache intensified into a cavernous vacancy.Oh, Granny. How I miss you.
Mum wrapped an arm about Clara’s shoulders and turned her to face their destination waiting on the other side of the river. “Mama wouldn’t want you to miss this view, ducky. Not after Father went through so much to get you here. Not after you’ve dreamt of it so long.”
A quiver unsettled Clara’s jaw. Perhaps ... perhaps Mum was right. It wouldn’t hurt to pause just a moment longer, to honor her grandparents. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, embracing the memory of Granny’s words.“Sit back and enjoy the view, child.”Exhaling slowly, she opened her eyes.
If London was an icy lake shrouded in gray mist on a winter’s day, then Prague’s Old Town was a field of orange poppies at summer’s peak. The city’s vibrant terra-cotta roofs contrasted against the serene Vltava River and a cloudless azure sky. In the midst of the poppies stood Prague Castle, enthroned in history and fairy-tale enchantment. The gothic spire of St. Vitus Cathedral emerged from the majestic castle complex, towering over the city like the cross in its jeweled crown.
An awestruck sigh relieved tension in Clara’s shoulders.To think, that cathedral had seen centuries of worship. The coronations of kings and queens, and just recently, the flight of a clockwork owl. As wonderous as the prospect was below, Grand’s view must’ve been—
Someone bumped into Clara, knocking her and Mum against the bridge wall.
Clara’s gasp soured to a groan. It wasn’t even noon and already she was quite done with humanity. No matter how lovely the view, she needed to get them off this bridge. Posthaste. Perhaps one of Mum’s favorite chants would provide incentive.
“‘The well-being of webbed feet and paws takes precedence over convenience, custom, and laws.’ Consider, Mum. If we’re jostled by this crowd, so too is Fred.”
Brow furrowing beneath the shade of her bonnet, Mum stroked the ermine’s lame legs draped about her shoulder. “Perhaps it is time to move along. I’ll not see Fred suffer another grievous injury.”
The trio reinserted themselves in the flow of pedestrians. Countless strangers brushed and bumped against Clara on all sides, each unwanted touch seeming to wrap a clammy finger around her throat. Attempting to blot the pressing throng from her conscious, she focused on the sandstone blocks that suspended them over the river, the rich statuary and decorative lamps adorning either side of the bow bridge’s gothic structure. Like the statue of St. John of Nepomuk, one of the city’s most significant saints. She recalled reading a legend about him inA Practical Guide to Prague for Pennywise Persons. In 1393, St. John of Nepomuk refused to divulge the queen’s confessions to Wenceslas IV and was then ... tortured to death, trussed up in armor, and thrown bodily off the Stone Bridge.
The imagined fingers constricted, and Clara gulped. Noted for posterity: Examining medieval sculptures and lore didnot soothe agitated nerves. She rubbed a gloved thumb back and forth along Mum’s hand, redirecting her concentration to the task of breathing. Of moving.
Ahead, the triumphal gothic arch of the Old Town Bridge Tower drew nearer, signaling the end of the Stone Bridge. Almost there now. Just keep breathing. Just keep moving.
A Goliath of a man striding away from Old Town bumped Mum in passing. Mum teetered and would’ve fallen if not for Clara’s swift reflexes. The brute, who seemed as tall as he was wide, tramped off without so much as a “beg your pardon.” Seconds later, he was absorbed into the crowd. Clara clenched her jaw. The sooner they were off this bridge the better.
“Wait a moment, ladies.”
Wait? Was Mr. Arthur daft? She trudged onward. “We need to keep moving.”
“Not just yet, Miss Stanton.”
Like a persistent sheepdog, Mr. Arthur herded them toward the bridge’s edge, where a brave—or out of his mind—artist had stationed an easel that bore an unfinished painting of the nearby statue of St. Joseph. Mr. Arthur thrust all three carpetbags into Clara’s arms and propped his crutch against the bridge. “Wait here.”
As Clara flailed to grasp that command, along with the luggage, Mr. Arthur dove into the current of pedestrians and ran back the way they’d come.
Mum rose onto the tips of her toes, watching the departure of Mr. Arthur with rapt curiosity. Unsatisfied with her limited perspective, she proceeded to mimic a rabbit, hopping in place and startling poor Fred, who changed his stance from stole to fur collar. When that exercise failed to provide an adequate view, she stilled and scrunched her pert little nose. “Drat my height deficiency. I can’t see where the boy’s gone. What’s Arthur doing, ducky?”
Oh, I don’t know. Wasting precious time, subjecting usto danger,driving me mad as a hatter.She situated the bags in her grasp and located Mr. Arthur amongst the throng.
Confronting Goliath without a slingshot.
What was Mr. Arthur thinking? “He’s conversing with that last man who bumped into us. Though only heaven knows why.” He couldn’t possibly mean to confront everyone who’d accosted them today. That could take all year.
