“I think such exertion can be avoided if we make use of the stairs.” Suppressing a smile, Clara latched the window.
Mum’s smirk broadened, revealing a dimple. “You two make quite the pair.”
Heat washed over Clara’s cheeks. Oh dear. There could beno more ignoring Mum’s oblique attempts at matchmaking. Not now that a puckish dimple conspired with the impish gleam in her eyes. Retrieving her journal and pen from the floor, Clara tucked the former in her pocket and reattached the latter to her chatelaine. Her mother’s notions of romance must be quashed before they led to matrimonial machinations.
Clara put on her bonnet, fingers fumbling to arrange the ribbons in a satisfactory bow. “Whatever scheme you and Grand have devised to usher me down the aisle can be put out of your mind right now. Mr. Arthur and I are not a pair. We are two separate and singular persons. I’ve accepted him as Grand’s apprentice and as our escort, that is well enough. I have no interest in romantic entanglements. Not even the suggestion of one. Consequently, I won’t abide any more talk of turtle doves or pairs or romantic pebbles. Am I quite clear?”
Mum’s dimple deepened. “As blush-tinted glass.”
Clara gave up on her mother and the bow in succession. “After luncheon, you’re buying me a new hairbrush.”
Leaving Mum to settle the fox kits, Clara strode out the door and took the stairs two at a time, eager for fresh air. Nature did not disappoint. As she exited the inn, red geraniums planted in window boxes on either side of the door greeted her with their warm green aroma. She took a deep breath.
Touring the Idiosyncratic Alsacehad described Strasbourg’s Grande Île as a charming conglomeration of French and Germanic cultures, but now, drinking of the geranium’s fragrance, charming seemed an insufficient descriptor. For here, in the island’s Petite France district, she felt as though she’d been swept into a fairy tale.
The River Île flowed through the district, irrigating the land with enchantment. One of the river’s five arms wrapped in front of the Canopy of Stars Hotel, holding the narrow street’s medieval paving stones in a tender embrace.Colorful half-timbered houses with façades of pastel yellow, blue, pink, and orange flanked the hotel on either side and reflected upon the water as a sparkling rainbow.
Yet despite this enchanting prospect, Clara found herself tensing. Examining every male figure that strolled along the channel. Ever on the lookout for a garish yellow waistcoat.
The clank-tap of a mechanical boot and crutch approached. “We weren’t followed.”
One of the knots in her shoulders loosened. “Are you certain?”
“Fairly.” His mouth quirked to the side. “Before we boarded the train from Prague, I talked the conductor into allowing me a glimpse of the passenger list. Assuming Mr. Rupert Forrester used his real name, he wasn’t on board. It appears we’ve given him the slip for now.”
If onlyfor nowmeantfor good. “How should we proceed, then?”
“We carry on, Miss Stanton. Enjoy the merry scavenger hunt your grandfather has planned. Since Drosselmeyer’s clue led us to this hotel, his next invention must be nearby.”
“What of Mr. Forrester? The papers have reported sightings of the owl on the Île. It’s only a matter of time before he discovers our location.” A group of men strode by the hotel, and Clara stiffened. “Mr. Forrester won’t stop pursuing us. Not after he’s come this far.”
Mr. Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder. “You leave Mr. Forrester to me.”
Clara exhaled, the knot unwinding as her unease melted away. Perhaps depending on others wasn’t so difficult after all.
“My apologies for the delay, chickees.” Mum appeared on her left, slipping on her gloves. “The kits began to cry whenever I tried to take Fred, so he agreed to stay behind and tendthe children in our absence. Now, where are we bound for luncheon?”
Mr. Arthur pointed down the street with his crutch. “I thought you might fancy that quaint establishment on the corner, Mrs. S.”
Located two doors down, the tavern he indicated boasted turquoise walls cut with dark beams and speckles of what appeared to be white paint—until one noticed the stork. A wooden platform constructed on the slanted roof welcomed the large bird’s nest of broken tree limbs. Beneath the structure, a sign depicting a stork with a spoon for a body confirmed the tavern owner’s zealous belief that a stork roosting on one’s dwelling was an omen of good luck.
Clara arched an eyebrow. “Really, Mr. Arthur. I’d rather not entrust the preparation of our food to the proprietor of the Stork and Spoon. The sort of person who clothes their business with such a threadbare pun is liable to switch the salt and sugar for the sake of a laugh.”
“And what’s so wrong with having a laugh, Miss Stanton?”
“Nothing—assuming it’s not at my expense. I recall passing a restaurant yesterday called Tavern on the River. The place was highly recommended by the author ofTouring the Idiosyncratic Alsace. Why do we not go there?”
Mr. Arthur feigned a yawn. “Because it’s dull, that’s why. The sort of person who garnishes their business with such a bland name is liable to make food just as flavorless. The Stork and Spoon has character.”
“Oh, it’s a character all right. A veritable jester with jangling foolscap for brains.”
“Hush, kids. I’ve had enough of your bleating and head-butting. We shall eat at the Stork and Spoon, and that’s that. Any establishment that welcomes God’s creatures is worthy of our patronage.” Mum took off down the street, leavingClara and Mr. Arthur to trail behind, silent in the wake of her reprimand.
At the Stork and Spoon, Mum selected an outdoor table with a prime view of the tavern’s namesake. Plane trees of great age and height provided shade and the hushed lullaby of rustling leaves. After discussing the menu with an amiable waiter, they opted to try a regional dish known asflammekuecheortarte flambée, depending on which half of the island’s heritage one favored. When the flammekueches arrived, Clara’s aspersions were pleasantly proven wrong. The thin and crispy pastry topped with tangy crème fraîche, sliced onions, and salty lardons reminded her of a rustic savory tart, although Mr. Arthur argued it was more akin to something he’d enjoyed in Naples called pizza. Whatever the name, it was quite delicious!
Never one to forgo dessert, Mr. Arthur orderedkugelhopfto complete their meal. The molded cake placed before them resembled a crown dusted with confectioner’s sugar. Clara accepted her portion without protest. Filled with raisins and slivered almonds, the popular Alsatian treat was more brioche than cake. Rich and satisfying without being too sweet.
The chimes of Grand’s pocket watch announced the top of the hour, and somewhere nearby, a metallic melody responded to its call.
