Clara startled and then released a shaky breath. She placed a hand to her bodice, willing her frantic heart to beat normally. “I’m s-sorry, which structure?”
Mum’s sloping shoulders seemed quite bare without Fred, but considering where they were bound, leaving him to watch the kits at the Grande Île Hotel was for the best. She gave Clara’s hand an understanding squeeze and pointed to a towering medieval residence situated on a corner of the Place de la Cathédrale. “I was curious as to the purpose of that pulley on the fifth floor and thought perhaps the home might’ve been mentioned in one of your books.”
A myriad of windows paned with bottle-bottom glass made the home in question distinctive. Rust-hued walls and dark woodwork carved with intricate motifs created a stark contrast against the adjoining buildings’ plain cream and whitefaçades. Like a Black Forest sire flanked by Boulonnais stallions. How could such a structure not have been mentioned in her travel guides?
Clara’s hand slipped into her pocket, grasping the journal and pen. Perhaps later she might attempt to describe it herself. “This building isn’t mentioned in my books, I’m afraid, but the pulley might be used to hoist supplies directly to the uppermost floors. Would save one from carrying heavy loads up all those stairs.”
As they continued down the cobbled street, Mum tucked her hands in either pocket, swishing her skirt enthusiastically. Evidently, Clara wasn’t alone in her excitement for the next stop on Grand’s scavenger hunt, a historic wonder she’d not allow Mr. Forrester to overshadow with fear. For she’d dreamed of seeing it for far too long.
Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Strasbourg, the city’s crowning glory.
Placing a hand on her bonnet, Clara tilted her head, desiring to take in every facet of the elaborate edifice, knowing such a thing couldn’t be achieved by the eye’s limited scope. The April sun kissed her face, evoking recollection of another spring day when she and Grand had visited this place in the realm of imagination. Even now, she could hear him reading fromA Rambling Rector’s Guide to the Cathedrals of the Old World.
“‘Like an ancient fossil, the westernfaçade of Strasbourg’s Cathedral has petrified the transition fromRomanesque to Gothic architecture in rosy sandstone. The cathedral featuresthe tallest pyramidal tower from medieval times and is lavishly carved with hundreds of biblical figures. The main doorway featuresscenes of Christ’s Passion, from Palm Sunday to His Ascension. In this way, worshipers must come to the Fatherby way of the Gospel.’”
Clara at last permitted her overawed eyes to blink. Pity, that in all his ramblings, the rector had neglected the rosewindow above the main door. It was like delicate lace braided from stone. Might the interior be filled with stained glass? She hastened to investigate, trailed by a familiar duo of footsteps. Clip-clap-clip. Clank-tap-clank. Before she could open the emerald green door, Mr. Theodore performed the task.
With a word of thanks, Clara entered the candlelit nave. Clip-clap-clip-clap. She halted. Where was clank-tap? She glanced at the open cathedral door, where sunshine backlit a masculine silhouette hesitating to step beyond the threshold. Just as he’d done at the chapel in Prague. Only now, she understood why. An ache constrained her heart.Oh, Theodore.She approached the man clinging to the doorway’s shadow and held out her hand. “Come with us.”
Mr. Theodore’s throat bobbed as he favored his crutch. “Can’t.”
With a sigh, Clara let her hand fall unaccepted. “The story engraved above your head says otherwise. I can only pray you’ll let yourself believe it one day.” She rejoined Mum alone, and they proceeded down the great vaulted hall.
Sunlight filtered through several stained-glass windows, including the lace rose, and bathed the cathedral in luminescent color. A handful of tourists milled about the nave, each face dour and grave, as though they toured a cemetery. How could people look so miserable while surrounded by such splendor?
A whack to her skirt prevented further reverie. To her left, Mum stood with hands in pockets, flouncing her skirts with a mirthfulness contradicted by a furrowed brow. Odd behavior, even for Mum. “Is something amiss?”
“Amiss?” The word pitched Mum’s voice to a squeak. “Why would you think something’s amiss, silly ducky dilly?”
“Furrowed brow, conspicuous pocket fiddling, gratuitous additions to my nickname, and youhitme.”
“Such an outlandish accusation! And of your own mother,who birthed and fed and clothed you as a wet, wriggling tadpole of a babe. I’m mortified. Absolutely mortified you could think me capable of such senseless violence as hitting my own daughter. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, mole of my mole.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Do cut the dramatics, mother! You’re being ridiculous. Besides, I don’t even have your mole.”
“Actually you do, Miss Stanton.”
Mr. Theodore clank-tapped toward them, and Clara’s heart swelled. Coming alongside, he pointed at the back of his neck. “The mole’s about here. Just below your right ear.”
“You’re not serious? Of all the genetic inheritances, have I truly become heir to the Drosselmeyer mole? Grand’s has three gray hairs now. Three!” Clara’s hand flew to her neck, gloved fingers desperate to conceal the alleged mole.
“I assure you, Miss Stanton, your handsome mole is quite hairless.”
Clara stilled. “That, sir, was the most disturbing compliment ever constructed by man. Exactly how much study have you given to my handsome mole?”
That lopsided grin improved Mr. Theodore’s face as he drew closer. “When you’re irritated, your gray eyes seem to strike together like flint and steel, creating the most delightful sparks. Did you know that?”
Clara’s treacherous stomach somersaulted backward and out the door.Just friends.Resisting the pull of that dashed smile, she looked away, only to discover they were quite alone. Where was her maternal buffer? Escaping down the nave, Clara headed for a bright fuchsia bonnet. Mum had joined a cluster of tourists admiring the collection of tapestries hanging from each of the pointed arches in the cathedral’s arcade. Shaking her head, she hastened to retrieve her wayward chaperone.
Until a scream threatened to shatter the stained glass.
Beneath one of the tapestries, a middling woman twirledabout in frenzied circles, beating her skirts with lace handkerchief and shrieking with the power of ten lungs. “Raaat! Heaven save me, I’m being defiled by disgusting little claws. I shall die of the plaaague!” The Englishwoman flailed into the arms of her male companion. “Get it out, Reginald. Get. It. Out!”
Mr. Theodore materialized at her stunned side. “What the deuce? How did a rat get in the cathedral?”
Clara gulped. “I’ve a sinking feeling it’s not a rat.”
A furry blot scurried up the nave, and right behind it bobbed a fuchsia bonnet.
