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“But it’s, like, a real castle.” Built on top of a hill that overlooks a charming old town, with a stone wall and iron gate to protect it, cobblestones beneath my shoes, and towers scaled with leafless vines and capped with spires soaring high above us.
“Oui. My chateau. Mine and Elijah’s.”
I know I should be sizing up escape routes, and yet I’m enthralled as I turn slowly, absorbing the vast medieval courtyard, empty of everything but the sleek black car we arrived in and a lone tabby cat that sits on a stair wall, lapping at its paw. The two assassin-guards have disappeared into a separate, smaller building with their duffel bags of deadly weapons.
I note the small door next to the gate that appears to be a walk-through exit to the town. For a place this size, there must be more. I don’t see surveillance cameras, but that doesn’t mean they’re not around.
Beyond the gate, the town bustles with midday activity, but within these walls, it’s silent, save for a few withered leaves scuttling across the stone on a breeze. “How old is this place?”
“The original building is from the fifteenth century.”
My jaw drops as I quickly do the math. That’s over six hundred years of history. And what does a place like this cost? I assumed Sofie and her husband were rich and powerful—the private plane and assassin bodyguards more than hinted at that—but to own a castle …
Sofie’s musical laughter carries in the eerie quiet. The simple act softens her features, making her appear less intimidating. “It is refreshing to see your reaction. Mine was much the same when Elijah first brought me to Montegarde and told me this would be our home. We had left Paris rather abruptly and—” She cuts herself off, her smile turning sorrowful. “Well, that was long ago. Hopefully, he will still appreciate its beauty when he finally sees it again.”
“How long has he been gone?” I’ve gathered almost no information since meeting her last night, but she did say she met her husband when she was twenty-one, and she can’t be more than thirty.
“Far too long.”
Another vague answer that offers me not even a single piece to add to the puzzle that is Sofie.
She squints upward, as if searching for something in the cloudless blue sky. It’s early afternoon and colder here than it was when we left New York, the wind carrying a blustering chill that makes me thankful for the sweater and jeans I found folded on the seat next to me when I woke.
“Follow me.” She strolls toward a heavy wooden door, her heels skillfully handling the uneven cobblestone.
“So, when are we breaking him out of this sort-of prison?”
Sofie has given me no more hints about what saving her husband means. I can only assume it’s not as straightforward as lifting a diamond necklace off a woman’s neck.
“Soon. Come, I must prepare you.”
“Oui,” I mimic under my breath, thankful for these slip-on boots as I chase behind her.
