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He led them to a rear door, examining his key ring in the dim light cast from a sconce mounted above it. The door, up close, was more beat-up than she would have expected. It was made of wood, like the one at the palace, but it was crisscrossed with deepscars, and it had clearly been revarnished several times. Perhaps it was the servants’ entrance. Ha. Mr.Pride and Prejudicehad a servants’ entrance. So much for the—
Holy shit.
She could barely contain her shock as her eyes adjusted to a dimly lit hallway. It was lined with numbered doors. This wasn’t his mother’s divorce-settlement village house; it was anapartmentbuilding.
Her entire mental picture of Mr. Benz began to rearrange itself, pixels falling out of place and reassembling into a different image.
She followed him silently up two flights of stairs, to a door adorned with the number 305 and a Christmas wreath. He rapped on the door, through which music was clearly audible.
Was that...Britney Spears?
It was. Someone inside Mr. Benz’s family’s apartment was listening to “Oops!... I Did It Again.”
What washappening?
He tried the door again, knocking louder this time—pounding, really.
A clomping heralded someone’s approach. The door was thrown open by a scowling boy who looked so much like Mr. Benz it was startling. It took a few seconds for recognition to dawn, but when it did, the boy’s features rearranged themselves into a grin as he threw himself into Mr. Benz’s arms. He hadn’t fully pulled away when he shouted back into the apartment, “Mutti! Martina!” followed by something that she was pretty sure was a variation on “Mr. Benz is here!” except surely his family didn’t call him Mr. Benz. Though who knew? He was so... Mr. Benzy.
No one responded, and the boy stepped back to let them in.“My mother and sister are wearing headphones,” he said, looking at Cara and switching to English, “so they do not hear me calling.” She wondered how he could tell she didn’t speak German just by looking at her.
“Armend, this is Ms. Delaney.”
“Cara,” she corrected. She and Mr. Benz had fallen into the formality of last names, but it seemed weird to have his younger brother call her that. She was off duty here.
“You are the lady from America!” Armend exclaimed.
The lady from America. It sounded like Mr. Benz’s family already knew about her?
That was almost as startling as the fact that they lived in an apartment.
“At least take her coat before you ambush her,” Mr. Benz said to his brother in a tone that suggested he was trying to convey annoyance. The affection in his voice was palpable, though.
An older woman appeared in the hallway wearing a quizzical expression and, as Armend had predicted, headphones—big, over-the-ear ones.
When she registered Mr. Benz’s presence, she shrieked and immediately clasped her hand over her mouth as if trying not to cry.
Suddenly Cara was fighting tears, too. The reaction reminded her so much of her own mom, who acted like she’d won the lottery every time Cara walked in the door from a trip.
Cara was starting to be able to piece together simple phrases in German, but the rapid-fire speech of the woman, as she threw herself into Mr. Benz’s arms, was beyond her. Mr. Benz answered his mother smilingly as they hugged, and Cara heard her name mentioned.
When they separated, his mother pressed her palms to her cheeks as if she were gathering herself, smiled warmly at Cara, and said, “Ms. Delaney, welcome to our home. We’re so glad you’re here. I am Matteo’s mother, Inge.”
“Please call me Cara.” When Inge stepped back and gestured for Cara to come deeper into the apartment, Cara said, “Oh, but I’m headed to the inn. I gather there’s one in the village?”
“No!” Inge protested as if the very idea pained her. “You must stay with us!”
“I can’t intrude on you so unexpectedly.”
“At least come in and let us lend you some dry clothes and give you a cup of tea to warm you up.”
A pair of dry socksdidsound like heaven right now.
And she was desperately curious, suddenly, about these people, and this place, that had given rise to Mr. Benz. So she allowed herself to be herded inside, examined, and proclaimed the same size as Mr. Benz’s sister Martina, whom Inge called for.
A girl appeared with the same big headphones her mother had been wearing, and once again, Cara was witness to an over-the-top hug complete with shrieking. Cara sneaked a glance at Inge. The matriarch’s eyes were bright with unshed tears as she watched her daughter and Mr. Benz embrace.
More introductions were performed, and Martina took Cara into her room and found her socks and a pair of... well, Cara wasn’t really sure what they were. They were sweatpants, she supposed, but they were fancy sweatpants, made of sweater material, the kind of thing a Frenchwoman would throw on and be effortlessly chic in.
