Page 21

21

Sparrow

T he sheets were Egyptian cotton, the soap smelled of rose oil, and the radiator worked so well I had to crack the window just to breathe. My feet sank into the plush carpeting every time I moved, muffling my steps like I was walking through a cloud.

Everything in the room was beautiful.

Which was exactly why I hated it.

The hotel had been chosen for me. Not by me. It was a “show hotel,” the Soviets called it, where they put foreigners with credentials and clean coats, a place that said, “Look how well we treat our guests. Look how far we’ve come. Isn’t communism glorious?”

It was a lie built with velvet drapes and polished brass. The light switches were gold-plated. The towels were embroidered. There was a small bottle of brandy in a crystal decanter on the desk, sealed with wax stamped by the state.

I hadn’t touched it—not because I wasn’t tempted—but because I didn’t want to give anyone an excuse to ask what I’d been doing while I was sick.

I lay in bed, a silk robe thrown over my clothes, one hand resting on my stomach like I was shielding it from further betrayal. My hair was mussed, lips paled with a dab of powder. A teacup sat on the nightstand—half full, cooling in the artificial warmth of my room.

At precisely 8:37 a.m., I called the front desk and requested hot water and a mild digestive. My voice was thin and apologetic, that of a woman in a foreign land with a disagreeable constitution.

They bought it.

Or they pretended to.

The porter arrived seven minutes later, impeccably dressed in a crimson uniform jacket that looked absurd against the city’s gray decay. His shoes were shined to a mirror finish. His mustache was neat. His smile was sympathetic.

“Chamomile, miss,” he said, placing the tray down on the cart near the bed. “And a peppermint tonic. It is our own recipe, very soothing.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, managing the right kind of tight-lipped smile, the kind that said, “I want to be polite, but I might be sick on your boots.”

He didn’t leave right away. I thought he waited for a tip, but then his eyes flicked over the room—casually but not aimlessly. They passed over the open wardrobe, the empty writing desk, the undisturbed nightstand drawer.

Over the radiator, the sill, the window latch.

He was searching. Not with his hands. With training.

“It is always the travel,” I said, voice hoarse. “New water, new food. It always takes a toll during the first few days.”

He smiled and gave a shallow bow of his head.

“If you need anything else, you need only ring,” he said.

“Of course. Merci .”

He turned, stepped out, and pulled the door closed behind him.

I waited until the sound of his footfalls disappeared down the hall before I stood. The bathrobe slipped off in silence. I was dressed already—boots polished, hair pinned beneath a wool cap. I moved to the window and checked the street. It was empty, except for a boy pedaling past on a bicycle that looked older than both of us.

I waited another half hour, then strode to the door.

The front desk didn’t question me when I passed through the lobby, scarf in place, shoulders hunched like the cold and my fictional ailment were conspiring to ruin me.

“Just some air,” I said with a wan smile. “The tea helped a bit. Merci .”

The desk clerk nodded, her eyes glassy with disinterest.

Outside, the air bit harder than I expected, the wind rolling down the river like it had somewhere to be. I took the long way to Váci utca, weaving through side streets, doubling back twice, watching windows. I saw two men in coats that looked familiar pass on opposite ends of a tram stop, but they never turned, never looked back, never followed.

The notice board loomed.

The Liszt Academy flyer still hung there.

Its top-left corner remained unbroken.

I stood there for a moment, staring at it like I couldn’t quite remember why I’d come, then I turned and walked back to the hotel.

Around two o’clock, I made another call to the desk—this time for something “to settle nausea.”

The same porter smiled when I opened the door, the same smile that didn’t reach his eyes and convinced neither of us of his good intent. This time he brought mint tea and a dry biscuit. He lingered a little longer, his eyes drifting again to the window latch and the bedside drawer.

“Do you need a doctor?” he asked, voice low.

“No, I do not think so,” I said with a practiced apologetic smile. “It is only travel stomach. I will be all right by the morning.”

He nodded but remained.

His eyes found the writing pad by the phone. Then the ashtray. Then me.

I didn’t move.

Finally, he bowed and left.

I waited a full hour this time before slipping out. I took the rear exit and wound through a block of shops where half the doors were locked and the other half had no customers.

This time, I approached the board from the other side of the street.

The bloody flyer was defiant in its wholeness.

I didn’t ring down this time, didn’t give the Soviets a heads-up or head start, didn’t leave a trail.

I slipped out wearing a different coat, my hat tilted low, my scarf pulled high. I took a taxi halfway, then walked the final stretch like I belonged there. The street was busier now, filled with people heading home from work. I passed a women carrying potatoes in cloth sacks and children squabbling in the shadows.

No one looked at me twice. No one cared.

I crossed to the notice board without breaking stride, stopped as if curious, and lifted a hand.

And holy shit.

The flyer . . .

The top-left corner was torn, a clean diagonal, not ragged—deliberate.

It felt like my breath released after hours underwater.

I stepped back, counted to seven, turned and walked toward the tram, then veered off into an alley and circled back toward the taxi stand.

The bell above the door jingled, and for a heartbeat I stood in the threshold, the cold trailing in behind me like a second shadow.

The warmth hit me first—not just physical, though the scent of roasting meat and wood smoke did their best to chase off the chill in my bones. No, it was the warmth of something quieter: familiar voices murmuring over shared plates, carefree laughter low and close, a fire crackling in a hearth that didn’t need to be lit but was anyway, just for the sake of comfort of the heart.

The restaurant was old, its walls stained through decades of survival. It soared with vaulted ceilings, dark wood beams, and light that softened everything. In the far corner, tucked beneath a lamp that cast their faces in amber, were Thomas and Will. They were watching the door—of course they were—but only Thomas gave the smallest nod when he saw me. Will grinned—not the wide American grin he wore for crowds, but the quiet one he saved for his closest friends, the one that said, “You’re safe. We’re here. Come sit down.”

I peeled off my coat and wove through the tables, careful not to walk too fast, careful not to look like someone who’d just spent ten hours waiting for a piece of torn paper to decide her fate.

“Good evening, mes ami ,” I said, sliding into the chair across from them. “Still speaking to each other, I see? Miraculous.”

Will poured me a glass of wine without missing a beat. “Only because we took a vow of silence halfway through our first glass of wine.”

“Lies,” Thomas said, sipping his own. “He hasn’t stopped talking since we sat down.”

“Must’ve been agony for you,” I snarked.

“It always is,” Thomas replied.

The banter was easy and practiced. It was necessary.

It was also genuine and true.

I loved these boys in ways only those bonded through war and repeated near-disasters understood. Being with them filled my heart with purpose and longing—and something deeper—hope. Despite their best efforts to mask it, their love flowed so easily between them that I couldn’t help but find inspiration and joy in their eyes.

The wine was warm, dry, and rich with something like cloves. I let it sit on my tongue and then swallowed.

“I saw an interesting thing today,” I said, just above the hum of conversation. “Did you know there is a jazz concert in town?”

Thomas chuckled, his brows shooting up, as he lifted his wine glass. “You don’t say?”

I smiled. “Oh, yes. I hear it is all the rage. Hungary is such a capital of culture.”

Will coughed out a laugh.

“What have you heard about this . . . concert?” he asked.

“Oh, only that it is well advertised.” I waved a casual hand through the air. “Unfortunately, the Soviets have yet to rid this city of ruffians. Everywhere I looked were flyers for these players, but each was torn in such a reckless manner. It was disheartening to see.”

Will blew out a breath.

Thomas didn’t move.

I reached across, plucked Will’s wine glass from his hands, and tossed back the last of his drink, letting a playful grin part my lips.

“That’s one step,” Thomas said.

“When did you see this flyer?”

“Half past five. I came straight here.”

“And the hotel?” Will asked, his voice gentler now.

“Still standing, but the porter stares too long, pretends he’s not looking at the inside of my suitcase when he brings me tea.”

“We should wait for Egret to discuss next steps,” Thomas said.

Will and I nodded, then he snatched his glass out of my hands and raised it, eyeing the ruby bead swirling in the bottom with clear disdain. “To luxuries with hidden microphones.”

The waiter came, all white apron and apologetic eyes, and we ordered without needing to discuss it. Chicken paprikas for me again. It was comfort food wrapped in sauce and spice, something to settle my nerves. Will, true to form, ordered fish. Thomas didn’t order. He just said—in his most imperious British accent—“Bring me what you feed someone important,” and let the man choose.

It was nice, for a moment, pretending to be three friends meeting for dinner. Just three tired people laughing at the end of a long, absurd day.

“So,” Will said, tilting back in his chair. “Who wants to hear about the sex appeal of Budapest’s municipal archives?”

“No one,” I said.

“Too bad, because it was an unforgettable parade of hunched clerks and papers that should’ve burned in the last war.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “He flirted with three separate women.”

“Tried to,” Will corrected. “I failed miserably. Hell, I’ve seen stone statues with more give.”

“Describe them,” I said, sipping my wine.

“Cheekbones like razors, wore wool coats indoors, probably haven’t smiled since 1938. I think one of them telepathically cursed me.”

“Sounds about right.” Thomas grinned.

Will ignored him, leaning toward me. “They gave me the cold shoulder of a regime built on frost and disappointment.”

“What’d you learn?” Thomas asked.

“That Soviet filing systems were designed by people who hate people,” Will said.

Thomas gave a faint chuckle—rare and real, given our surroundings.

“And you?” I asked, turning to him.

“Inspected a relay station with a very studious technician who spoke like a member of the Politburo.”

I leaned close and whispered, “Were you watched?”

He shrugged. “Not obviously, which is probably worse.”

I nodded, feeling the familiar pulse of nerves behind my ribs.

Then Thomas smirked, his smart-assed half smile I knew made Will’s pulse race. “I made them wait an extra hour. I asked a million questions I knew they didn’t have answers to. The guy tolerated it, but he didn’t like it.”

“Then you did it right,” Will said, something akin to pride entering his voice. Those two were too fucking cute, even in the middle of a mission.

The food came. It was rich, hot, and absolutely perfect.

By the time the hour reached nine, the wine had mellowed all of us. Will was telling a story from Vienna—something about a diplomat, a goat, and a misdelivered bottle of French perfume. Thomas was listening with that half-skeptical frown he wore when he didn’t want to laugh.

Our fourth chair was still empty.

My eyes kept darting toward the door.

I didn’t mention it. Not yet.

We ordered another bottle. Will poured it slowly, talking less now. Thomas checked his watch.

At nine thirty, I leaned back in my chair and said, too casually, “He’s late.”

Thomas said nothing.

Will tried, “Could be caught in traffic.”

I shrugged with casual indifference my heart refused to feel. “Could be.”

None of us believed it.

Egret should’ve been back hours ago. He should’ve sent a signal. A message. A look.

Something.

I stabbed at my food again. It had gone cold.

By ten o’clock, the mood had shifted. The warmth was still there—in the lights, in the food, in the music drifting from a battered radio near the bar—but we weren’t part of it anymore.

We were three figures at a table for four.

Will drummed his fingers on his glass. Thomas sat too still, his fingers fiddling with his watch like he thought it might leap off his wrist. I stared out a nearby window, hoping to see a shadow darken its frame.

“Maybe he was followed,” Will said eventually.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Or detained,” Thomas said, his jaw clenched.

“We don’t guess yet,” I snapped, more sharply than intended. “We don’t assume.”

But I already had.

I knew Egret. He was late to breakfast, late to briefings, late to shave, but not to rendezvous, not to dinner.

Not to me.

The empty chair sat like a gaping wound in the corner of my vision.

And I hated how quickly my heart began to mourn.