Page 18 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)
Thomas
B efore we could speculate further, the heavy double doors at the top of the wide marble steps swung open and out stepped a vision of regal mischief swathed in blue silk and dripping in sapphires.
“My darling boys!” came the unmistakable voice of Baroness Isabella von Hohenberg, each syllable curling through the chilly air like a trail of French perfume.
She descended the steps, a ship at full sail, with the long train of her dress floating behind her and one hand lifting in greeting.
Her other hand clutched a small, bejeweled cane she absolutely did not need.
The Baroness’s smile was broad and devastating, as though we hadn’t just watched together as a head of state was assassinated in front of us a day ago.
“You’ve gotten handsomer since Paris,” she declared while wrapping Will in a hug and planting a double-cheeked kiss on his face.
“Even with that ridiculous American haircut. And you”—she turned to me, her eyes sweeping over my coat and scuffed shoes—“still scowl like a Scottish widower. Simply delicious. I could eat you both right here.”
She kissed my cheeks, her lips cold and scented with violet. I tried not to laugh, failed, and let her hold my face a second longer than would have been appropriate with any other friend . . . or family member . . . or possibly just anyone.
She pivoted gracefully, catching sight of Otto as he hefted our bags from the trunk. “Otto! Still dreaming of Idaho potatoes and American cowboy boots, are we?”
Otto beamed. “Of course, Baroness. I learned last week that in Texas, they fry the boots. I do not understand why. They would seem very . . . hard on the teeth, no?”
Will choked on a laugh, his eyes wide. “Did he say fry boots?”
“I think so,” I muttered, trying not to lose it.
The Baroness waved a hand dramatically, unfazed by whatever fell from Otto’s lips.
Then she leaned in, a gesture that magnetically pulled each of us toward her, and whispered, “Otto has been with me for years. He speaks four languages and murders all of them, but he’s loyal and knows every back road in Europe.
Besides, I am rather fond of his slaughter of all things idiom. It keeps me young. ”
She looked us over again, her sharp eyes gleaming. “So, tell me—did Otto treat you well? Or chat your ears off entirely?”
Will grinned. “He might’ve out-talked both of us combined.”
“I think he out-talked everyone in Switzerland, perhaps all of Europe,” Thomas added.
“I once threatened to sedate him on a drive through Bavaria. Too many questions about Kansas, of all places. What am I supposed to know of Kansas?” she said airily.
“Baroness, you know we love seeing you, but why are we here? We have important work to do and little time for social calls.” I pulled back slightly. Then another thought struck. “How did you even know we were in Bern? This was a last-minute decision—a decision made by Washington.”
“You know better that to ask such a thing, my dear Thomas.” Her eyes sparkled as she patted my cheek. “Besides, a lady never kisses and tells.”
“That’s not an answer,” I said.
“No, it is not,” she replied, her brow lifted. “I could never let you stay in some horrid hotel surrounded by beige wallpaper and subpar upholstery. I would never forgive whatever fashion choices Will made after being surrounded by such blandness.”
“My fashion decisions—”
She cut Will off with a wave of her hand. “You are mine for the duration. The sooner you surrender, the happier we will all be. You may give me one of your silly bird names if it makes you feel better. I am sure that crusty Manakin of yours would approve.”
Will gaped. I just shook my head. The Baroness was a force of nature and would not be denied—ever.
Otto placed our luggage in a neat row on the top stair, humming what sounded like a German military march mashed with a polka.
“Come inside,” she said, sweeping an arm toward the enormous foyer now ablaze with golden light. “This air will give you crow’s feet, and I refuse to be seen with tired men. It tarnishes my reputation as the goddess of these mountains.”
Will and I followed her up the steps, exchanging yet another glance. My suspicions hadn’t vanished, but fatigue had softened under the weight of her theatrical affection.
The Baroness made an impression—or an imprint , perhaps.
She was the eye of every storm, and right then, we needed a little calm—even if it came in the form of silk and scandal.
When the Baroness opened the doors, a liveried servant stepped forward and took our luggage. Without missing a beat, she said, “Take their bags to the east guest room, the one with the blue tapestries.” The servant nodded and disappeared down the hall .
Then she turned to us with a conspiratorial smile. “I know you are tired, but indulge an old woman and join me in the tower for a moment. The nighttime views of the mountains are breathtaking, especially beneath a pregnant moon.”
I opened my mouth to object, but a delicate, bejeweled hand landed on my arm as the Baroness said, “Please, Thomas, only for a moment.”
We followed her through the grand foyer, the heels of her shoes clicking smartly against the polished marble floor.
Oil paintings loomed from every direction—ancient ancestors and heroic generals captured in windswept battle scenes or courtly poses, all painted in warm hues that gave the space a comfortable glow.
Gold sconces lit our path, flickering with soft light, while thick velvet drapes stood parted to reveal moonlight shimmering through towering arched windows.
The Baroness paused before a section of walnut paneling in the middle of a hallway and pressed her hand against a seam so expertly hidden it might’ve been carved by angels. With a quiet click, the pocket door swung open, revealing a narrow, wrought-iron spiral staircase.
“You remember this passage, yes?” she said over her shoulder as we began to climb. “It used to be just a wooden ladder. A general nearly broke his neck coming up to deliver some particularly bad news. I rewarded him with cognac and replaced the ladder the next week.”
We climbed—and climbed.
The stairs twisted like a seashell, tight and narrow, every step echoing with centuries of history.
My legs burned by the third turn, but I bit back any complaints.
Will behind me was silent, too, though I could hear his breath quickening.
The Baroness sprinted upward, a girl racing toward her beau, her breaths as calm as if she slept beneath the warmth of thick blankets.
Our heads finally poked through a rectangular hole to reveal the converted bell tower—no longer a place of chimes and clappers, but a hybrid of luxury and technology.
Plush leather chairs flanked a wide circular window, which framed the snow-dusted Alps in the distance.
A large telescope stood on a tripod. Nearby, an array of radio and listening equipment hummed and blinked in the shadows.
The Baroness closed the floorboard door, locking a mechanism into place, then turned and reached up to cup Will’s cheek. Her gaze hardened and, when she spoke, her words carried an edge of something darker.
“While your plane was in the air, an explosion killed the Prime Minister of Italy.”