“Charlotte,” Klaus announced with a hint of pride in his voice, “allow me to introduce Adolf and Ingrid Dassel. My parents.”
“Hello,” she managed, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of her dress.
“Mom, Dad, this is Charlotte.” Placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, he gave her an encouraging smile, his eyes gleaming with admiration and warmth.
She felt a wave of surrealism wash over her. When she’d first met him, he’d been the embodiment of evil, a monster in uniform who represented everything wrong in her life. Now, here he was, introducing her to his parents, a gesture so intimate and personal that it left her both astonished and deeply moved. She felt like she’d stepped into a dream, one where she was both the belle of the ball and under a spotlight she wasn’t sure she wanted.
“Finally!” Adolf grabbed her hand, oblivious to her discomfort. He looked disconcertingly like Klaus, broad-shouldered and with the same dark hair and eyes, though his smile was much more frequent.
Ingrid’s hug was formal but warm. “I hear you’re a good influence on our son.”
“We hear about nothing else,” Adolf assured her, earning a dark look from Klaus.
“He didn’t tell you we were coming, did he?” Ingrid’s expression was knowing.
“No,” Charlotte admitted, feeling a bit like she was being tested.
Adolf clapped his hands delightedly. “What a fun surprise!”
Ingrid glanced at her husband, her lips quirking with suppressed mirth. “Adolf loves a good surprise,” she opined sympathetically. “Unfortunately, so does Klaus.”
Charlotte told herself that at least she’d known they had something planned for tonight, so she’d had a chance to do her hair. Klaus flashed her one of his small, secret smiles and she tried to return the gesture, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on display—being evaluated not just by his parents, but by Klaus himself. Was he putting her through another of his little ordeals, or was he genuinely proud of her? He definitely seemed to be enjoying her discomfort.
As they walked up the flagstone path, the cool evening air filled with the scent of blooming jasmine, Klaus slipped his hand into hers. His touch was warm and firm, a grounding contrast to the imps doing backflips in her stomach, but she wasn’t as reassured as she should’ve been. Feeling her stiffen, he looked down. “You’ve been working so hard,” he murmured under his breath. “And everything’s been so stressful. I thought a change of pace was in order.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Meaning an ambush?”
“They’ve been demanding that I produce you,” he replied, somewhere between amused and contrite. “I hope you like them.”
Calling them not what she expected was the understatement of the century, she thought, flustered. Adolf, on television, ranged from stoic to zealous; that was obviously a persona he put on to some extent, the dedicated Reichsminister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, committed to shaping minds and hearts to the Führer’s vision. She hadn’t imagined someone who could make a joke, let alone take one. Yet Adolf, for all his public gravitas, seemed almost clownish in private.
The shock of meeting him, however, was nothing compared to the shock of meeting Ingrid. Based on Klaus’s description, she’d envisioned some kind of earth mother. But Ingrid was tall, thin, and severe, dressed in a jet-black number that made Morticia Addams look flamboyant. Her equally jet-black hair was pinned into a chignon, adorned with a fascinator that appeared to be a real leopard’s head, while the rest of the leopard draped over one shoulder as a stole. Adolf, who wore the same double-breasted charcoal suit and armband that she’d seen on the news, leaned down and whispered something into his wife’s ear. Ingrid’s answering laughter was high and sharp, like the tinkling of bells—but was it with her companions, or at them?
They went inside, stepping into a living room that could have been transported straight from a grand Georgian estate. Twin couches, great antique things, faced each other in the center of the room, their upholstery rich and intricate. To the right, a grand fireplace with an ornate mantel held pride of place, flanked by a pair of elegant wing chairs. The walls were adorned with tapestries and framed portraits, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, inviting glow.
Charlotte noted the careful selection of each piece, a blend of antiques that shouldn’t have worked together but did, and she couldn’t help but wonder how much it’d cost to have an entire museum’s worth shipped here from Bonn. Heinz, Klaus’s best friend, lived in the officer’s quarters near the arsenal; most officers did, below a certain rank, but most officers weren’t billionaires whose fathers played golf with the Führer.
Adolf and Ingrid chose one couch, and Charlotte sat down on the other. Klaus kissed her on the cheek, then left her alone with them to fix drinks. Ingrid and Adolf fixed her with twin grins that made her heart race. She felt like a mouse, being smiled at by a pair of hawks. They felt comfortable in the grand space, Ingrid patting Adolf on the knee and Adolf looking pleased, while Charlotte waited for Klaus to rescue her and struggled not to fidget.
After what felt like a thousand years, he returned with his parents’ libations. “Fernet Branca,” he announced, holding out a small, stemmed cordial glass to his mother.
She accepted it gracefully. “Thank you, darling.”
Next, he passed a lowball to his father. “Hibiki.”
Ingrid peered into the Japanese whiskey’s unappetizing depths. “That can’t possibly be available here.”
“I had a case sent over,” Adolf replied proudly. “So I could pretend to be civilized.”
“Civilized, is that what we’re calling it?” Ingrid examined her glass. “He took two hours to decide between the blue tie and the green one.”
Returning to Charlotte’s side with her drink, Klaus noticed her expression and winked. “Relax,” he mouthed, sipping his own finger of the same molten misery his father was knocking back with gusto.
Adolf, wiping his lips, shot his wife a mock-offended look. “You’ll notice that I am by far the best dressed man in the room. Although my son and heir, the poor thing, only seems to have one outfit.”
Klaus issued a long suffering sigh. “It’s called a uniform, dad.”
Ingrid rolled her eyes, her smile affectionate. “Watching my darling husband stare into his closet is like watching a chameleon on a monochrome screen.”
“My suits are subtly different shades of gray,” Adolf protested, pressing his hand to his chest. “I have a sophisticated sense of fashion, sweetheart. It’s not my fault if you plebes can’t keep up.”
Reaching over, Ingrid brushed something from his shirt. “Keep telling yourself that.”
The doorbell rang, interrupting their banter. Charlotte furrowed her brow, confused; she hadn’t been aware that someone else was coming. Everyone else took this new development in stride, because of course, Klaus jumping up and heading toward the door. Ingrid’s lip curled in a moue of distaste. “Oh, no,” she muttered, her fingers tapping lightly on the arm of the couch.
Adolf glanced around the room, as if searching for an escape. “Fred insisted.”
Fred was coming as, what, a chaperone? But before Charlotte could ask for clarification, the Reichskommissar himself barged in and beelined for Adolf. His family was behind him, Marie-France examining a vase with undisguised envy while Gretchen chewed gum and tapped her foot.
“It’s good to see you again!” he enthused, pumping Adolf’s hand up and down. “How are you?” Adolf opened his mouth to respond, but Fred’s words were a steady stream that left no room for interruption. “And how is the Führer? Please give him my regards and is he coming for a visit, soon?”
Adolf’s pained expression suggested that he’d rather be receiving an enema, but before Ingrid could rescue him, Marie-France almost bowled her over. She’d seen Charlotte and, with a squeal, enveloped her in another hug. Fred remembered, loudly, that he’d met Charlotte on several occasions and asked how the portrait was coming along. Adolf, extracting his hand, grimaced at it. Gretchen, pulling a line of gum from her mouth, affixed it to the umbrella stand.
Klaus and Charlotte exchanged a look.
It’d never occurred to her, during the invasion, that everyone in the Reich was crazy.
Detaching Marie-France from Charlotte, Klaus steered her into the living room, where she wedged herself into one of the wing chairs. Fred plopped down into the other one, spreading over the leather like a starfish; Klaus immediately went in search of more alcohol. Adolf and Ingrid resumed their places on the couch, and Fred gestured at his glass. “What’ve you got there?”
“Japanese single malt,” Adolf informed him.
“Oh, good!” Fred patted his thighs. “I’ll have one of those.”
Klaus worked at the bar with a fluid grace, his movements precise and deliberate. He took his time, producing chilled martini glasses for Marie-France and Gretchen, and another lowball for Fred. As he measured the ingredients, his focus was unwavering, each step executed with practiced ease. Charlotte watched, feeling a swell of pride; his confidence in these small tasks revealed a depth of character she admired. Most men equated serving others with weakness, but he was secure enough in himself to understand that true strength lay in the ability to support and care for those around him—without the need for validation or praise.
He handed Marie-France and Gretchen their martinis, each garnished with a twist of lemon, before presenting Fred with his prize. The amber liquid gleamed in the soft light as Fred took a tentative sniff, his nose wrinkling in dismay. He cast a desperate sideways glance at Adolf, but found no reprieve in the Reichsminister’s morbid enthusiasm. The die cast, he braced himself and took a sip. His eyes bulged, and he choked, tears springing to his eyes. “Fantastic stuff,” he gasped, sounding like his throat had been sandpapered. “How much is a bottle?”
“Ten thousand Reichsmark,” Adolf replied coolly.
Fred stared at him, wondering if he was joking. “Worth every penny, I’m sure.”
Marie-France forced a titter.
Gretchen, who’d chosen to sprawl on the carpet in a deliberate show of nonchalance, eyed the whiskey with new interest. When her father put it down, she helped herself to her own sample. “Vile,” she declared, sticking her nose in the air. “Tastes like something you’d use to clean a toilet.”
“Hibiki means resonance,” Adolf mentioned, unfazed. “Or echo.” He tapped his chin, his expression thoughtful. “I can never decide which is the best translation.”
“I think it means ‘I’m a pretentious snob,’” Gretchen muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Ingrid’s eyes narrowed briefly before once again addressing Charlotte. “Adolf’s next book is in Japanese,” she volunteered, resting a protective hand on her husband’s arm. “We lived in Kyoto, when Klaus was a child, that’s where three of his brothers were born.”
“Oh, how fascinating,” Marie-France chimed in, genuinely intrigued. “I’ve heard Kyoto is beautiful.”
“It is,” Klaus agreed, a rare softness in his voice.
“He wanted to take a Sokushinbutsu home with him.” Ingrid smiled at the memory, her tone indulgent.
Charlotte, who’d never heard any of this, felt as if she’d opened a book halfway through and was struggling to catch up with the story before it shifted again. Meanwhile, Gretchen, ever confident in her ignorance, scoffed. “What the heck is a shook—what?”
“Sokushinbutsu,” Klaus corrected her. “The self-mummified Buddhas. They preserved their spirits within their bodies, entering a state of deep meditation rather than dying. But enlightenment involved a decade-long regimen of extreme fasting, consuming only nuts, seeds, and tree bark, which—
“And running,” Adolf cut in. “Don’t forget that.”
“Yes,” Klaus agreed, “up and down Mt. Yudono. All of which desiccated their bodies from the inside out, until eventually they entombed themselves alive, meditating until death claimed them. Over time, their bodies would naturally mummify, until at last they were placed inside various temples as objects of veneration—and to grant the prayers of worshippers.”
Gretchen stared at him with undisguised horror. “Why?”
He cocked his head, clearly confused. “It was seen as the ultimate act of discipline and spiritual purification. Both of which are important for a man to pursue.”
But before Gretchen could say something else embarrassing, a sharp double rap shook the door. Charlotte tensed, worried that the house was being raided, but Adolf’s grin widened. “I know that knock!”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Klaus, considerably less excited, walked back to the door and opened it again, revealing Sturmbannführer Voight. He stepped in, his posture rigid, as thrilled to see Klaus as Klaus was to see him. Zelda came in next, still in the sock hop-style number she’d worn to work. He helped her with the short jacket she’d also sewn, as matter-of-factly as though he’d been doing so for years.
Adolf took it and clapped him on the back. “Finally!”
Voight glanced at Zelda. “Excuse us for being late.”
“You have more important things to do,” Adolf assured him warmly. “We understand.”
Ingrid had joined them by then. “Although we have been waiting to meet Zelda.” She frowned at her watch. “Tell me, darling, does he always make you work this late?”
Zelda’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
Sniffing, Ingrid patted Voight on the elbow. “Be kinder to her, August, or she’ll run away.”
Zelda giggled and Voight, who didn’t seem to quite grasp that concept, said nothing. Everyone found seats again, and Adolf told Fred more about his writing while Charlotte watched her sister with concern. Zelda had squeezed in between Voight and Ingrid on the opposite couch, ignoring him as she chatted with Adolf about November Criminals: A New Perspective, the firebrand revolutionary replaced with a poised and self-possessed woman who seemed perfectly at ease discussing Reich propaganda. Voight said something, and her expression warmed, giving no sign of the fear she claimed to feel. If Charlotte hadn’t known how they’d met, indeed, she’d have assumed that this was her sister’s date. But that was impossible, of course; putting aside the fact that he had assaulted her and terrorized her, Voight was twice her age.
“Nietzsche and the Aryan Conscience was my fifth book, of course,” Adolf told Marie-France, who was on her third martini. “I finished that and the one about the November Criminals the same year. Ingrid, being the smart one in this marriage, edited them both.”
“And Nietzsche and the Aryan Conscience is still a bestseller!” Fred declared joyfully.
“Obviously.” Gretchen rolled her eyes. “It’s required reading.”
Adolf’s chest puffed up with pride, clearly choosing to take Gretchen’s latest jibe as a compliment. “It’s gratifying, how my work continues to influence the minds of our youth.”
Fred nodded in agreement. “How is the Führer?”
“Fred,” Adolf announced to the room, “like most of Boston, is wondering why I’m here and if it bodes ill for him. Well, Fred,” he added, turning, “you can relax. This isn’t an official trip. Which is a hint, incidentally, to stop meddling with my schedule. I merely want to see my beloved firstborn son, who avoids my lectures whenever possible, and meet the woman long-suffering enough to put up with him.” His gaze flickered to Zelda. “I see that her sister is also quite patient.”
Klaus put his head in his hand, while Gretchen snickered unpleasantly.
Charlotte thought longingly about hiding under the couch, but just then Klaus’s housekeeper appeared. Ida’s general demeanor was more suited to commanding a tank than polishing silver, and she fixed Adolf with a look that could’ve stopped an entire advancing line. “Dinner is served.”
“Heidi used to be our cook,” Adolf confided. “Klaus stole her.”
He led the charge into the dining room, and Charlotte knew she should follow. Instead, she found herself lingering by the mantel, staring at an Allach Porzellan figurine of Hitler’s beloved Blondi. The German Shepherd was in repose, one paw over the other, her tongue lolling out. Dogs, even those owned by dictators, didn’t have to deal with politics—or with a world where everything changed too fast to follow.
Klaus had told her he loved her and he wanted her to tell him the same, but she couldn’t; the truth was, she didn’t know if love was enough. Part of her was taking the path of least resistance, allowing herself to be swept downstream instead of swimming back to where she belonged. When it was just the two of them, alone together, she could forget the war and pretend. But a man chose to put on a uniform. She knew what’d happened at Sage’s, even though Constance hadn’t told her; she knew what people called her, too—the Butcher of Marblehead’s whore.
If she stayed with him, this would become her world—and she’d never be welcome in her own again. She felt like she was being drawn and quartered, each part of her stretching towards a different, irreconcilable life. Taking a deep breath, she tried to steady herself, but the sharp edges of her internal turmoil only cut deeper. Could she really give up everything she knew for a child’s dream of fairytale romance, one that might not survive the harsh light of reality?
Ingrid came in to collect her, her steps measured and graceful. “Enjoying your baptism by fire?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with a mix of humor and sympathy.
Charlotte managed a weak smile. “Are there usually so many spectators?”
Reaching out, Ingrid touched her shoulder, her expression one of genuine warmth that Charlotte hadn’t seen before. “Adolf and I think it’s so wonderful,” she said gently, “that our boy has met someone who understands him. I know we’re a lot to get used to, but we’re so glad you’re here.”
“I am, too,” Charlotte admitted, feeling a bit of the tension ease from her shoulders.
Adolf had been given the head of the table, with Klaus to his right; Ingrid took the chair to her husband’s left and Charlotte sat down between Klaus and Gretchen, facing her sister. Fred, at the foot of the table, looked like a toddler in the front row at a circus. Marie-France, her face flushed, swayed slightly as she plucked at Zelda’s shoulder. “What do you call this color?”
“Lizard.” Zelda’s tone was deadpan.
Gretchen’s brows knitted together. “I thought it was chartreuse.”
Voight’s expression darkened.
Dinner was presented with a flourish, Heidi placing a massive platter in front of Adolf, who positively glowed with delight. “A roast!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “How magnificent.”
“How unexpected.” Ingrid’s tone was innocent.
“I really should make a toast,” Adolf opined, helping himself to several slabs of beef. “To Charlotte, for not arriving a minute too soon! I was beginning to think I’d have to wait on Matthias for grandchildren,” he added, somewhat peevishly. “He’s barely eighteen!”
Charlotte blanched at the suggestion, but Ingrid only rolled her eyes. “Adolf is obsessed with populating the Reich,” she explained, “and is convinced that we Dassels can do it entirely by ourselves. I told him, after we had Josef, that if he wanted any more children he could be pregnant!”
Fred, still working out which fork to use, looked up sharply. “What?”
Buttering her roll, Ingrid sniffed. “Somehow, he agreed that I’d done my duty.”
“But I like impregnating you,” Adolf sulked.
Klaus almost dropped the potatoes. “Dad!”
“Cheer up, Klaus,” Adolf advised him. “You’re old enough to know how these things work.”
Ingrid tried the wine. “You might have noticed, Charlotte, that our son is a bit serious.”
Charlotte threw back her head and laughed.
Ingrid touched the pin on her right breast, which looked almost like a war medal: The Cross of Honor of the German Mother, awarded in recognition of the only achievement women could celebrate. “You wanted to set a good example,” she reminded him, before turning back to Charlotte. “Six children, all fit, entitles me to second class, that’s silver. Gold, first class, is for eight or more. I can’t have that, regardless,” she finished, waving dismissively. “Adolf claims it’s too Jewish.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.” Leaning over, Adolf nuzzled Ingrid’s cheek.
Pretending he hadn’t spoken, Ingrid beamed at Zelda. “I love that outfit!” she gushed. “I’m glad you’re not in beige, like everyone else. Or, God forbid, in some kind of folk costume. You could give Chanel a tip or two.” Swirling her wine around in the glass, she sighed. “Adolf would disagree, his latest obsession is with this ridiculous idea that couture somehow lowers the birth rate.”
Voight, in response, looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.
Zelda grinned, amused at his discomfort.
Marie-France, ever struggling with social cues, waved her fork at Ingrid. “We know all about Klaus,” she stated. “What are your other children doing?”
“Matthias has enlisted,” Ingrid replied, “for his compulsory service. In the SS, just like his brother. Paul has been suspended from school again, and Stefan wants to be a veterinarian. Kurt has a fascination with fire, and Joseph, our youngest, is finally in the Hitlerjugend. He’s so excited.”
“Of course,” Adolf added, with a hint of pride, “all five boys all idolize Klaus and want to follow in his footsteps. We’ll have to invade somewhere else, so they can distinguish themselves!”
Klaus grimaced, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Subduing this continent is difficult enough.”
Ingrid smiled fondly at him, unbothered. “Being a hero is a burden.”
Marie-France pursed her lips together. “Do all the boys play instruments?”
“Not like Klaus,” Ingrid emphasized, reaching for a second roll. “He studied the violin at Ludwig Maximilian, you know, although he gave his first concert at eleven. His advisor there was devastated when he refused to consider a career in music.”
Gretchen, unmoved by the tragedy of this world-class performer giving up his calling and making no secret of her boredom, threw herself back into her chair with an exaggerated exhale. “Why is everything still named after Hitler,” she whined, “when he’s dead?”
Klaus gaped at her, astonished. “Because he was the greatest man who ever lived.”
Adolf shook his head, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. “Fred, your lack of interest in education extends further than I’d thought.”
Fred drained his glass. “I know the educational situation is an issue, but we are making tremendous progress with—
Adolf held up a hand. “If I want to know what’s really happening, I’ll ask August. But since we’re on the topic, the Führer is curious about what’s prevented the schools from opening on time.”
Fred’s mouth snapped shut.
“The Führer will however be pleased to know,” Voight interposed smoothly, “that as of this morning Herr Smith’s twelve closest associates are in Gestapo custody. Herr Smith is unaware of this, but one of Klaus’s men tailed him the other night. To a mausoleum, of all places. We believe that, with this last, we’ve identified all of his and his group’s possible hideouts.”
“Oh?” Adolf brightened. “Which man?”
“Heinz,” Klaus replied. “I loaned him to August’s task force.”
“We planned the operation together.” Voight relayed this news with his usual detachment, although Charlotte detected a hint of pride in his voice. “Now,” he continued, “we tighten the net. Even the most determined hare must go to ground sometime, and Herr Smith’s burrows are all closed.”
Marie-France literally clutched at her pearls. “I don’t want this madman coming for the girls! They’re hardly essential employees,” she pointed out. “Maybe they should stay home, for now.”
“Nothing ever happens in the mailroom,” Gretchen rebuked her sourly.
“Zelda is,” Voight snapped. “Her research is invaluable, as are her insights.”
Ingrid favored him with a flat look. “From what I’ve heard, she’s more indentured servant than scholar. Poor Charlotte never sees her sister. Really, August, are you chaining the girl to the desk?”
“Only sometimes.” Zelda hid her expression behind her glass.
Marie-France cackled. “August loves to crack the whip.”
Zelda nearly choked on her wine, coughing to cover her reaction. Voight, who usually maintained an impenetrable façade, allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to cross his lips. The rest of the table exchanged glances, Ingrid’s eyebrows arching in amused disbelief. “That he does,” she said evenly. “He’s also got cigarettes on him, somewhere, which I’d like for him to share.”
Charlotte watched Ingrid select one from the proffered case with something like envy; there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to make this night bearable. She’d heard the rumors about Voight’s proclivities—everyone at the table had, ironically, except Marie-France. Klaus called him the Reich’s Marquis de Sade, only without the writing ability, a slave to his vices whose love of mind-altering substances was only matched by his love for more…unconventional pleasures.
But there was no sign of the degenerate Klaus described in the solicitous figure pouring her sister more wine, and Zelda certainly hadn’t said anything. Voight lit a cigarette of his own, bemused, as Gretchen continued to complain. The fact that there was a serial killer loose made as little difference to her as his evidently imminent capture; the house could be on fire, and Charlotte doubted Gretchen would either notice or care, not if there was a fashion magazine to look at.
Fred rubbed his temples, resigned. “If my daughter learns anything, Adolf, it’s an accident.”
“You told me there’d be eligible bachelors here,” Gretchen accused.
“Education is attractive,” Ingrid remarked blandly, exhaling a thin plume of smoke.
Gretchen groaned. “I miss Berlin.”
“Zelda should go to Berlin,” Marie-France advised, “so she can meet a man. Ingrid, is that where you met Adolf?”
“No.” Ingrid tapped ash onto her plate. “We met in Milan.”
Marie-France’s eyes lit up. “How exotic!”
“I’m Italian,” Ingrid clarified. “My mother, though, is originally from Liechtenstein.”
“You’re German now,” Adolf reminded her.
“I’d like to go on a date again, just one real date before I die.” Gretchen stared glumly at her plate. “But everyone at work is married, or engaged, or ugly! The only one who isn’t, is Zelda.”
“August isn’t married,” Marie-France retorted. “Or ugly.”
Gretchen reared back, mortified. “He’s also old as dirt!”
Fred, the poor man, appeared to be about to pass out. “Gretchen!”
Ingrid winked at Voight. “Go find a rocking chair, Grandpa.”
“When August was born,” Zelda quipped, “dinosaurs roamed the earth.”
Voight’s lips quirked in something approximating a smile. “We still used runes when I was in school.”
“How old were you, Ingrid,” Marie-France asked, “when you met Adolf?”
“I was twenty-three,” Ingrid replied. “And he was thirty-five, older than August is now. Amazingly, however, he wasn’t quite ready for the nursing home.”
Marie-France forged ahead bravely. “How long did you know each other before getting married?”
“Two weeks.” Ingrid touched her husband’s elbow, her eyes warming.
“We Dassels are a decisive lot,” Adolf asserted. “I was Gauleiter in Bonn then. I went to Milan on business, and Ingrid was assigned to me as an interpreter.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “We eloped at the end of the trip. Nineteen years later, I’m still the happiest man in the world, and I still cannot begin to imagine what this wonderful woman sees in me.”
“Wait.” Gretchen paused as she worked something out. “Klaus is twenty-seven. Ingrid, you must be…forty-two?” She stared at him. “How did that happen?”
“Magic,” Klaus whispered, leaning forward. “She willed me into existence from inside a tulip.”