Zelda emerged from her interview to find Herr Goff waiting, the same moon-faced underling who’d escorted her in. As he led her back down the sterile, featureless hall, she couldn’t help but dwell on the absurdity of her life. She’d subjected herself to that Nazified nose inspector for the sake of a man who’d alternately told her the most passionate things she’d ever heard and then threatened her, all so she could be congratulated on earning the right to bear his child! She’d found both situations oddly romantic, as well as profoundly unsettling, much like August himself.
What was wrong with her, she wondered?
Her thoughts swirled with that question, as well as all the sarcastic retorts she’d bitten back—although the doctor’s attitude had improved remarkably upon discovering her connection to Adolf. Goff was less impressed; entering the small reception area, he glared at Ingrid. She’d insisted on coming along, over Zelda’s protests, and was now smoking as she stared out the window. Today, her hat was an elaborate display of feathers, minus the bird. She always dressed to the nines, using fashion like armor. It was an impulse Zelda understood and, seeing the other woman, she couldn’t help but feel a stirring of kinship. Ingrid was still something of an enigma but, unlike her son, she hid both a keen sense of humor and genuine warmth beneath that cold façade.
And, Zelda had to admit, she was grateful for some backup.
“Ma’am.” Clearing his throat, Goff pointed sternly. “You can’t smoke near the oxygen tank.”
Ingrid spun around, her expression imperious. “Where’s the certificate?”
He hesitated, momentarily taken aback by her directness. “There’s paperwork to complete.”
Exhaling, she blew a perfect smoke ring, her eyes never leaving his. “And?”
“You’ll have it within a week or two,” he stammered, his growing nervousness evident.
“No,” she contradicted him, her voice as icy as her demeanor. “We’ll have it now.”
Goff crossed his arms defiantly, trying to reclaim some authority. “Ma’am, please put that cigarette out.”
Ingrid wasn’t a short woman, especially in those heels; approaching him, she stared him straight in the eye as her lips curved into a thin smile. “You’re lucky I’m not putting it out on your arm,” she purred, inhaling again and exhaling a thin plume of smoke right into his face.
Dr. Schulz’s parasite of a clerk blinked rapidly. “Weber, from Race and Settlement, has to sign it.”
“Fine,” Ingrid retorted, her tone dripping with disdain. “We’ll wait.”
Goff, eyeing her, made no secret of his own irritation. “Herr Weber is a busy man.”
Ingrid arched a delicately penciled eyebrow. “Too busy to take my husband’s call?”
Her question held a false innocence that Goff, unfortunately for him, took at face value. “I’m sure your husband understands that men have jobs,” he informed her, his voice rich with condescension. “And can’t jump through hoops for every woman who—
“My husband,” Ingrid cut in smoothly, “is Adolf Dassel.”
Goff’s mouth worked silently as the color drained from his face, leaving him with the complexion of sour milk. “Excuse me?”
“You didn’t recognize me from the papers?” Ingrid cocked her head to the side, feigning confusion. She might be nicer than Klaus, but she had the same approach to dealing with anyone dumb enough to cross her. In the silence that followed, she tapped ash onto the floor as Goff tried manfully not to wet himself. “Are you certain,” she asked quietly, “absolutely certain that Herr Weber will agree with your assessment? And, speaking of Herr Weber, how are you planning on explaining, to him and to my husband, that our family is unimportant to you? That, when given the opportunity to do the Reichsminister a favor, you chose instead to hide in your office and fondle those mouse’s bits you use for reproduction?”
Goff’s jaw worked, but only the tiniest squeak emerged.
Ingrid’s brilliant red lips were almost touching his. “Whatever pornography you have must be incredible.”
Zelda choked down a giggle.
Dropping her cigarette, Ingrid ground it out under one red-soled shoe. “Fraulein Wahl and I are going out to lunch,” she informed him, all business once again. “When we return, I expect Herr Weber himself to personally hand me all the necessary paperwork. Otherwise, this office’s next visitor will be my husband and I can assure you that he’s much less patient.”
Goff glanced at Zelda, his eyes wide with panic.
Zelda’s answering simper was the picture of innocence.
“Come on, sweetheart.” Sliding her arm around Zelda’s shoulders, Ingrid steered her toward the door. “Our friend is about to have a busy afternoon.”
Zelda managed to hold it together until they stepped outside. The moment the fresh, chilly air hit her, she burst into laughter, doubling over as the tension released in waves. The distinct smell of the city in fall—a mix of damp leaves, car exhaust, and the greasy miasma of street food—filled her lungs. “God,” she gasped between giggles, “was that epic!”
Ingrid smiled, unruffled, and reapplied her lipstick with a practiced hand. “Life is unfair,” she remarked. “Use what you’ve got.”
They walked down the sidewalk, Ingrid leading the way to a café she’d visited before. As they walked, she reached for her cigarette case out of habit, then wrinkled her nose and put it away. “You’re lucky you don’t smoke,” she grumbled. “I couldn’t, for a decade! I spent my glory years either pregnant or breastfeeding, and I didn’t want the boys turning out any stranger than necessary.”
Which seemed entirely reasonable to Zelda. “Why’d you start again?”
Ingrid fixed her with a knowing look. “Wouldn’t you?”
They arrived at Bistro Belle Époque, a cozy place with warm, dim lighting and the scent of freshly baked pastries mingling with the rich and full tang of coffee. The walls were adorned with eclectic art, and the furniture was a mismatched collection of overstuffed chairs and rustic tables, creating a homey feel. A smiling waitress greeted them, and led them to a quaint spot near the back. Ingrid ordered a flute of champagne, while Zelda opted for peppermint tea. Even if she were still allowed to drink espresso, the smell turned her stomach these days. Most foods did, although both she and Ingrid decided to take a chance on the chef’s special.
As the waitress walked away, Zelda drummed her fingers on her armrest. “Well, that was awful.”
Ingrid’s indifferent shrug spoke volumes. “For that tiresome nincompoop, sure. A little humiliation could only improve his outlook.”
Zelda stared through chintz curtains at the city’s bustle. She admired how Ingrid seemed to navigate life’s chaos with such grace and she wished she could be as composed, as confident. “I guess you’re right,” she muttered, more to herself than to her companion.
Leaning across the table, Ingrid pointed. “Just wait until the one in there is old enough to start school. You’ll have to interact with other parents and, worse, teachers!” At Zelda’s shocked reaction, her eyes lit with amusement. “Klaus attended the Adolf Hitler School in Bonn, which is where his brothers still are. He never got into much trouble there, but I’ve been dragged into more than one meeting over Stefan dissecting roadkill during recess or Kurt lighting toilet seats on fire.”
Lunch arrived, and about ten seconds later Zelda wished it hadn’t. Despite the quiche’s promising appearance, after the first bite even August would need his safeword. Most tires weren’t as rubbery as these chunks of salmon, and the asparagus was so overcooked that it’d taken on the texture of soggy cardboard. She’d describe the flavor to him later, she decided, as seabed meets compost heap; with her luck, the aftertaste would still be lingering.
“When I last came here,” Ingrid observed, “the food was edible.”
Zelda looked up. “The chef knew which end of the knife to hold?”
“I’ve never understood this obsession with French cuisine.” Ingrid tried her champagne, and winced. “A French chef’s absolute best effort almost matches an Italian chef’s worst.”
Sipping her peppermint tea, Zelda felt a certain relief; some things were harder to ruin than others. It also surprised her to hear Ingrid mention anything about being Italian. She didn’t entirely avoid the subject of her heritage but, at the same time, Zelda had known her for months and still had no idea which region she’d been raised in. Setting down the cup, she studied the other woman. “You must miss home,” she ventured. “I would. Do you visit often?”
“No.” Ingrid probed at the quiche with her fork, a shadow passing over her face.
At Ingrid’s abrupt change in tone, Zelda’s brow furrowed. “How come?”
Ingrid didn’t answer at first, only traced the rim of her champagne glass with a fingertip. Her nails matched her lips; Zelda recognized Dior’s iconic 999, one of her own favorite shades. Then, with a self-deprecating chuckle, Ingrid’s eyes met hers. “It’s story time, I think.”
Folding her hands on the table, Zelda settled in.
“I’d just started writing my doctoral dissertation in economics.” Ingrid’s expression warmed. “My advisor, knowing how ambitious I was, recommended me to the organizers of a trade conference being held at the university. It’ll introduce you to the right people,” she mimicked, adopting his grave and gravelly tone. “Who you know is important in academia.” She finished her champagne with a thoughtful sip. “I’d be translating, German to Italian, for the Gauleiter of Bonn.”
“And that was Adolf?” Zelda prompted, raising an eyebrow in anticipation.
A soft, secret smile played on Ingrid’s lips. “I knew he was a widower and quite the well-respected scholar in his own circles, so I was expecting some codger. Then I walked into the welcome reception and….” She shook her head, still bemused at her own shock after all this time. “Standing there, looking bored and irritated, was the handsomest man I’d ever seen. He might not have been ancient, but he was clearly at least a decade older, and I also found that intimidating.”
Zelda couldn’t help but grin at the excitement in Ingrid’s voice.
Ingrid waved dismissively. “Of course, then he opened his mouth.”
“Which,” Zelda admitted, “sounds about like the reaction Charlotte had to Klaus.”
Ingrid’s smile deepened. “Klaus called and told me he’d met the woman of his dreams. Regrettably, she didn’t like him much, so he needed to give her a present. It might not improve matters,” she continued, “but he’d hopefully convince her that he didn’t eat babies for breakfast.”
“And that was the brushes?” Zelda queried. She couldn’t decide what floored her more: that Klaus understood the impression he’d made on Charlotte, on all of them, or that he’d cared.
“I asked an artist friend of mine what to get,” Ingrid confirmed. She signaled for more champagne, her fingers tapping lightly on the table. “Klaus and his father might not have much in common, but both men are…decisive. Two weeks after that first encounter, Adolf proposed and I accepted.”
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Zelda couldn’t hide her amazement. “And I thought a couple of months was fast!”
“It was the thunderbolt,” Ingrid murmured, touching her heart. “We spent the first week arguing when we weren’t sitting through meeting after meeting about tariffs. Then there were the lunches, the cocktail parties, the dinners! The second week we were still arguing,” she confided, “but in bed. He told me he loved me, and he wanted me to come home with him where he had a work schedule that’d make this seem like a vacation and a son who wouldn’t leave his room.”
“Romantic!” Zelda exclaimed.
The waitress removed their plates or, as she thought of it, cleaned up the crime scene. Ingrid thanked the girl for the refill on champagne, then lapsed into thought as she studied her placemat. “Adolf was honest with me from the beginning about what I’d be giving up. I’d make the same choice again in a heartbeat, but I’ve spent the past almost two decades feeding canapés to overstuffed peacocks and smiling as they lecture me on topics about which they are stunningly ignorant. Or,” she concluded, her tone darkening, “as they kiss up to me.”
“Which is somehow even worse,” Zelda remarked, thinking about Fred’s efforts in that department.
Ingrid clapped her hands together. “It is! But tell me, what are you going to wear at this wedding?”
“I’m not sure,” Zelda admitted. “So far, all I have is the hat.”
“Full nudity!” Ingrid gushed, delighted. “That’d thrill August.”
The women at the table next to them all turned to glare in unison.
Ingrid waved a friendly hello, then turned back to Zelda. “You’re such a tiny little thing, you won’t show until you’re about to give birth.”
Zelda’s face flushed with embarrassment. She tried to avoid dwelling on her impending nuptials, meaning that she hadn’t exactly put much effort into planning them. Doing things like picking out a dress meant acknowledging that life as she knew it was about to end—and what did one wear to mark that kind of occasion? She might not have ever planned a life of domestic bliss, but she had spent hours poring over bridal magazines and dreaming of how she’d push the envelope with her own avant-garde spectacle in some far distant future.
There’d been an ostrich feather reception dress she’d found once, which she’d loved almost as much as the idea of wearing pink—or black. But there’d be no friends to cheer her on, and no father to walk her down the aisle. Everyone was gone, along with a world where such creativity was possible. She shook her head slightly, as if to clear the thought. “I have a satin number I can do something with,” she decided. “It’s tea length.”
“Your clothes are all gorgeous,” Ingrid assured her. “But August is not a poor man. We can visit a shop.”
Zelda changed the subject, eager to divert the focus from herself. “What was your wedding like?”
“Rushed,” Ingrid pronounced. “Only SS men need permission to marry, so we did manage to avoid that hurdle, but Adolf proposed on the last night of the conference, and he wanted to go home married.” Tilting her flute back and forth, she watched the inch of champagne at the bottom swirl. “We all but ambushed the local judge, then ate pizza by candlelight at a grotto with the same charming ambiance as Gollum’s cave.” Glancing up, her eyes held Zelda’s. “I knew, in that moment, that I was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.”
Resting her chin on her hand, Zelda’s shoulders sagged. “August and I also spent most of our courtship arguing.” If courtship was a word that could even be applied to their situation.
“Good.” Ingrid’s tone was firm. “Never, ever waste a minute on a man who bores you.”
“There were rumors at work,” Zelda confessed, “almost from the beginning.” Her deep, resonant sigh expelled the last of the morning’s frustrations. “Some of them were just absurd, like that he’d lock me in his office and feed me lines of cocaine while making me recite various theories of collecting evidence.” In Gretchen’s retelling, it’d been Locard’s exchange principle. “Or that he had a dungeon in his basement, where he’d take me to teach me lessons if I made a mistake.”
“People have such vivid imaginations,” Ingrid observed breezily.
Zelda chuckled, feeling a bit lighter. “Right? You’ll also be thrilled to know that he’s secretly a vampire, and keeps me around as his personal blood source. Which explains both his odd work schedule, and why I’m always so pale!” Even Gretchen had dismissed that tale—mostly.
Ingrid adjusted her posture, gathering her thoughts. “There were rumors after I arrived in Bonn, too. That Adolf had had me stashed somewhere as his mistress, and that this trip had been some sort of bait and switch. A pretext to legitimize me. Because who gets married after a fortnight?”
“People thought you and Adolf were an item,” Zelda verified, “while his first wife was still alive?”
In response, Ingrid’s expression grew serious. “I hadn’t known about the problems in their marriage,” she began slowly. “Although I wasn’t surprised to learn, not once I met Klaus. I was angry for him more than for me, that kind of slander is harmful enough to adults but can be devastating to children. Still, the person I was angriest for was Julia. She deserved better than her own supposed friends painting her as some cast-off.” Lingering on the reflection, Ingrid’s gaze softened. “Adolf took his vows seriously. He wanted to help her.”
Zelda’s eyes widened as the import of what she’d heard sank in. “Julia’s death wasn’t accidental?”
Once again, Ingrid took her time answering. She stared into her glass, as if searching for the right words. “No one was entirely sure. Accidents do happen, but the consensus seemed to be that she’d waited until the last possible second and then thrown herself in front of that car. Which is what the driver claimed, and the inquest supported his version of events.” The silence between them stretched, Ingrid lost in the past and Zelda’s heart breaking for a woman she’d never meet. “Julia was, by all accounts, lovely. But she was also high-strung and terribly unhappy. She’d been a world-renowned violinist, before. Adolf forced her to give up her career, to be home with Klaus, and he questioned whether he’d somehow driven her to it.”
Comprehension dawned on Zelda. “And Klaus blamed Adolf.”
Ingrid’s nod was curt. “He did. But not as much as he blamed himself.”
Glancing at the obnoxious biddies next to them, Zelda dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did Klaus really put strychnine in your coffee?”
Ingrid’s earlier warmth returned; she evidently found her son’s murderous nature as adorable as Charlotte did. “Ah, the one I didn’t catch.” Her eyes twinkled with a mix of fondness and amusement. “He was always so creative, the darling child. I let my guard down after discovering that black mamba in the bureau,” she finished. “I’d thought we were done for the morning.”
“Wait.” Zelda blinked, certain that she must’ve misheard. “For the morning?”
“There were dozens of attempts,” Ingrid informed her, apparently unmoved. “Everything from sawing through the chandelier chain to planting spiders in my favorite Louboutins. Black widows,” she clarified. “He favors a rather…gothic aesthetic. There were also other poisonings, and near poisonings, along with any number of booby-traps.”
And, judging by Ingrid’s tone, she could’ve been reminiscing about his pressed flower collection.
“As brilliant as he was deadly,” Ingrid mused, “even back then. I’d catch him staring at me with that look of his, lurking in some corner or other, and wonder what I’d gotten myself into. But he had no social graces at all, and not the first clue how to make friends. He terrified his classmates, who made themselves feel braver by bullying him unmercifully.”
Zelda sat back in her chair, arms folded over her chest. “That’s hard to picture.”
“See?” Ingrid threw up her hands. “I can work miracles! You lesser saints, get in line.”
“You’re so close now,” Zelda mentioned. “What changed?”
“I asked to speak with him,” Ingrid replied. “In the greenhouse, where he’d presumably found the rat poison.” Her tone remained matter-of-fact. “I sat him down, and told him what he’d done wrong. Strychnine had a bitter taste, I explained, like the oleander he’d tried before. He should put it into something sweet next time, or use a compound like arsenic that was easier to disguise.”
The waitress reappeared, asking if they wanted dessert.
They decided that they did.
Returning their menu cards, Ingrid watched the other woman leave. “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Most people get it wrong, but that’s the actual quote.” She left the statement hanging in the air as she turned her head and gazed at the world outside. “Family is a choice, blood or no, a choice we make again and again each morning of our lives. To show up for one another, to be present, regardless of whether that’s convenient or serves our own interests.”
Zelda’s breath caught as something deep inside contracted. “My family is just me and Charlotte.”
“You have us, too,” Ingrid reminded her gently. “And August.”
Zelda managed a brief, fractional smile. “Thank you.”
Ingrid scoffed. “Don’t thank me for stating the truth.”
Some macarons arrived.
“We’re an odd bunch,” Ingrid continued, giving one a hesitant nibble. “And I do hope you take it as a compliment when I tell you this, sweetheart, you fit right in. So does August, much to my son’s alarm. He’s been part of our family for years now, and we love him.”
The earth had stopped spinning, Zelda swore, when she first learned how close August was to Klaus’s family. She’d overheard Klaus call him a punishment from the gods, testing his frith like no one ever had, but Klaus would also risk his life to defend a man he repeatedly referred to as the most unwanted kinsman in the history of kinship. “The problem,” she countered, “is that Klaus knows what he wants out of life, and out of marriage—and so does August.”
She’d left the bigger part unsaid, but Ingrid’s tone shifted as she touched Zelda’s hand in support. “August never loved Anna like he loves you. I knew, when you two showed up for dinner, that for the first time I was seeing him happy. Or,” she amended, “as happy as he gets.”
Zelda issued a derisive snort. “He married her, didn’t he?”
“Besotted doesn’t mean happy,” Ingrid corrected gently. “And it’s easy to mistake pity for love. Ann was something of a wounded bird in the beginning. Regrettably, over time, that frail and piteous nature coalesced into something much more brittle and stubborn. While August was thwarting an attempt on my husband’s life, she was home complaining that he hadn’t bought her enough presents and she felt neglected.” Ingrid pursed her lips in distaste. “Then she threw him over for the tennis racket king, a man with the brain of a cantaloupe.”
“Marie-France was right about one thing.” Zelda’s own macaron was meant to be lavender and tasted like an air freshener. Giving it a disappointed look, she returned it to her plate. “My father wouldn’t approve.” She faltered, searching for the right words. “Putting everything else aside, he’d have a lot to say about me marrying my former boss.” And she, in turn, would attempt to explain that the apocalypse had come and gone since his death. Yes, he’d raised her to value independence, but things were different now—and so was she. August had been her rock, her confidant, and her biggest supporter through the worst time in her life. He wasn’t perfect, but he was real, and he was there. Hopefully, in time, her father would’ve come around to see that and value it.
“Adolf being so much older traumatized my mother,” Ingrid lamented, “when I brought him home. And his politics, in turn, traumatized my father. Neither of them wanted me to give up my studies or, as they put it, throw my dreams away over some flavor-of-the-moment fling.” She hesitated, her features contracting with a long-held pain. “But the real sticking point was religion.”
It usually was, in Zelda’s experience. “Catholic?”
“Profoundly.” Ingrid sniffed. “And marrying Adolf meant giving up the church.”
According to Charlotte, the last of the Dassels to embrace Christianity had fought in the Crusades. Klaus had been raised in the Asatru faith, and his father took it almost as seriously as he did. Worshipping Odin and the rest of the Norse pantheon was as normal to them as worshipping Jesus was to most of America. Klaus’s feelings about Catholicism, however, went beyond a nonbeliever’s disinterest. He hated it, and Zelda wondered if she was about to find out why. “Who did they want you to marry?” she asked. “Priests are off limits.”
“Anyone else,” Ingrid answered, “so long as he didn’t worship Odin. One of the innumerable, ridiculous superstitions where I’m from is that if you put an icon of St. Anthony upside down in a cup and shake it, you can abuse him into finding you a lover. Or, in the case of my Nonna, find your granddaughter a new and better one. I caught her crouched behind a lemon tree, begging St. Anthony to drag the Devil-worshipping German back into the Pit from whence he’d come.”
Clapping a hand to her mouth, Zelda squealed. “Oh, no!”
“It was the first and last thing she and my father agreed on.” Ingrid tried to find the humor in her own joke and failed. Her eyes grew distant, the barely healed wound reopening. “They saw Adolf as a threat to everything they believed in, everything they wanted for me. It was as if I’d betrayed them by choosing him. When I told them we were getting married, they told me that leaving with him meant not coming home—ever. Not unless and until I came to my senses.”
Zelda’s own pain deepened at this revelation. “They’ve never changed their minds?”
Ingrid shook her head slowly, a faint and bittersweet smile touching her lips. “To them, I’ve always been the prodigal daughter who never returned. Even when I succeeded, even when I was happy, it was never enough. They couldn’t see past their own prejudice and fear.”
The justification of which seemed to be religion’s purpose. “Have they met any of their grandsons?”
“No.” Ingrid knocked back the last of her drink. “We hoped they’d relent when we had more children.” She dropped her gaze to her steepled fingers. “I couldn’t love Klaus more if he came from my own body, but my parents couldn’t accept him. And, once again, he blamed himself.”
And blamed the church, in turn, for hurting the mother he adored. “Dad used to argue about religion with Oma Jeanette. He told her once that he and she were both atheists, he just believed in one fewer god than she did. Once she finally grasped why he’d dismissed all the other possible gods—Krishna, Benzaiten, Ahura Mazda—she’d understand why he’d dismissed hers.”
Ingrid studied her intently. “What did your father believe in?”
Zelda’s own expression turned troubled. “Peace.”