Tobias Greenglass
After a few days, I’d grown used to the veil and the dress that I donned whenever I left my hotel room. I’d grown used to the food, the climate. But I couldn’t relax for peanuts. I spent my nights curled on the lumpy bed, my muscles tight with anxiety. My own shadow startled me, and I walked as quickly as I could past the soldiers that roamed the streets.
What’s the reason for your stress, you might ask. Well, it all started when Sydney couldn’t get the painting off his airship. The embassy has been pressuring me ever since. They want to meet me today to “talk about it”, which kind of sounds like a euphemism. Are they going to “silence” me? Just the thought of this conversation makes me jittery.
I look around my room. It might have been dusty if it wasn’t so damp; the mixture created a thin layer of grime on each flat surface. There is a window, which I appreciate, but all I can see through it is the outer wall of the neighboring building. So yeah, great view. Lots of light, for sure. It really lifts my mood. Which is why I’m totally smiling as I don my best going-out clothing: the veil and heavy floor-length dress. The fabric kind of smells like mildew now that I’ve been here a couple of days.
It’s a short walk to the embassy, and I enter the alley to knock on the back door. Funny how this whole thing started when I exited the museum’s back door - curse Cale Pickford and his cowardice!
A guard lets me in, and another leads me to the sitting room. He lays a towel on the velvet couch and then I sit down. The sumptuous room is practically dripping with rich fabric and crystals, though the whole building shows its age. The decor, which resembled my grandmother’s employer’s home, had seen its prime several decades ago.
I sit there, fidgeting with my skirt, for a little while. A longcase clock ticks in the corner. A pair of young men in suits chat as they walk through the room, but neither look at me. They step into an office down the hall and shut the door. The ceiling creaks under someone’s footsteps upstairs, and the cracked plaster lets out a dusty sigh.
A few more minutes pass until a more decorated guard enters and says, “The princess will see you now.”
My heart rate spikes, and I gulp back my nerves. As I enter the room, I see Paul Yakovich sitting at an imposing desk. A cloud of cigarette smoke hits my nostrils, but he has nothing in his hands. Then I see the princess, tucked in an alcove. A table is spread before her, covered in delicacies. She holds a cigarette in one gloved hand and taps the ashes into a teacup. Her wrinkled arms are a strange contrast to her smooth, young-looking face. Must be the cigarettes.
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She doesn’t speak, but uses her cigarette to point to a chair. I sit facing Yakovich, struggling to see his face and expressions. The only light in the room comes from a small desk lamp and a window behind the princess, obscured by gauzy curtains.
“You must know why we’ve summoned you,” the man says.
I swallow what little saliva is left in my mouth. “I believe I do, but could you please explain so that we’re on the same page?”
He sighs, his hands forming fists. “Her Highness requested this painting specifically. It has special meaning to her. She expected to have it three days ago, but she does not. Do you know why that is?”
“I’m very sorry, Your Highness, my transporter was not able to get the painting to this embassy due to privacy concerns. His crewmates would have noticed and asked about it. However, the airship will be returning in a few weeks, and we will ensure it can be retrieved then.”
“A few weeks?!” The princess screeched. “That is much too far away! Get it to me now, or else you will never see the light of day again!”
“Your Highness, please-”
Yakovich slammed his fist on the desk, and the lamp jumped. “You heard the princess! Get your little friend to turn that airship around, or else! We will not see you again until you have the painting, or five days, whichever comes first. Now get out!”
I flinch so hard that I practically jump out of my chair and sprint from the room. Someone opens the door for me, and slams it the second I’m out of the doorway. Then something yanks me back. I turn and tug my skirt’s hem from the door, then keep running until I’m in the alley.
After smoothing my skirt, I walk as fast as I can without making a spectacle back to my hotel room. With shaking hands, I hang a piece of fabric out the window. Though it’s partially concealed by the neighboring building, a messenger pigeon sees it soon enough and perches on the windowsill to take my message.
To steady my voice, I take a deep breath and hope that Sydney doesn’t hear the trembling. Hopefully the message gets to him soon enough. I hope he can find a way to come back within the five allotted days. I crumple on the bed as the mech flies away, its metal wings clicking.