That afternoon, Jörg walked around the inn searching for the Count. He could have asked Xandra, but she was busy examining patients during the day. Her patients weren’t human, and the thought of seeing a monster face-to-face disturbed Jörg, so he searched for the Count on his own.
The Count wasn’t in the courtyard or the lounge, and Jörg didn’t come across him in any of the building’s hallways. Finally, he went to the Count’s room. He knocked on the door, and a voice answered from within.
It was the same level tone as always, so Jörg didn’t hesitate to enter.
He saw tightly packed bookshelves and a shelf decorated with a porcelain clock. Surprised by the feel of the thick rug under his feet, Jörg hesitantly crossed the room. The Count wasn’t inside but on the balcony, drinking wine in a chair beside the small table as he had the other day.
As Jörg stepped out onto the balcony, the brilliant rays of the setting sun blinded him. He admired the view of the landscape surrounding the inn—a sight that was inaccessible from his own room.
He had no idea what town sat below him. It wasn’t Paris; he couldn’t see any of the buildings he should be able to see from this direction, and the architecture was completely different.
Needless to say, it didn’t look anything like Jörg’s hometown in Germany, either.
It appeared to have once been a thriving city which, at some point, had been encroached upon by the surrounding vegetation. A section of the wall of a large redbrick building had collapsed, exposing its contents for all the world to see. Only its circular tower remained whole.
Red tiles covered the roofs of the squat houses surrounding the ruins, and the road running through the densely packed buildings ended in large fields. Beyond them lay a line of hills, which faded into far-off mountains that pierced the bottom of the pale-blue sky.
The sunset painted the houses and ruins in orange, making the ancient town appear even older. The dark shapes of thrushes flew out of the densely clustered shrubs in front of Jörg. He could see only a smattering of people walking down the road, most of the residents likely busy preparing dinner.
The Count’s profile was calm as he took in the town. He didn’t seem sad, simply filled with a serene sense of nostalgia. The wan evening light turned the Count’s green eyes and black hair a shade darker and added a faint tinge of red to his porcelain-white skin.
Jörg moved to stand beside the Count.
“What is this place?”
“Târgoviște,” the Count replied. “My hometown. Stunning, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
So this was Walachia. Jörg felt like a squire standing next to an aged general. The Count had lived for over four hundred years, so from his point of view, Jörg must seem no different from a newborn baby. Standing with the Count in the same spot, looking out at the same view, filled Jörg with awe.
“I spoke with Lila,” Jörg said, still looking down at the town.
“And?”
“She’s more organized than I am. She said that if we want to help the people who are starving, we should work with Milos to collect information, sell intel on the German Army to the British SIS, and use those funds to buy food.”
“What did you say to that?”
“I asked her to let me think about it.”
“As indecisive as always.”
“I can’t make up my mind that quickly. Depending on what happens, Lila and I could end up as enemies.”
“All you have to do is stay by her side. Who knows what that child will do?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You heard that Lila used to live with her parents in a French town called Lille?”
“Yes, she told me that herself. It’s in France, but a lot of Polish people live there. The town was built on the coal mining industry.”
“Her father wasn’t a miner. Her mother didn’t work there, either. They were both merchants who frequently traveled to Lille. Their job was to bring in things the people needed from outside the town and sell them at prices people could afford. They sold quality items cheap, so everyone loved them.”
“Huh, really? I thought they must’ve lived there.”
“However, they sold more than just merchandise.”
The Count looked into Jörg’s eyes and smiled. “Do you know what’s northwest of Lille? Dunkirk and Calais, both port towns. Cross the Strait of Dover, and you’ll reach England. Lille is also close to the Belgian border.”
“You don’t mean…?”
“Indeed. Lila’s father provided the British with information about mainland Europe. In his search for a path to Polish independence, he was working as a spy to get the support of Great Britain.”
The Count continued, telling Jörg about the day Lila’s father had brought his daughter to Xandra’s inn…
Late September, 1914. A cold drizzle was falling the night a man came to the inn with a young girl. The two were soaked, mud clinging to their boots, the girl trembling like a puppy abandoned in a field. They hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days, and the famished girl’s body made her look no older than ten.
The man’s name was Radosław Kowalski. He knocked on the front door, announcing that he’d come to speak with Count Silvestri. The door opened almost immediately. Xandra met him at the entrance and saw their sorry state, immediately beckoned them inside, and made them sit in front of the fireplace in the lounge. She helped them take off their overcoats, gave them towels to dry themselves, then left for a while before returning from the kitchen with soup and bread.