Xandra gave Jörg one of the corner rooms to use as his bedroom. It was slightly smaller than the first room he’d woken up in and furnished with only a bed, desk, and dresser, but it was enough for one person. It received ample natural light, and standing at the window, Jörg could look down on the inner courtyard.
Four buildings surrounded the courtyard, obstructing his view of the outside world. The space had two stone pathways running through it—one east-west, one north-south—which connected the buildings. They weren’t covered by roofs, though, meaning that anyone trying to cross in the rain would get wet. Or maybe this place didn’t ever get rain. After all, there was a monster living here, so it wouldn’t be strange for the inn to be shielded by some sort of magic.
Flowers of all colors swayed in the flower beds, and shrubs thrived, covered in glossy green leaves. Jörg opened both sides of the casement window, letting the scents of the garden blow softly into the room. He felt out of touch with the seasons. Despite already being June, this sweet smell and gentle breeze belonged to spring.
His thoughts were in disarray.
Masses of his fellow soldiers still fought on the battlefield, yet here he was, having been brought to this verdant paradise.
Jörg practiced using his simulacrum, and once he got used to it, the Count suggested he take a break until Lila calmed down.
“Like a holiday?” Jörg asked.
“Take some time to recover from the fatigue you’ve built up on the battlefield. I assume it’s been a while since you spent any time with a woman.”
“Where would I go?”
“How about your hometown?”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t know what to say if I ran into my parents or friends. They would think I was a deserter.”
“Then how about a stroll around a French town? Paris, say.”
“In enemy territory?”
“Even now, away from the front lines, you only know French people as soldiers. Lila detests you because she sensed your dependence on such ideas. So why not start by trying to change them?”
“But a German wouldn’t be safe there. Also, I don’t speak French.”
“I can change the appearance of your simulacrum. And your body knows the language, so there’s no need to worry about that. Shall we get started? Place a hand on the table. Either one.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Affix a seal so you don’t get lost.”
Jörg did as he was bade and placed his left hand on the edge of the table.
The Count removed a paintbrush and a small bottle from a shelf, then took up a position standing diagonally across from Jörg. He opened the bottle, soaked the tip of the brush in the green liquid, pared away drips on the edge of the bottle, and began to paint a peculiar pattern on the back of Jörg’s hand.
He drew two large concentric circles with a triangle and diagonal lines in the center, then added strange text in places. The paint dried quickly, and the color slowly faded. It didn’t disappear completely, though, and Jörg could still see it if he squinted. It had seeped underneath his skin.
The Count set down the brush and closed the bottle. “Humans cannot see that design. Even if you rub it or wash it, it won’t come off. It can give instructions and rescind them, which you can do any number of times. Come this way. I’ll explain how to use it.”
The Count guided Jörg into the hall, where they stopped in front of a door.
Jörg’s eyes went wide. The same design that had just been drawn on the back of his hand decorated the door panel. But the paint that had been used here was red as blood.
“You can go through this door to Paris.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Monsters and simulacrums do not obey the rules of space-time and can go wherever, whenever they please. The design on the back of your hand is set for Paris. If you wish to go there, it will react to your simulacrum and transport you automatically.”
“What about when I want to come back?”
“There are similar doors around Paris, so simply find one and return.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Your simulacrum will search for them without you having to do anything. Keep an eye out for this design, which you’ll find inscribed on doors around the city. It won’t be just inns and restaurants, either; you’ll often find that the door to someone’s house or a warehouse has become a portal. The design is always the same color, so as long as you keep your eyes open, I’m sure you won’t miss it.”
“And if I don’t find it?”
“This is the address for the inn here,” the Count said, handing Jörg a piece of paper. “You’ll have to transfer a few times, but you can get back using taxis and trains. The same design is on the front door of this inn, so you’ll know which one it is.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“I can lend you as much as you need. Just be careful of pickpockets.”
The Count removed a wallet from his coat pocket and handed it to Jörg. Next, he reached out with a finger and drew a rectangle on the wall next to the door, which transformed into a mirror. “The symbol on the back of your hand contains a spell to make people see your simulacrum as a Frenchman. However, these days, people might assume a healthy young man wandering around the city to be a spy, so you’ll pretend to be an injured soldier with a damaged left arm and a face disfigured by shrapnel. Come now, look into the mirror and see your new visage.”
The Count had Jörg stand in front of the wall. The unfamiliar face of a young Frenchman stared back at Jörg from deep within the mirror. The injured soldier was out of uniform, wearing civilian clothes, and he had a large reddish-black scar that ran from his left cheek down to his chin.
Jörg tentatively raised his left hand to his cheek. His arm shook when he tried to move it and wouldn’t do what he wanted it to, but when he finally managed to trace a finger over the deep scar, the skin was uneven and had patches where it had been stretched taut.
The Count handed Jörg a thin mask to conceal the scar. The artificial material was the same color as his skin, only thicker. He fit it to his face, where it covered his cheek like a mask at a masquerade ball.
With the scar hidden, his guise as a young Frenchman was complete. He was a sophisticated youth who could walk the city freely and looked a little older than Jörg, just around marrying age.
The Count’s reflection smiled. “Right now, there’s no more fitting role for you than an injured veteran. If anyone asks you about the war, just talk about the things you did to the French Army and switch the sides around. Simple, right?”