Four Keys

Prague, 1992

“Welcome to the building. Save the boy.”

Nikola heard the words distinctly, but there was no one around. She tightened her grip on her backpack strap and turned back to the message board in the dimly lit průjezd. The passage was chilly and darker than it should have been, as if the winter afternoon light had stopped at the threshold and refused to come further. Heavy double doors blocked the far end of the vestibule. Above them, something protruded from the cement—a figure in the masonry. The air smelled of damp and dust, with an undertone of rust. A trickle of water dripping down a pipe glimmered like a thread of silver.

She squinted at the various messages, some in English, some in Czech.

Looking for ride to Berlin Monday!

Honza, meet me at the Globe tonight – Suzie.

Albion is a criminal.

She eyed the last one. Not great. Albion was Nikola’s landlord, though she’d never met him. The key to her new flat, left for her at Poste Restante, sat heavy in her jeans pocket. Albion’s accompanying instructions, in a tight, jagged script, had been succinct but exact, leading Nikola through swirling snow, along darkly cobbled Malá Strana alleys, to this building. Forbidding, yes. But criminal-owned?

“Save the boy.”

The words were in Czech, scraping-gruff, and sounded like they came from the end of the průjezd. An echo, maybe? She approached the wooden double doors, which on closer inspection reminded her of medieval castle gates. The keystone above boasted a sinister carved stone face.

“Well, my mother always said Prague was magical,” she muttered.

“Speak up, girl.”

Nikola tilted her head. This had to be the effect of jet lag. “What are you meant to be, some sort of devil?”

“Rude,” the face replied. “I’m a faun. Fancy not knowing that! I suppose you’re a tourist.”

“I’m not, actually. I’m a student. I just moved here.” And now I’m talking to masonry.

“Your Czech is terrible.”

“Wow. A grumpy gargoyle. So—”

“I’m a grotesque, thank you very much! How impertinent. Keep it up and I might not impart my Foreboding Missive.”

“Oh, yes,” Nikola said. “Something about ‘save the boy’?”

“Humph. I don’t know why I bother.”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” The face didn’t respond. “For a hallucination, you’re very moody.”

The grotesque would say no more; its face settled into stony stillness. Nikola pulled the key out of her pocket and headed for the stairs.

Nikola’s flat turned out to be one long, ground floor room with a single window. A square table, two chairs, a narrow seventies-style sofa and a chest of drawers sat like lumps on the utilitarian green carpet. Her mattress was in the mezzanine above the front door, reached via ladder.

“You get what you pay for.” She set down her backpack, which held everything she had brought on her expat adventure. She pulled out a wooden box the size of a very thick book—the only thing she still had of her mother’s, an heirloom from her Czech babička. Her button box was the one thing she couldn’t leave behind. Unpacked, it transformed the room into home.

She went to the window and pulled back the curtain to peer through overgrown vines at an inner-bloc wilderness. Pity it wasn’t maintained. In the springtime, roses might have framed this window. Back home, before her stepmother took over, Nikola had created a small garden in the backyard of her father’s house. It had since been “curated” by a landscaper.

She sighed and looked back at her new flat. It was certainly quiet.

The mysterious Albion would receive 80 USD a month for this rental—40 if she agreed to do odd jobs. She was going to need real employment before she started her course at the university. And something to do with her time. She’d never lived in a city where she didn’t know a soul.

**

Early the next morning, Nikola awoke to her doorbell buzzing insistently and half fell down the ladder. It must be Albion.

Outside, a young man about her own age waited, propping himself up against her doorjamb with one bent arm. He ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. “I’m supposed to give you this.”

She tore her gaze from his long lashes and cupid’s bow mouth and accepted the chunky envelope. A letter?

“I’m Jax. I live upstairs.” Australian, apparently. He took in her moon and stars pyjamas with a toes-to-head sweep and flashed a white-toothed smile. “Cute. Hope I’ll be seeing you soon. Gotta run. Need to hit the hay.”

At six thirty in the morning? “Thanks.”

He disappeared up the stairwell, and Nikola opened the envelope. Another key. Black iron, heavy, tied with a thin red ribbon. The metal was as cold as a forgotten well.

I need someone to wash the stairs each week. Equipment is in the basement. —Albion

Charming. This was not the exciting first job she’d anticipated three months ago, graduating with her BA in European History. She could almost hear her stepmother’s Told You So.

At noon, she checked her mail, though she knew it was too soon for anyone to have written her. She was going stir crazy in the tiny flat.

An old babička in housedress, scarf, and slippers stood near the trashcans, watching Nikola open and shut her empty box. “You are the American.” Her accented English was a bark.

“I’m half-Czech,” Nikola responded in Czech.

“Bah.” The woman waved the idea away. “You must be careful of Albion. He is very bad. He will trap you here.”

So, she must be the note writer. Clearly not a fan of Albion. “Um, okay.”

Nikola descended the steps to the basement, clutching the iron key with the odd sense that the archway curved behind her after she stepped through, like a mouth. She found a bucket and rags in a dank corner of a storage room, surrounded by old furniture and the smell of coal dust.

Having filled the bucket in her own flat, Nikola trudged up the four storeys, sloshing much of the hot soapy water along the way. On each landing, two doors stared like eyes. Each half-landing boasted one large, filthy window and she paused, hoping to catch a better view of the neglected garden below.

The top floor had only one door. The word “podmanitel” was scrawled across the wood in yellow chalk. Subjugator. Not a word someone would write on their own door.

Nikola wiped away the letters, then dunked the rag into the bucket, got on her knees, and began scrubbing. This was going to take ages.

Between the fourth and third floors, an old man stood smoking. “You spilled water everywhere!” He pointed at the offending puddle.

A critic. Perfect. She smiled at him, however, and responded in Czech. “Sorry. I’m new. Nikola Starling.”

He grunt-harrumphed and took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Fine. Černý. Carry on.”

On the first-floor landing, one of the doors stood wide open, and Nikola paused on her knees to take a sneaky peek. The flat looked huge, compared to hers, with tall windows facing the street. But even from the doorway she could see the piles of clothes and empty beer bottles on the floor, and wafts of heady marijuana hung in the air.

Her back ached, and she stretched like a cat to ease the pain. When she sat up, the old lady from the trash cans was staring at her, having perhaps snuck down the stairs. “What are you doing?”

“Stretch—”

“You didn’t sweep first? Stupid girl.”

Nikola didn’t respond but picked up the rag again.

“And don’t bother Jax-iku. It’s very difficult for him. Albion has poisoned him with drugs and keeps him here a prisoner. You stay away.”

Nikola raised her eyebrows. Jax hadn’t seemed particularly imprisoned, coming home from the club at half past six in the morning. She went back to her work.

The next day, she found a job waiting tables in an American-owned café for the equivalent of a dollar an hour. It wouldn’t do much to supplement her meagre scholarship, but she refused to ask her father for a handout. If she carried on with her odd jobs for Albion, at least some of her rent would be covered.

When she returned to the building, she examined the message board, side-eyeing the grotesque above the back door of the passage. It remained silent and still. “I’m not disappointed,” she muttered in its direction.

The note about Albion being a criminal was gone, replaced with a new one: Escape Albion’s Prison!

She checked her mailbox. Empty. The box next to hers was stuffed, letters popping out of the slit at the top so that she could read the name on the address. Jax Beaumont.

When she turned around, she gasped. A young man stood in the shadows. Where the hell had he come from? His dark hair was slicked back and everything about him was business meeting polished, though he looked no older than twenty-five. Dark circles under his eyes gave him a haunted aura.

“You’re Nikola.” He sounded American.

“Yes?” He must have noticed which mailbox she checked.

“I’m Albion Stínský.”

Ah, the criminal subjugator. “I wasn’t sure you actually existed.”

He stepped out of the shadows. “Yes, I exist. Just...busy.”

Dressed like that, in a full-on suit, he looked like he worked for the Russian mafia, so maybe he really was a criminal.

“I have another job for you.” He held out his hand, dangling something sparkly.

Nikola moved toward him.

A key.

“My dog needs walking. He’s upstairs.”

She took the key from Albion, shiny silver with a thin blue ribbon, and a pang of homesickness shuddered through her. “Sure. When?”

“Now, if you have time. I have a meeting. His name is Ferdinand.” Those circles under his eyes—he looked as though he never slept.

“Yes, I have time.”

Albion frowned, studying her intently with black eyes—like raven feathers. “I just got him. He’s a bit...Well, he might not want to come, but I’d appreciate if you tried.”

Nikola ascended the stairs slowly. She loved dogs, though she hadn’t had one since her beloved Sammy passed. But this one sounded tricky.

On the first floor she passed the flat she’d peeked into the day before—Jax’s, according to the grumpy lady. Loud banging emanated from behind the closed door. She briefly considered knocking but continued up the stairs.

The dirty landing windows let in little light, and the flights seemed longer than the day before. On the fourth floor, she paused in front of Albion’s apartment. No new graffiti. No barking. She slid the silver key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

The room felt expansive, bigger on the inside than it could be. The décor was old-fashioned, as though she’d stepped into an Edwardian scene. Everything was immaculate but also cozy, with carefully chosen, solid, well-made items. Nikola touched the fine burgundy leather of the armchair and the worn wood of the heavy desk. A standing lamp with an art deco shade had been left on, emitting a lovely golden glow.

On one wall, a shelf held gleaming glass jars of various items: screws, beads, buttons, dried flowers, sand. She moved toward them and heard a sigh. In the corner, chin on paws, lay the saddest-looking dog Nikola had ever seen—a mutt, probably with some Spaniel mixed in. Ferdinand.

When she took a step towards him, Ferdinand flinched, and Nikola’s throat tightened. The poor thing must be traumatised. He let out a tiny whimper, and she backed away.

Hmmm. Save this boy? “I’ll find you something yummy.”

Albion had left a box of treats on the counter. For the next thirty minutes, Nikola used them to cajole Ferdinand, until he finally ate one out of her hand. “Good boy. You can have more outside, if you’ll come. Walkies?”

He allowed her to put on his leash, and they descended the four gloomy flights. In the průjezd, Ferdinand turned left and pulled her toward the grotesque and the double doors.

She eyed the stone face. “Silent treatment, eh?”

The doors opened into a small cement patio enclosed by locked iron gates. Through the bars Nikola could see the same wilderness her flat overlooked: waist-high grass, stinging nettle, thorns, bushes and trees. It could be so lovely with some work.

Ferdinand looked up and barked.

“Sorry, my friend. It’s locked. You’ll have to ask the subjugator.”

Once Ferdinand had done his business and they’d had a stroll in the frigid purple dusk, Nikola took him home. No sign of Albion. She locked the door to his flat with a sigh and stowed the little silver key in her pocket. She would see Ferdinand tomorrow.

On the way past Jax’s flat again, a single clatter sounded and she jumped. She moved closer to try to determine the cause. A strange moan came from behind the door.

Oh, that did not sound good. She knocked. Nothing. She tried the handle, and it opened. The mess seemed to be attempting to escape the room. Clothing, empty bottles, and dirty dishes lay strewn everywhere. A coffee table sat in the middle like an island, littered with overflowing ashtrays, a bong, and crumpled silver foil.

A sleepy mumbled bit of dream speak startled her. Jax lay on the sedačka, covered with a caftan-style blanket and several shirts. His face had the stillness of a marble statue, lips parted, lashes dark against his skin. Was he breathing? Her heart stuttered with a flash of memories she didn’t want, an image of another face, too placid.

Save the boy.

“Jax.”

“Unh.” He turned over to face her and knocked a burnt spoon onto a grungy plate.

“Jax!” She picked her way to him and shook his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Unh?” He opened his eyes. “It’s pyjama girl. Heyharyagoing.”

He was certainly good looking, even in this state. Sleepy eyed, lush mouthed, lanky—She shook herself.

“You should clean this place up. It’s a sty.”

“Good idea.”

Nikola opened a window to let in fresh air, then picked up the dishes and took them to the kitchen area, which was covered in a film of stickiness. After emptying a few into the bin, she pulled out the entire reeking trash bag, as it was already overflowing. She was heading downstairs anyway, and she hated a mess.

“I’m taking this out.” When she got no response, she turned around.

Jax was lighting his bong.

**

By the next week, Nikola and Ferdinand were old friends, and Jax’s flat was tidy. She’d gone back twice to check on Jax and hadn’t been able to leave the mess alone. She was used to taking care of people. She was good at it. Jax had done nothing but nap.

“You could help,” she suggested.

“You wake up too early,” he said. “Come back tonight.”

“It’s noon, and I have a job.” She picked up the full ashtray. “You should think about getting one of those.”

“I can’t. Albion won’t give me my passport.”

Nikola nearly dropped the ashtray on the kitchen floor. She’d heard of things like that. Usually, they were about work—could Albion be keeping Jax here against his will, like a captive druggie? Maybe this was actually connected to the mafia. Her spine went cold.

Jax was passed out again.

On her way downstairs to toss Jax’s trash, she met Pan Černý going up, lit cigarette in hand. He pointed to the landing window. “You cleaned this?”

“Yep.” She’d cleaned all of them. He said nothing but nodded in approval and continued on his way. Smoke lingered in the hall, and for a moment it seemed to curl and unfurl like a long hand, inviting her to follow a path of slowly disappearing puffs. She continued downstairs.

Albion stood at the bottom of the stairs, glowering.

“That was you.” His eyes moved to the landing windows above as she strode past him on her way to the bins. He followed.

“You’re welcome.” She paused in the průjezd and nearly laughed at Albion’s frown of confusion. Today his hair fell forward, making him look younger, but he still appeared tired. And it didn’t excuse what he was doing to Jax. She drew a deep breath. Did she dare? “I want a favour.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Okay.”

“Give Jax his passport back.”

Albion blanched and clenched his jaw. “What?” It came out a growl, making the hairs on Nikola’s neck prickle.

“Well—”

“That’s...” He shook his head. “That’s not your business.”

Nikola held up a conciliatory hand. “Fine.”

Behind Albion, the grotesque appeared to wink. The busybody.

“Fine,” she repeated. “But then, give me the key to the back gate. To the garden.”

Albion stared at her. “The gate barely opens. It’s too big a job for you.”

She shrugged, holding his gaze. “I like hard work. And it’s a waste of space.”

He relented and pulled out a ring of keys.

Like a jailer.

He removed a heavy, antique brass key with an ornate, heart-shaped bow and a three scalloped bit.

“No ribbon?”

The corner of his mouth quirked in a shadow of a smile. “I didn’t expect to give it away.” He held out his hand, and she plucked the key from his palm. It was still warm and her skin tingled. “It’s the only one. Don’t lose it.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

Well, that had been remarkably easy. Nikola wandered over to the big doors leading to the garden and paused under the grotesque. “Nothing to say?”

“Oh, now you want my help? I thought you already knew everything.”

Oh hell. Maybe she’d inhaled something in Jax’s flat and was tripping. Perfect.

“You said to save the boy. I’m working on it.”

“Good for you.”

“Any tips?”

The grotesque sneered. “Gardening gloves.”

She rolled her eyes.

That evening in her flat, Nikola opened her mother’s button box. She lifted out the removable tray and unwound a short length of green ribbon to tie around the brass garden key. Then she peered out her window at the wilderness of the garden. She’d need to have a good look in the basement for tools.

Albion’s words floated in her memory: It’s too big a job. Screw that. He was wrong.

**

Weeks passed in a blur of activity and snow. School began. Nikola worked as many shifts at the café as they’d give her, walked Ferdinand twice a day, and scrubbed the steps in Albion’s building each week. Pan Černý took to smoking seated in a cane chair he kept by the landing window. Nikola left him a small cactus on the sill.

Occasionally, she saw Jax, usually on his way home from the club late in the morning. Once she found his door open, and Jax sitting on the floor, asleep against the jamb. She shuddered and pushed away the familiar chasm of dread in her stomach.

“Come on, you.” She jostled his arm.

“Just who I was hoping for,” he slurred. “Join me.”

She helped him stand. “You really need a job. Or a plan or something.”

“Oh, I have plans. Lots of plans. All squashed by my lord and master.” He tumbled onto the sedačka, turned to the wall, and fell asleep.

She watched him snore. He didn’t really deserve it, but she could help him. Maybe it would make up for not being able to help her mother.

From that day, Nikola began searching Albion’s flat each time she picked Ferdinand up for his walk, determined to find Jax’s passport. It was just the main open-plan kitchen/living room and a spacious bedroom, also Edwardian in décor. A door led to a tiny outdoor space but was locked. From the window it seemed to be a fire escape.

Methodically, she went through every drawer and cupboard, pushing away the fact that she was blatantly invading his privacy. “Someone has to save the boy,” she told Ferdinand, who watched her from the other room. Everyone deserved saving.

In her free time, she worked on the garden. She’d found a pair of large shears in the basement and had cleared one entire side of the yard of brambles and weeds. There was still plenty to do but attacking it in small bursts made it feel manageable. She was often astonished when she returned after a few days—she had accomplished more than she remembered. Small surprises greeted her: a forgotten rose bush, ivy growing in curled shapes around her own window, a lovely old wrought iron bench, just big enough for two.

Albion himself was never around.

Washing Ferdinand’s food bowl, it hit her. Just as the dog scoop always needed digging out from the huge bag of food, the passport could be buried.

She moved to Albion’s shelf of odd things, scanning. A jar the right size, with contents dense enough to hide something solid...the buttons!

She slid the jar off the shelf and placed it on the desk. With trembling hands, she unscrewed its glass lid. Her fingers slid into the cool, smooth sea of buttons with little resistance, until they met something thin, fixed. “Yes!”

Ferdinand barked once.

As she manoeuvred her fingers to grasp the passport, a button escaped the jar and pinged on the floor. The passport came out with a jerk and an explosion of colourful buttons. Ferdinand barked again and turned to face the front door.

Oh no—Albion?

She slid the passport into her back pocket and scooped up the buttons. Were those steps on the stairs outside? She replaced the jar and hurried to put on her coat. A last glance revealed one tiny blue disk on the floor, and she bent down to pick it up just as the lock clicked.

“Oh, hello.” It was Albion, in his usual mafia suit, blinking and frowning.

“Hi. Sorry. I was just on my way out. I fed Ferdinand.” Nikola gripped the button in her coat pocket. Had she retrieved them all? She desperately wanted to check the floor again.

“Thank you.”

She stepped towards the door, certain she looked guilty, convinced the passport would slip out of her pocket if she didn’t get out of there.

“How’s the garden—”

“Sorry, I’m late for work,” she blurted out and rushed past him. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” At the door she paused. Ferdinand was whining. There, near his paw: a shiny red button. Oh, hell.

Albion stepped towards her, frowning. “I—”

But she was out the door, and she heard it thud shut a moment later. As she fled down the steps, barely touching them, she flew, flew, flew. On the first floor, she stopped at Jax’s door and knocked. Loud music was playing inside, so she tried the handle, but it was locked. She rapped again, louder. And again.

Any moment now, Albion would spot that red button. It might take him a moment to recall that Nikola’s coat was blue. Then he’d look up at the glass jar and realise...

She pounded on the door again, and at last, it opened. A rail-thin girl in a slip dress, with messy blond hair and smudged eyeliner stood there. Her pupils were enormous. “Yeah?”

Nikola pushed past. “Jax, I found it.”

Jax sprawled on the sedačka, head thrown back, eyes closed, smiling, apparently too lost in the music to notice Nikola’s interruption. “What were we looking for?”

“Your passport! Jax—” She gripped his arm and pulled him forward.

“What?” He opened his eyes.

She waved it in front of his face. “Your passport. I found it. But you don’t have much time. Albion will figure it out any minute now.”

Jax stared at the little blue book. “Seriously? That’s fully sick.”

“Did you hear me? Albion is probably already on to me. Is there somewhere you can go?”

He grabbed the passport. “Ibiza, baby. Ibiza.” He began laughing, and the blond girl joined in.

“Ibiza, baby!”

“What? No. I mean like someone’s house.”

Jax stood and scanned the room. “I need my bag.”

Nikola turned to the girl. “Can he stay at your place?”

She giggle-shrugged. “Sure, if he brings his gear.”

From half inside his wardrobe, Jax called out, “You want to come, Lenka?”

“Lena.”

“Right. Lena. You coming to Ibiza? I can cover you.”

“Sure! But I have to pack.”

They were both delusional. Nikola strode to the door and listened for sounds in the hall. People murmured somewhere out there, and she cracked open the door. It was the old babička—the one who had warned her about Albion. Who was she talking to? All Nikola could hear was the old woman’s voice, complaining.

She turned back to hiss at Jax. “Hurry up. We need to leave now.”

Albion’s deep voice rumbled down the stairwell in Czech: “Not now! I have to go!”

“He’s coming!” Nikola grabbed Jax by the arm. “Come on. You can buy clothes later or something.”

“Just have to find my bag—” He was rummaging in the wardrobe again.

She closed her eyes. The screwy priorities, the fixating—this was like that last year with Mom.

“I can come back and find it if you need it that badly. But we have to go now.” She had to physically pull him out of the wardrobe to get him to look at her. “He’s coming.”

Jax’s eyes focused on her properly. “Intense.”

No sounds came from the corridor. Lena and Jax put on their coats, and the three of them silently slipped into the stairwell and down to the ground floor.

But in the průjezd, Nikola stopped short. The door to the street was open, and a figure stood there, looking out into the evening. She held a finger to her lips and turned back into the stairwell, pointing down, to the basement. She led the way as they descended another, darker flight then unlocked the heavy, creaking door to the cellar.

“He’ll head back upstairs in a minute,” she whispered. “Probably to check your flat. You can leave when he does. Go to Lena’s or somewhere he won’t find you.”

They huddled in the shadows until Lena complained that she needed the bathroom.

“Okay, you go first and distract Albion if he’s still out there. Meet us at the pub on the corner.”

There was no sign of Albion in the průjezd, so Lena went ahead and peered onto the street. She looked back and shook her head.

“I left my stuff upstairs,” Jax said. “I have to go back.”

What the hell was wrong with him? “Don’t be stupid. Give me your key and I’ll go.”

He followed Lena into the night, and Nikola crept up the stairs, heart thumping. On the first floor, she stopped. Jax’s front door was open a crack, and the old babička’s voice whined incessantly. What did that woman have to do with any of this? Was she arguing with Albion, or was she his ally?

The voices got louder, and Nikola was on the wrong side of the corridor. Her only option was up. The voices followed. Albion’s flat key was in her pocket. She had to hope that the fire escape door was unlocked and that Ferdinand wouldn’t give her away.

She slid the silver key into the lock. For a fraction of a second, the metal sang warm against her skin, then the door clicked open. Ferdinand looked up from his dog bed, and made a gentle ruff in welcome, but remained in his spot. She flew to the bedroom and across to the door, her reflection in the dark window a second behind her, an oil slick shadow trying to catch up.

Locked. No!

Voices boomed in the stairwell, and Nikola looked around frantically for somewhere to hide. Behind the front door. Perhaps she could slip out.

Just as she stepped into place, the door opened and the babička and Albion entered. “You see,” the babička said in victory. “Of course he’s not here.”

Nikola glided around the door, pulled it closed behind her and left the key in the lock. She was flying down the steps before Albion finished his response. “I don’t care where he—”

Wasn’t there a thing about two keys not working in a lock at the same time? She prayed that slowed him down. Back on the ground floor, however, she paused. If she ran to the pub now, she’d lead Albion straight to Jax, but he had a key to her own flat, so there was no point hiding there. He had keys to every door in the building.

Except one.

She ran to the double carriage doors at the end of the průjezd and fumbled for her key.

“Hiding in the garden, eh?” It was the grotesque.

“Shut up.” She pulled open the door.

“You’re not very intelligent, are you?”

The iron gates were lit from behind, but she had no time to examine the place before she stepped through. She had to lock them before—

The garden was a wonderland.

Fairy lights twinkled in trees, and potted flowers gleamed in the moonlight. The stinging nettles had been cleared away, and the rest of the grass cut. The first blush of spring warmed the March air, and it smelled of cherry blossoms and mint. The old wrought iron bench had a mate now, and a birdbath stood between them. When had she been here last? When did all this work get done?

Nikola slowly turned to take in each corner of the garden, stopping when she faced the gates, which were open.

Albion stood there. “Found you.” He’d changed into normal clothes. Shadows claimed most of his face, but the twinkly lights caught along his cheekbones and the line of his jaw.

Ferdinand was at his side, tail wagging. When they locked eyes, he bounded to her and head butted her legs.

“Jax is gone,” she said, her voice shaking. He didn’t seem angry.

“To Ibiza, I’m guessing?”

“How—” She frowned. “How did you know that? I thought he was kidding.”

Albion stepped forward. “No, that’s been his plan for several months. Go to Ibiza and continue to party.”

“But you—you had his passport. Hidden.”

“His mother asked me to hide it. She was, is, worried about him.”

“Oh.” His mother. The babička. “But she hates you.”

Albion flashed a grin, then a more sheepish smile. “She is angry about the restitution. My father inherited this building. Teta Věra thinks it should have gone to her, as the oldest sibling.”

“She’s your aunt.”

“Yes. And she lives here for free, obviously. As does Jax. Or he did.”

“So...you weren’t keeping him prisoner. Or poisoning him.”

“No. He did that all on his own. With his own inheritance. Something she’s never really understood.”

“But you were chasing us.”

He shook his head. “I really wasn’t. Frankly, I’m glad he’s gone. I would have given him his passport ages ago, but Teta Věra wanted him here.” He looked down at his shoes for a moment. “I was looking for you. I wanted to...” He gestured at the garden. “I wanted to show you we finished it.”

“I see.”

“You were working so hard. Pan Černý and I did some bits while you were at your other job. And then today I got a few guys in to do the rest.”

Looking up at Pan Černý’s smoking window, she spotted him silhouetted against the light. He waved, then stepped back and disappeared.

She forced herself to look back at Albion. His black eyes made her stomach feel light, as if it were floating up into her chest. She glanced at the benches. “You must have been planning this.”

“For a long time. I’ve wanted to restore the garden for over a year, but I’ve been so busy with the business and the property lawyers...When you arrived it was just what I needed. You worked so hard and brightened up everything in the building, and I haven’t even had the chance to talk to you. So, I wanted to surprise you.”

A fizzy warmth spread through her veins, and her skin tingled, as though she might dissolve into bubbles.

“You’re a delight, Nikola Starling. And I was wondering if—” He cleared his throat. “If you’d like to get a drink with me.”

The way he was looking at her—like she was the perfect gift, like she was the right key. How had she missed it? How had she gotten him so wrong?

She stepped forward and took his arm. “Only if we can come back later and sit in this garden.”

“Definitely.”

As they passed through the carriage doors to cross the průjezd, Nikola heard the grotesque’s low, snarky voice behind her. “Ah, now she gets it. Save the boy.”