Still Life by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Still Life

Page 17

The castle’s back is barely distinguishable from it’s front. The driver, perhaps seeking to maximize the fare, circles around, until Finn tells him to stop, which he seems to do grudgingly.

Finn glances at Susie. She’s not smiling. She’s listening.

To what, he isn’t sure.

The castle smells of wax and old paper. Not decay, exactly; more like the memory of preservation. A woman named Margriet greets them at the back door, her accent clipped, her gestures rehearsed. She wears a brooch shaped like a lion devouring a tulip.

“This way,” she says, not waiting for a reply.

Finn follows, his boots echoing against stone. Susie walks ahead, her coat still damp from the Utrecht drizzle. The hallway is lined with portraits; faces that seem to watch without judgment, as if they’ve seen too many arrivals to care.

They’re led to a room with velvet drapes and a fireplace that hasn’t been lit in years. A sideboard on wheels of likely ancient, but indeterminate origin waits against one wall for the deposit of the guests’ things.