| Current mood: |  sleepy |
more in Prague
Dear Pamela,
Sorry to leave you hanging (yet again) - I've been over at Rudi's the last two evenings and this was my first opportunity to finish my story.
Needless to say, I ran for my life. I think the shouting in the alleyway outside the window distracted Miss Post, and I was wearing more sensible shoes than she, so I got to the door and slammed it shut seconds ahead of her, and ran down the stairs two and three at a time rather than waiting for the lift. I did not know (and still don't know) how capable she was in the Black Arts, but hoped devoutly that she was unskilled in what one might call practical magic, as opposed to demon-summoning. Anyone who can read a book can summon a demon; just copy the diagram and read off the words and (assuming you picked the right book) the demon will appear. But actual spell-casting is much harder. For one thing actual talent is required. (Something I don't have. Interestingly, Rudi does, to a moderate degree. I've wondered if it's genetic.) For another the effect of the spell varies depending on circumstances, fabrics worn next to the skin, time of day, phase of the moon, shape of the room, wind pressure, mood, and a hundred other things for which sensitivity can be trained, in a witch; in a non-witch, no amount of training will help.
So I hoped that Lydia was not a witch. If she was, a simple barrier spell would keep me from leaving; or if I evaded that, a locator spell would lead me right to her. As, however, she did not find me in the ten hours I spent hiding backstage overnight in the Prague Puppet Theatre, nor has she appeared on my doorstep since my return home, I believe I'm safe. She can summon demons, but has no real magical talent.
Though I suspect she wants it.
In any event. I made it down the stairs and out the door, and though I would have dearly loved to see what was in the alleyway I knew better than to look; she would expect me to delay there for a second. I turned the other way and lost myself immediately in a rabbit-warren of small, twisting alleyways and passages in central Prague. I spent a long, weary two hours ducking into doorways and small, dark shops, waiting to see if I was followed, more worn I think by fear than any physical strain. IN the process I picked up, in several different shops, a complete change of clothing - a scarf and a dull blue fisherman's cap, which I alternated wearing over my hair, both of them (I had noticed) popular with the locals; a pair of second-hand blue jeans; a men's green plaid shirt; a pair of badly-worn walking shoes in my size from a flea market - I needed these if I was to sprint, though it cost me a pang to discard my skirt Oxfords - and a cheap dull green plastic coat, since it had begun to rain. I blended in nicely with the population in this ensemble. I tried to stuff my original outfit (including my good dark blue wool skirt, matching silk scarf, and my Oxfords) into my handbag but in the end was forced to discard all but the scarf; I had no inconspicuous way to carry the rest. (All of this has eaten a hole in my budget, I must say; fortunately the new fellowship checks will be available September 1, since I'm down to a pound of spaghetti, three eggs, tea, and half a box of stale Stone-ground biscuits. This is not the only reason I've spent the last two evenings at Rudi's, but I admit that the prospect of breakfast laid-on for one does have its charms at this point!)
Towards nightfall I found my way to a cafe across from the pub in which I had eaten dinner the night before. I sat at the back, in the semi-dark, and ordered a sandwich - no beer tonight, since the last thing I wanted to be was relaxed, until I got out of Prague. I thought about simply grabbing my belongings from the B&B but suspected it would be watched. I kicked myself mentally for giving my real name - I thought, at the time, that it was wise to do so since my credentials as Watcher-in-Training, if she chose to check on them, were good. But that was before I discovered that she had murdered Watcher Kundera.
This last was confirmed on the evening news as I sat at the back of the pub, complete with footage from the alleyway, showing a body-bag on a stretcher being lifted into a silent ambulance, police and passers-by milling about, followed by a brief clip of a woman I recognized as Miss Post, from behind, speaking to the ambulance workers, and finally a dated photograph of another woman I took to be Kundera. She was a slender blonde of medium build, much like Miss Post in fact - or like me come to that. And as tweedily dressed as we. From a distance we would probably have been indistinguishable. I wondered if all female Watchers looked alike, or did some have to dye their hair, have cosmetic surgery perhaps, in order to fit in. And where do we get our dress sense? I was feeling alarmingly comfortable in the old jeans. And getting a few admiring glances, too, I noticed. Czechs are an extraordinarily attractive people, on average, I have to remark in passing. I felt rather pleased to have apparently passed muster even in Prague. Rudi assures me that I'm beautiful, but I cannot help but feel that his objectivity is suspect.
In any event, my main hope of safety lay in the similarity between Kundera and Post, I felt. I had addressed Post as Watcher Kundera because I had no legitimate way of knowing she wasn't. She could find the mistake believable because they looked more or less alike. As long as she continued to believe that I did not know who she was she would have no real reason to come after me.
However, she seemed to be a thorough sort of person and might hunt me down and kill me just on general principles. And I had made it easy for her to find me by giving my name. Not only did I have a return train reservation, I was registered at the B&B central tourist office, which had phoned for me to make the reservation. It would take no particular intelligence or strain on a Watcher's resources (if she was a Watcher, which I thought a fairly safe assumption) to track me down if she chose.
So I waited until it was fully dark before I found my way behind the apartment building housing my bed and breakfast, and went quietly up the back stairs. I opened the door into my corridor a crack and stood by it, listening, before I exposed myself. My caution was rewarded when I heard a door open and my landlady's voice speaking to some third party whom she seemed to be letting out of the apartment. Naturally (and why did it never occur to me to learn Czech?) I could not understand a word she said, nor her interlocutor's reply; but I recognized the other voice as Miss Post's easily enough. I barely breathed, praying that she would do the sensible thing and take the elevator down. Since we were on the top floor I could not hid on the staircase anywhere she would not find me on descending.
The door closed, I heard footsteps receding, the elevator open and shut again, and I waited for a good three-quarters of an hour. Miss Post is certainly no fool and I would expect her to watch the B&B; and I expect she'd given the landlady some unexceptionable reason to phone her if I returned. My only hope was that Miss Post a) might think I wasn't important enough to track, or b) might think that not even I was stupid enough to return to my B&B.
I could have lost the clothes without much of a pang (except the cost of replacement, but that was trivial compared to my life); but my notes and several books were still in the room and I couldn't leave without them. Or so I felt. Rudi tells me that this was not a reliable feeling, and I have promised him never to - never mind. I'm sure you get the picture. I have promised to be a model of caution, decorum and propriety forever, except around him. I'm sure he knows me well enough to take this with a grain of salt.
At seven o'clock the landlady finally left, as she had the night before, and I breathed a sigh of relief; I had hoped it was a nightly custom. I think she goes down to the pub of an evening. I waited another few minutes until I felt reasonably certain she wouldn't return for her keys or another jumper against the evening chill, and opened the door enough to observe the corridor. There did not seem to be anyone in the corridor, and I cautiously stepped out. I opened the door to the B&B as silently as I could and slid in without turning on the lights, for fear of alerting an observer outside. There was no one in the B&B - I made a quick survey of the rooms before moving to my own, where I stuffed my belongings back into my pack as quickly as I could, feeling around in the reflected streetlight from the windows to make sure I hadn't left anything of consequence. I believe I forgot a toothbrush there, and the landlady may have it. I left money for two night's stay on the end table, shouldered my pack, and went back out the door.
I think I was more frightened while I packed up my things in the darkness than I was at any other time that day. I kept turning to look behind me, certain by the itch between my shoulderblades that someone was observing me from the doorway to the room, or the closet, or the window. Then the trip down the dark hallway to the door, and the moment of steeling myself at the door before I opened it, certain I was going to meet Miss Post or one of her conjured demons - but none of these things happened. I went back down the now dark stairwell and out the back door, checking first for observers. But Miss Post did not seem to have thought of waiting for me there, and I escaped the building, weak with relief.
Meanwhile I had no idea what I had seen, or why. Why was Miss Post painting a summoning diagram in the apartment formerly occupied by William and Drusilla? Why had she murdered Kundera? Were they working together, and Post had betrayed her? Did any of this have anything to do with William the Bloody at all? And why had Travers tried to conceal information from me - perhaps on general principles, of course, but had he had some other reason?
Now that I had retrieved my belongings I felt relieved enough that I could begin to turn over these questions in my mind as I walked down to the train station, intending to take the next available train back to Munich.
Of course Miss Post was waiting for me by the ticket counter.
I can't believe the hour - and I'm very sorry, but I will, I promise, finish this story tomorrow! I'm really too sleepy to keep on right now.
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watchergrrl) wrote,
