Page 128 of Shadowfox

We left Thomas, Farkas, and Eszter at the safe house with strict orders to stay out of sight. Thomas had enough codeine in his system to actually listen for once—or he was too high to argue. Either way, I doubted he would leave his bed. Eszter had posted herself at the window with a set of rosary beads, watching through a tiny sliver between the curtains for anyone with a too-crisp uniform. I had no idea what she thought she’d do if one appeared, but the watching kept her mind occupied, and I supposed that was a good thing.

Sparrow and I peeled off together after Egret ducked into a tram headed toward the Danube side of town. He had a contact there—a Romanian who called himself “Hollywood” because he made disguises even America’s cultural elites would envy. According to Egret, the man had everything from makeup to wigs to prosthetics I hadn’t even seen the OSS put to good use. We’d have to take a full accounting and ensure Arty and his team learned as many of his tricks as possible.

My one lingering concern about Egret’s part of the mission was how he would cajole the man for supplies given our lack of money for bribes, but I left him to his own devices. Egret could be rather persuasive when he chose to turn up the charm—or use his overly muscled frame for the greater good.

Sparrow and I had a different mission: clothes.

“Religious garb isn’t something you can just buy off a rack, especially if you want it to look convincing,” she said as we cut through the market square, her scarf tucked under her chin. “People know the difference. If we wear anything that looks off, we’ll stand out faster than Egret at a ballet recital.”

“For the love of God, could you avoid planting mental images like that?” I quipped.

She grinned and stabbed me with her elbow, making me stagger a bit as we strode down the sidewalk.

“Please tell me we’re not stealing some priest’s frock,” I said after a moment of silent walking. “I’d rather not burn in hell for holy theft.”

“No. We’re not.” She snorted. “Besides, if we were, we wouldn’t be stealing; we’reliberatingthem . . . from Soviet oppression.”

That’s how we ended up in a small tailoring shop in Budapest, sitting beside a coal stove while Sparrow spun the story of a traveling theater troupe performing a morality play in Sopron. The seamstress was maybe sixty, with beady eyes and a mouth like a folded knife. She puffed smoke from a crooked cigarette and eyed us over her spectacles.

Her Russian was almost as broken as our nonexistent Hungarian. “You nun’s habit, priests’ robes, and travel wear for . . . mute child?”

“The play is very avant-garde,” Sparrow said, stunning me at her sudden burst of multi-syllabic Cyrillic. “Catholic surrealism.”

“I don’t like church,” the woman said. “Too judgy. Incense stinks.”

I patted my breast pocket—myemptypocket. “You’ll like our money.”

The woman grunted and stood. “Tomorrow at closing. Bring child if you want fit. I need measurements.”

Sparrow and I exchanged a glance, then she said, “We have little time. Between rehearsals and travel, we need to leave soon. The girl is small, about this tall.” She gestured with a hand. “She is thin, too thin.”

The woman puffed a breath so deep I thought she might explode before releasing it. “Fine. No measuring. But you no be angry with fit.”

“We no be angry,” I said, unable to resist poking at her grammar.

Sparrow elbowed me, a habit she seemed to be forming.

The woman nodded once, her face the very image of confusion. She’d completely missed my teasing.

As we stepped outside, Sparrow grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m not wearing anything that itches.”

“Given your history, a priest’s robe will probably burst into flames the moment you put it on.”

When our feet hit the sidewalk, all humor evaporated. We moved fast but casual, with our coats cinched tight against both cold and prying eyes. We said nothing, not even to each other. It was the kind of quiet that came from training—not nerves.

But even trained nerves had their limits.

We turned down a side street and froze halfway through the crossing. Two figures stood near a lamppost, talking low in clipped Hungarian. Shadows warped shapes. One held a cigarette that glowed in the gray morning light.

Sparrow’s hand brushed mine—not for comfort, just confirmation, as if to say, “I see it, too.”

I nodded once.

We backtracked silently, ducked through an alley, and emerged two streets over.

A tram clattered by—too loud. The sound chased away the silence but didn’t settle the air.

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