Page 57 of Shadowfox

“It is always the travel,” I said, voice hoarse. “New water, new food. It always takes a toll during the first few days.”

He smiled and gave a shallow bow of his head.

“If you need anything else, you need only ring,” he said.

“Of course.Merci.”

He turned, stepped out, and pulled the door closed behind him.

I waited until the sound of his footfalls disappeared down the hall before I stood. The bathrobe slipped off in silence. I was dressed already—boots polished, hair pinned beneath a wool cap. I moved to the window and checked the street. It was empty, except for a boy pedaling past on a bicycle that looked older than both of us.

I waited another half hour, then strode to the door.

The front desk didn’t question me when I passed through the lobby, scarf in place, shoulders hunched like the cold and my fictional ailment were conspiring to ruin me.

“Just some air,” I said with a wan smile. “The tea helped a bit.Merci.”

The desk clerk nodded, her eyes glassy with disinterest.

Outside, the air bit harder than I expected, the wind rolling down the river like it had somewhere to be. I took the long way to Váci utca, weaving through side streets, doubling back twice, watching windows. I saw two men in coats that looked familiar pass on opposite ends of a tram stop, but they never turned, never looked back, never followed.

The notice board loomed.

The Liszt Academy flyer still hung there.

Its top-left corner remained unbroken.

I stood there for a moment, staring at it like I couldn’t quite remember why I’d come, then I turned and walked back to the hotel.

Around two o’clock, I made another call to the desk—this time for something “to settle nausea.”

The same porter smiled when I opened the door, the same smile that didn’t reach his eyes and convinced neither of us of his good intent. This time he brought mint tea and a dry biscuit. He lingered a little longer, his eyes drifting again to the window latch and the bedside drawer.

“Do you need a doctor?” he asked, voice low.

“No, I do not think so,” I said with a practiced apologetic smile. “It is only travel stomach. I will be all right by the morning.”

He nodded but remained.

His eyes found the writing pad by the phone. Then the ashtray. Then me.

I didn’t move.

Finally, he bowed and left.

I waited a full hour this time before slipping out. I took the rear exit and wound through a block of shops where half the doors were locked and the other half had no customers.

This time, I approached the board from the other side of the street.

The bloody flyer was defiant in its wholeness.

I didn’t ring down this time, didn’t give the Soviets a heads-up or head start, didn’t leave a trail.

I slipped out wearing a different coat, my hat tilted low, my scarf pulled high. I took a taxi halfway, then walked the final stretch like I belonged there. The street was busier now, filled with people heading home from work. I passed a women carrying potatoes in cloth sacks and children squabbling in the shadows.

No one looked at me twice. No one cared.

I crossed to the notice board without breaking stride, stopped as if curious, and lifted a hand.

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