‘Edgar was earmarked for death as soon as he learnt too much and was sent to Bratislava as part of a wider plan for the killer to hide their tracks, to evade capture.’ He spoke clearly, unable to look his mother directly in the eye.
‘Terrible, Juraj, just terrible. And Milos, too? That poor boy took the fall and suffered the same fate?’
‘Yes. He was as much a victim as any. Do you know, mother, whoever responsible for this placed my own life in great danger. The person behind this risked my life to fulfil their agenda.’
Startled and shocked, Baroness Teralova embraced her child, clasping and comforting him like he was a boy again.
Anita had stood silent, watching them both converse. Her face was strict as always, sparing Juraj no glimmer of affection or condolence. The air was stale and bitter, the Baroness no closer to redemption as she wept in Juraj’s arms.
‘I cannot bear the thought of losing you too, Juraj,’ she cried, tears streaming down her face as she patted and stroked his hair. He felt weak and defenceless. Who could he possibly trust anymore? He sensed that the whole world around him was in on the ultimate conspiracy—he the fool, forced to dance to the merry tune of destruction.
‘I would never have allowed you to go with Edgar if I thought for one moment that danger could have crossed your path, too. In fact, I was sure you would be safest by Edgar’s side. No one in the world had more motivation to protect you in such times, no one more than myself. You are all I have left, Juraj. Please, won’t you look at your mother? Has sorrow emptied your heart fully now? Will you not look at me, Juraj?’
Unable to draw the strength, Juraj’s mind raced between states of disbelief and distrust, and then back again to reassurance and familiarity. The game now being played within his head was the same toing and froing that had occurred similarly with Milos. A disposition of innocence, guilt, and then innocence once more, although only in his death was his liberty truly unveiled, like a suspect witch made to drown, only to find redemption in death when it was all but too late. His mother’s eyes were red and sore, her face frail and less strength existing than there had been the last time he saw her. Yet, it was undeniable—there was still an underlying kindness within her eyes and, under the circumstances, it utterly terrified Juraj.
Now and then, Juraj caught Anita’s eye but once again, she would not flinch or spare him the slightest inkling of a smile. It was as though he did not exist. The coldness and uncertainty of the situation were overbearing, and even more so overwhelming.
After some time, Juraj excused himself from his mother, saying he needed to collect his thoughts in private.
‘Of course, my dear boy. I am here for you, anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask,’ she insisted resoundingly, her lips pert and back straight, as always.
Juraj made his way past Anita who, much to his disdain, would still not offer him a passing glance. How can she act this way?
He moved into the hallways, painted stark white with royal golden paintings planted on the walls, from a distant era of Hungarian royalty—proud and sharp, watermarked and colourful. It was a grand setting, the finest of ornaments and wooden oak chairs and small desks lining the passageways. Although there was a feeling of relief to be back home, the yearning for his brother lingered deeply within Juraj’s heart. He truly felt alone, nostalgic for things to return in the simplest of ways that there were before.
Checking behind him, making sure no one was there, he swept a sharp right turn and into a closed room that was left unlocked, as he had expected.
The room was smaller and darker than the rest. A little window had rosy pink curtains drawn to the side, offering an honest view of the grounds and gardens outside, enough to comfort and please the eye. He could feel, still, from this position, there would be a longing and need to see more—to learn more, all for the world which awaited and livened outside. There was a small wooden desk—not made of oak like the rest of the furniture in the building, but one of more simple timber construction. This was a common desk built by a woodsman, not like the grand, finely crafted works of art that littered the rest of the home.
A single-sized bed occupied most of the space in the room, made of metal, with an awkward-looking mattress, full of springs and dated—uncomfortable was an understatement.
Juraj passed his eyes around the room: what am I hoping to find here?
A quill rested on the desk, its white feather planted neatly next to white parchment, a blank pot of ink beside it.
Curiosity had gotten the best of him, as a drawer within the desk called on him to open, to pry and snoop—to satisfy his suspicion. Unable to resist the temptation, he grabbed the handle and quietly tugged at it to open.
Drat, locked.
He looked around the room, trying to figure out where the key would be hidden. He burned with anticipation, desperate to know what secrets hid within. Everything else in the room was freely available, even to enter was no challenge, yet this held something that was not to be easily discovered or found.
Searching about the place, he checked under the pillow, shaking it, hoping for a small key to fall free, but alas, there was none.
He got down onto his knees, peering under the bed—no sign of anything there at all; everything was clean, spotlessly so.
With his hands on his
