With grasping hands, she undid the buttons along her back, and then the tight binds of her corset, giving herself the relief of breathing freely. Superficially, it helped.
Chapter 11
THE SEARCH PARTY TURNED THEIR attention to the forest, but Clemmie didn’t feel the hope she’d had the day before. There just wasn’t any reason why he would go into the forest. There was also someone traversing the glacier in search for him, someone who was experienced in its dangers.
Mr. Weber’s face told her he held little hope at this point, and when the search party returned later that day, he would believe Oliver was dead and lost in the glacier. If he hadn’t perished yet, he soon would. Lost and alone, with little hope of rescue. This was the most awful feeling Clemmie could think of.
Hope was a dubious thing. If he had run into trouble on the glacier, would it be possible to find him? Mr. Weber seemed to think the glacier swallowed people whole, and they simply couldn’t be retrieved. How many people were buried in that glacier, she wondered. And they looked upon it like a wonder of nature. But then nature was beautiful and cruel, someone had once told her.
Making her way to the breakfast room, she took a seat by one of the windows and ordered tea. Her stomach was in too much turmoil to eat, but she couldn’t think what else to do. People ate around her and the air had the thick smell of sausages.
With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair. In all this, she felt utterly helpless. What would she do if Oliver didn’t come back? Stuck in a country not her own. She had no idea what to do, what would be required of her. How would she even make her way home? The carriage was still there, but she didn’t know how to direct it. The first fork in the road and she would be lost. Horses needed rest and so did the driver. How would she go about doing that? She had no money. How had Oliver paid for things? She hadn’t even paid attention. Did he have money? Had he been robbed? Was it in her rooms?
The task seemed insurmountable. But if Oliver didn’t return, she would have to do something. Normally, if she ran into trouble of any kind, which she didn’t by standard, she wrote a letter to her father and he would organize her retrieval. Now she was all the way in Switzerland, and it was well beyond his reach.
Why had she never been taught the most fundamental practicalities? Because it had never been for her to be practical. She was supposed to be taken care of, in all things. But now she was alone.
Outside the window, she saw the glacier, lying there like a cold, grey slug. It was grey outside too, but it was clear enough to see across the glacier. How could she imagine Oliver being stuck inside it? Chills rose up her spine at the thought of it. It was too horrid to contemplate.
A commotion was heard in the lobby, along with whispers. On rushed feet, she made her way to the lobby. Had they found him?
A woman Clemmie didn’t know stood with Mr. Weber, they looked worried.
“What has happened?” Clemmie asked as she approached. It was well outside good manners, but right now, she didn’t care. “Has Oliver been found?”
Mr. Weber smiled bitterly. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Rowland.”
The woman turned large eyes at her, then back to Mr. Weber. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
“Well, who’s done it?” the woman pushed.
“What’s happened?” Clemmie asked.
“It seems someone has vandalized the library.”
Clemmie’s eyebrows drew together, and she was about to ask, but instead, she walked to the library. Above the fireplace were words written over the wall and even across the painting. It said, ‘prima die insidiantur.’
Who would do that, and why? The words felt both familiar and not. Prima, she understood, primary. Die roughly meant ‘the’ in German. Was this German? If so, she didn’t understand what insidiantur meant. The only word that came into her mind was insidious. First the insidious? What was that supposed to mean? But prima in German was also great, which made less sense.
“Traitors die first,” someone said behind her. The slow drawl of the American. Which made this Latin. Of course it was Latin. Why hadn’t she seen that, after accusations of Latin being spoken on two occasions now.
The American’s eyes shifted to her, and there was as much surprise in there as she felt.
“Why would someone write that?”
“Was your husband a traitor?”
“What? No?”
“It sounds like someone is trying to justify what they’ve done.”
Deep chills spread down her whole body. Had someone hurt Oliver? Quickly, she walked, but she didn’t know where she was going. It just felt as though she needed to do something. Was Oliver dead? Had he been murdered? “Oliver?” she half called, as if he would answer her.
Her perspective seemed to kilter for a moment. Everything shifted, as if the world was coming apart. The next thing she knew, noxiousness was assaulting her and she opened her eyes to see worried faces standing over her. Someone was tapping her cheek, which annoyed her deeply.
“Here,” another said and handed her a glass of brandy. Mr. Weber was urging the glass to her mouth and she almost choked on it as it poured into her mouth.
“Give the woman some space,” the American said.
“You fainted.” To her left, Miss Juno spoke to her.
Clemmie was in the seat next to the fire. People were still hovering with their concern, and she felt both embarrassed and harassed.
“Oliver,” she repeated, tears stinging the back of her eyes. “I think someone hurt him.”
There was silence in the group. No one was arguing.
“Someone mad must be doing this.”
The woman Clemmie hadn’t seen
