Chapter 1

Stasi

A cheap plastic suitcase lies open, spilling over with a dozen brightly colored swimsuits. It looks like a painting.

I pause my packing and capture the display with my phone camera: the first official memory of my first-ever real vacation.

A red blur swishes by behind me. "Ooh, you should post that!" That comment comes from my housemate, Suzanna. "Hashtag The Suitcase of Dreams."

Suz is the poet of the house and has about a hundred thousand active followers on her poetry account.

I'm not going to post it, though. Not yet.

"That one's just for me," I say.

Mostly I lurk on social media. I don't like drama; I just want to keep up with everyone else's. Plus, I don't think anyone needs to know where I am and where I'm going 24 hours a day. It's fine for other people but it's just not me.

"Can you believe our sweetheart Stasi is actually getting out of the house, Jakob?"

The smell of burning metal wafts in through the side door that leads out to the open-air courtyard-turned-makeshift art studio. I brush past Suz and briefly glimpse Jakob lifting his welding helmet to nod. "Be careful out there. People are overrated."

The outgoing Suz sighs and rolls her eyes but then flits around to look for her favorite pen.

Jakob makes sculptures from found objects…or something. He doesn't say much. Jakob mostly stays at home, putting in the house. On the rare occasion he does leave, he just skulks around the city streets on his own, bringing home odd treasures.

"I get out more than Jakob does. I wait tables at the brewery five nights a week," I remind Suz.

"Work doesn't count as getting out," Suz clucks as she rifles through the roll-top desk by the front door. She plucks up a burnished gold ring and shouts, "Jakob, you don't want to lose this ring. You need a home for it, not right by the front door. It's dangerous."

"Said the lady who can't find the feathered fountain pen that the queen gifted her," I mutter.

"I heard that," Suz yells from the other room. Damn, that girl moves like a ninja.

"Just put it on my pillow," Jakob growls out.

"Touching my housemate's pillow is far too intimate," Suz cries. "I'll set it on your dresser."

"Fine!" Jakob shouts. "When is your girlfriend coming to get you?"

That's Jakob's way of asking how long until Suzanna leaves the house. Jakob… doesn't like to be fussed at. Or noticed in any way. At all. Poor Jakob. Living with Suzanna is like living with a very nosy monarch butterfly.

Tuning out my housemates, I toss a few other things into the old suitcase and then close it, my twin mattress creaking as I weigh it down to get the zipper to work.

"Do you want to use my suitcase, love?"

"Your matching Louis Vuitton set? Babe, you don't want that going where I'm going," I say to Suz.

She swishes by me, looking behind curtains and under cabinets. "Where are you going again? I forgot." I smile as Suz zips high and low, late for work again, probably misremembering where she put her work shoes.

"In the closet," I throw out.

She pauses and stands up straight, looking at me like I've lost my marbles. "You're going to the closet?"

I snort. "No. Your shoes are in the closet."

"Oh, I thought you borrowed them yesterday."

"I did, and I put them back." Is that a pointed comment on how Suz borrows things and doesn't return them? Yes. Yes, it is.

I love my housemates. I really do.

But lately I'm feeling suffocated and a little left out. Moving to the arts district was the perfect transition out of the group home. Splitting the rent three ways is working well enough for now. But everyone here has their thing. Jakob has his art. Suz has her poems. Me? I just live here and work at a pub.

I don't know what my thing is, and I don't know if I'll ever have a thing.

But I know I have a big wad of cash that will afford me some time alone, away from the city.

Yes, this trip to the lake will be so good for me. One week, totally alone, in silence. I feel like the answers are out there, just waiting for me.

The train from Arenhammer city center takes me down the coast to a remote, nondescript hub surrounded by beige, newly-built stores.

It's neither a city nor rural, but it reminds me of one of those manufactured town centers with outlet shops and the like. It's a place with no identity at all. It's a place that simply serves as a crossroads to other more exciting or tranquil spots. I feel unsettled as the comparison sinks in because I am unsure who I am or where I'm going.

Fortunately, this no-man's land of beige is not my destination. From the transportation hub here, I'm on a bus for two hours until I arrive in the charming village of Mirror Lake.

The cobblestone streets are lined with colorful shops, cafes, and outdoor stalls.

Finally, I can breathe.

As I stroll along the street, I snap photos of colorful boxes of early summer fruits and vegetables.

My fanny pack is still heavy with cash from that excellent tip that led me here. Since it was handed to me, I've counted it repeatedly, hardly able to believe it.

The night Prince Sigurd gave it to me is burned into my brain. I was waiting tables at the pub while a loud party grew and grew out on the sidewalk section. Prince Etienne was at the center of it. Then, that burly Prince Sigurd crashed the party to round up the wayward prince, and handed me a wad of cash for my troubles.

That wad of cash paid for two weeks at the lake and about seven discount bikinis.

There's a chance I won't be sunning myself — this is still an island in the North Sea, after all. But you never know. I'm feeling lucky.

I'm excited to get to the lake house, but my ride isn't set to pick me up for another twenty minutes, which gives me some time to hit the market.

I feel rather spoiled, knowing that I will have a car to fill with groceries, so I load up my cart more than I need, just to be on the safe side. I'm not the world's best cook, but I love to play around in the kitchen. Now is as good a time as any to splurge, so I pick up some meat for grilling as well as all the fancy crackers, biscuits, and cheeses.

I'm weighed down with eight sacks by the time I'm finished, feeling very rich indeed—I've never spent this much in one go on groceries before in my life. Thanks, Your Highness.

I should consider writing him a thank you note.

To my dismay, my rideshare doesn't show up. "And here I am with a hundred euros worth of groceries. Brilliant move, Stasi."

When thirty minutes pass and my ice cream starts to melt, I examine the rental bikes on the street corner.

I wonder if I can use one of them to get all the way to the lake house. I have the directions on my phone, and it's only two miles.

"Excuse me," I ask an older woman walking a Great Dane who passes by on the sidewalk. "Do you know if I can take one of these bikes to the lake?"

The woman smiles and says something in the old language that I don't understand. Kids in the foster system land where they land, and I never landed in the kind of school that teaches the old language. I'm lucky I can read and write, to be honest.

I try to explain that I don't speak it, but she babbles something else, pats me on the cheek, then walks on.

I have the same issue with two or three others. Looks like I'm on my own.

Examining the last remaining forms of transportation available, I have to make a decision.

The electric scooters would be faster, but they have no storage compartments for groceries. I could theoretically load the sacks on the handlebars, but where would I put my suitcase? I could shove everything I need into my backpack and ditch the suitcase. And do what, swim naked?

No, a bicycle will have to do. And I'll pray to the gods that there are no hills to conquer on my way to the lake house.

"Alright, Bluebell," I say, naming the bike. "It's you and me. I've got eighteen kilos of shit in a twelve-kilo bag, but between you and me, we can handle this."

As I'm negotiating with Bluebell and deciding which groceries to return to the store and what clothing items I can shove into a nearby donation box, a woman in an apron approaches. "Are you in trouble? Do you need help?"

I startle, but then my nerves calm when I see the stranger's friendly face and the warmth in her eyes. "Thank gods, someone who speaks English. My ride never showed up. Do you know if I'm allowed to take this bike to the lake? I promise to return it."

The woman in the apron laughs. "Of course, of course! Do you think the police will arrest you if you don't return a bike?"

I shrug. "Been arrested for less in Lower North," I say, referring to the seedier neighborhood where I did my best rule-breaking as an adolescent. Shoplifting, skipping school, vandalism. Nothing too terrible, but enough to move me from one family to another. Jakob and I were both foster kids in the system at the same time. He was like my introverted brother, which is how we ended up renting a house together with Suzanna.

The woman in the apron studies me momentarily, and her eyes soften. "I know it well."

"You do?"

"I was born there."

Her nametag reads "Josephine," which sounds more like an old money name than a Lower North name, but what does that matter?

"Small world!" I exclaim.

Josephine arches an eyebrow and shoves her hands into her apron pockets. "Small country. And speaking of small, if you're taking all that to a lake house, that bike won't manage it."

Yeah, no kidding. "I was about to go back inside and see if I could get a refund on some of these groceries. I bought too much," I say sheepishly.

She eyes my things. "How long did you say you were staying?"

"Two weeks."

"You didn't buy enough," she says matter-of-factly.

"And that doesn't help my little bike situation."

"Tell you what I'll do for my fellow Lower North friend. I'd love to give you a lift, but my truck is out making deliveries. When my brother returns, I'll have him deliver your things to your lake house. Give me the address?"

As is tradition in Gravenland, I protest twice before accepting her kind offer.

"I couldn't. That's too kind of you," I say.

"Nonsense."

"I don't want to be any trouble."

"No trouble at all," Josephine insists. "We make deliveries all over the county."

"Well, since it's no trouble. Thank you so much."

Josephine goes back into the store and returns with a shopping cart, filling it with my bags. "Friedrick will bring these to you later today, and I'll keep everything cold for you."

"You're the best," I say, surprising the stoic, orderly woman with a hug around her neck.

"Oh, my," she chuckles, patting me on the back. "Yes. Well, thank you. Have a good day."

And with that, she's gone, and it's just me and Bluebell hitting the road.

I take just enough bags that fit in Bluebell's baskets, and I'm on my way.

My directions take me down the winding cobblestone streets, through a quiet residential area, over a greenway that eventually empties onto a dirt road that hugs the lake's edge. The first row of cottages are tidy little Alpine structures that face the lake. The yards facing the street feature gardens so organized and well-kept that it looks like a Sims game. The flower boxes are perfect and overflowing with blooms. Everything is polished and spit-shined and postcard-worthy. The signposts along the lanes boast quirky names, some in English. "Lakeside Love Nest," or "Papa's Retreat."

I wonder what it would be like to grow up in a family with a lake house. Not a terribly wealthy family, but one with just enough that we could build a little something extra. A small out-of-the-way escape from the city.

I still have a mile to go, and I am wondering if my directions steered me wrong. The cottages become rustic cabins, and then the cabins grow sparser and sparser, the woods to the right of me grow thicker, and the lake shore grows wilder and grassier.

But just as I round the bend, a narrow, private drive appears in the overgrown hedge line. My GPS shouts that I've arrived, and I double-check the address. Yes, 1313 Shadow Lake Lane. This is it.

My stomach gives a thrilled little jump and a wary lurch at the surroundings.

I never stopped to notice until now that the address sounds like something out of a horror novel. I was looking for something secluded, and boy, did I get it.

Willows and hemlocks bend over the rutted drive. I can't even see the lake from this end. Boy, the rental company is going to hear from me if this is not in fact, a lakefront property as promised. Not to be a princess about it, but the property was listed as having a dock with its own rowboat and kayaks for me to use at my leisure. That implies waterfront, doesn't it?

My heart sinks when I realize that, no, that doesn't imply anything. It could mean adjacent to another waterfront property.

Damn, I was entertaining all sorts of fantasies involving sunning myself on the dock all afternoon after teaching myself how to paddle board.

My whining and whinging turn out to be meaningless, however, because soon I creep around a narrow bend in the drive, and on either side, two huge gnarled fruit trees frame a perfect view of the lake. The water sparkles like a diamond in the midday sunshine.

My heart rises. I exhale and smile. Finally, I'm here.

The cabin is exactly as shown in the photos from the outside: a small, square shack with wide wooden planks and an arched door painted a cheerful yellow. The cabin's exterior features the faintest nod toward the decorative details as the rest of the places I've seen so far. A bit of wooden curlicues on the eaves, but none of the festive window boxes. Everything could use a trim, but thankfully, that's not my job.

I unload Bluebell and type in the code on the lock. To my relief, the keypad lock gives me no trouble. The room inside is not what I expected based on the overgrown wilderness outside. While the lead-up to the drive was a bit worrisome, the interior exceeds all my expectations. It's a rustic space with two rooms—one main room with a large bed in the corner covered with a gorgeous handmade quilt and a quaint kitchen with a rounded corner fireplace at one end. Along the front of the main room is a cozy sofa and smart TV—likely added recently to make the place more appealing to renters. It seems pretty clear this was, at one time, a place for a person to get away from everything.

Pulling back the floral yellow curtains, the grassy clearing with its concrete fire pit calls to me, as does the whitewashed dock with all the equipment.

I dump the contents of my pink suitcase on the bed and throw on my sportiest tankini top with a conservative swim short. There's no telling what the vibe is at this end of the lake, so I don't want to look too boobalicious if I run into any locals.

In the bathroom, I'm more meticulous about things. My makeup kit contents go into the medicine cabinet, and my lotions and potions go on the lid of the toilet tank.

Noticing the way I'm sweating from the bike ride—not to mention the way I smell after a long morning of traveling, I quickly grab my discarded bra from the floor and give it a quick wash in the sink with some gentle detergent I find in the linen closet, then hang it up over the shower rod to drip dry.

I tie my mass of red tresses in a top knot, noting my pinked nose in the bathroom mirror. Right. I'm not quite used to this much outdoorsiness, am I? I quickly rub some zinc over my nose and fly out the back door.

My choices on the dock consist of a stand-up paddleboard, kayaks, a rowboat, and a pedal boat. While I'm eager to teach myself how to stand-up paddleboard, I don't want to injure myself right out of the gate. A kayak is right out, not with these hips and my dubious upper body strength. Rowboat it is.

The oars take some getting used to, but after a moment or two of struggling, I'm off the dock and sliding across the water.

The silence, the solitude, the nature—it's all lovely. Why yes, Stasi. This is going to be a splendid vacation.

Everything is positively perfect on the lake. The water is calm. The herons? Enchanting. The little fish popping out of the water in the shady inlet? Darling. And not a soul out here. Not a single soul. No neighbors. No housemates. No bosses giving me dirty looks when I take too long chatting up high-tipping customers. No chefs cursing at me. It's just…me. And I really like me.

Why on earth do I think that I need to find my thing? My thing is vacation. Vacation is my favorite thing ever.

When I return hours later to the dock, my palms and back are sore, and my thighs are slightly pink from the sun.

Alarmingly, a man stands on the edge of the whitewashed dock, watching me. A tall man. A tall, bearded man, with a pair of massive arms folded across his chest.

The closer I approach, the more evident one thing becomes: he is, as we say in the hospitality industry, disgruntled.

Uh oh. This must be the property owner. Or the grocery delivery man. Or a neighbor.

What did I do wrong?

Good gods. I'm on vacation for a few hours, and already I've pissed in someone's porridge.