"Konrád." Her accent turned his name into something with harder edges. "Endlich."
She kissed him on both cheeks—the European way, air-kisses that didn't actually make contact—and then turned to me. Her eyes were brown, sharp, taking in my coat (off-the-rack Zara, purchased in Portland), my shoes (same), the dark roots showing through my hair.
"You must be Isla." She extended her hand. Her English was perfect, accent slight but present. "I'm Erzsébet. Conrad's aunt. Welcome to Vienna."
Her handshake was firm. Professional. The smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Thank you for having me," I said, and watched her expression shift slightly at my American accent—surprise, or maybe just confirmation of something she'd already assumed.
"Mama is inside. She's been—" Erzsébet paused, choosing her wo
