The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [136]
Why had she never noticed how attractive Henning was? Not classically handsome, but powerful and rugged, rather like the mountains themselves . . .
Was this the venom in her blood talking? Was she hallucinating? Or was she seeing things more clearly than she ever had before?
What did she really know about Henning anyway, if she thought about it? Stevie made a quick list of the things she did know about him:
—Henning loves oysters and steak.
—He prefers gin and tonics to champagne, whisky after dinner. He says it gives him sweet dreams.
—He is very strong and tall but he has feet like a cat and is gentle.
—He is a surprisingly good dancer.
Stevie wondered what it would have been like to kiss him.
Breakfast was usually Stevie’s favourite meal of the day; the promise that got her out of bed in the morning. Feeling stronger physically, she made her way to the vast breakfast room well before Henning. She was surprisingly ravenous.
Breakfast was laid out in the Panoramahalle, a vast rectangular room that doubled as a viewing gallery for the mountains above and the gorge below. A buffet was spread out on several long tables in the centre of the room. One was covered in muesli of all kinds: bran, flax, linseed, lecithin granules; the table next to it held mountains of stewed fruits and several jugs of green, orange, red and purple juices. There were the obligatory meat and cheese platters and then the bread table filled with every kind of loaf.
Stevie was delighted. Things were looking up.
Gunnar Gobb was striding efficiently around the room, stopping at each table to greet the guests. He showed Stevie to a table by the window.
‘I hope you rested well last night, Fräulein Duveen?’
‘Very well. Thank you.’
‘Sleep is the bedrock of good sense. It is all too often dispensed with, and we see the consequences of it here in Hoffenschaffen.’
He smiled and with clean, deft hands he unfolded a piece of paper that had been sitting on Stevie’s table.
‘This is the Murmeli Post, our sanatorium newsletter. It contains details of activities, weather forecasts and inspirational quotes. Enjoy your breakfast.’
The view up the gorge was breathtaking. The tips of the mountains were glowing a deep dawn red against the still-black sky, like fingers of lava clawing their way down into the valley.
Red sky in morning, shepherd’s warning, thought Stevie. She glanced down at the newsletter. A reminder that a Nordic skiing excursion would take place in the valley that afternoon was followed by the weather forecast: a heavy grey cloud with falling flakes. The Murmeli Post was expecting a blizzard, and temperatures of –5 degrees Celsius. So much for thoughts of spring.
Stevie was about to wander over to sample the delights of the buffet when a waiter appeared with a huge silver tray.
‘Seine Früstück, Fräulein Duveen.’
‘But I haven’t ordered anything,’ Stevie said, surprised. ‘I was actually thinking of browsing the buffet.’
‘The buffet is only for blue guests.’
Blue guests?
Then Stevie caught sight of her green bracelet and understood. ‘Well, what are green guests given for breakfast?’ she asked cheerfully.
‘Green is one of our more restricted menus,’ said the waiter, placing the tray on the table. There was a glass of deep purple juice, foaming at the top, and a small silver bowl of sliced beetroot. A dish of fermented goat curd stood beside it. Stevie looked at it in horror.
‘Guten apetit.’
‘Hardly possible,’ Stevie muttered. She caught the waiter as he left. ‘A pot of coffee please, and you had better bring some cream for it, too.’
‘Coffee is not permitted for the green guests.’ And with those devastating words, the waiter bustled off.
The wait for Henning seemed endless. Stevie passed the time ignoring her breakfast and observing the other guests.
There was a table of overweight Germans—two men, three women—all with gingery blond hair. They were tucking into mountains of hard-boiled eggs, celery and huge bowls of stewed fruits. They were wearing red wrist-bands.