The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,25

mash. Margarethe giggled.

“Don’t fall,” she said. “Or everyone will smell where you’ve been hiding.”

“Where we’ve been hiding, you mean.” Johann smiled. He’d missed Margarethe’s chuckle so much. Her chuckle and her full red lips, which he’d almost kissed once.

Margarethe grew serious. “I’m sorry about what happened yesterday,” she said. “I should have known my brother would follow me. At least I know for certain that he isn’t after me now—Father is making him clean the big presses over at the Grosse Kelter before breakfast, as punishment for loitering about town last night instead of helping at work.”

Johann nodded grimly. “Your father is a fair man. My father lets Karl and Lothar get away with murder while I have to do the dirty work. And he doesn’t give a damn about Martin.” His expression darkened even more. “Especially now that Mother is no longer with us. He even wants to take me out of Latin School.”

“Oh God, Johann, I’m so sorry!” Margarethe gave him a hug.

It felt good to be so close to her. He’d never told her what had happened at Gallows Hill that night. There hadn’t been an opportunity, but he was also too ashamed. He felt safe now in Margarethe’s arms, almost as if he were in the arms of his mother. But then he remembered that he’d soon lose Margarethe, too.

“You can’t go to Bretten,” he whispered.

Margarethe stiffened and pushed him away. “I . . . I don’t want to talk about it. Not today. Let’s not think about next year for now.” She closed her eyes. “I often think about that day in the field. You and me together by the old stone cross. Your kiss . . .”

“I . . . I wasn’t going to kiss you!”

“Really? I remember it differently. See, our lips were this close.” She pulled him close to her again. “This close . . .”

Johann stroked her hair. It smelled sweet and alluring, of grapes, milk, and cider . . .

Margarethe suddenly loosened her embrace. “What was that?” she asked quietly. “Do you hear that?”

Johann listened, and after a few moments he heard it, too.

It sounded like a soft whining. Desolate and cold, like wind pushing through cracks in a wall, but definitely human. For a second, Johann even thought he could hear words, but before he could make anything out, the sound stopped.

“It’s nothing,” he said with a shrug. “A crying child, perhaps.”

“I don’t know.” Margarethe shivered. “What if it’s something else?”

“What do you mean?” asked Johann.

“You haven’t heard?” Margarethe lowered her voice. “Three children disappeared from the Schillingswald Forest in the last few days. The first one was a four-year-old boy who must have gotten lost. His siblings went out looking for him and didn’t come back. People are whispering that the kobolds snatched the children and took them to their underground realm.”

Johann realized he’d been too preoccupied with his own worries recently to listen to any news. He shuddered when he thought about how many times he’d roamed through Schillingswald Forest by himself since the death of his mother. The forest stretched from the city’s southern boundary for many miles toward Pforzheim. It would be easy for someone who didn’t know the forest well to get lost.

“And do you believe it was the kobolds, too?” asked Johann mockingly. He didn’t want her to see that he was also a little frightened.

“Of course not!” Margarethe shook her head vehemently. “They could have been taken by robbers or wild animals—wolves or bears, perhaps. Maybe they simply got lost. Remember? Two years ago, little Liesl Müller went missing for more than a week, and then a hunter found her, almost starved to death.”

Johann nodded, thinking back on the incident. He remembered the mother’s wailing and then the cries of joy all over town when Liesl was found. Since that time, the girl had been strangely quiet and withdrawn.

And then Johann remembered the other missing children.

They had disappeared eight years ago, around the time Johann had first seen Tonio the magician. Johann had always remembered the magician’s face as clearly as if he’d seen him just the day before, but he’d forgotten about the missing children. Suddenly he recalled something else, like from a dream.

The magician’s wagon driving away behind the church, the canvas bulging briefly as if from a gust of wind, and a soft wailing sound. Of baby chickens or kittens.

Or of children . . .

But the image disappeared as fast as it had arrived. Johann couldn’t tell if the