Even though the Imperial Fortress is rather awkward in appearance compared to fortresses elsewhere, it is astoundingly large. But that's not the only surprise.

After five minutes, I'm berating myself a tin chimpanzee for not having taken up Marlene's invitation sooner. Simply the air here is so full of the promise of undiscovered opportunities that my pace increases on its own. 

Broad streets with multi-floor houses spill out into tranquil squares with splashing fountains, each one of them decorated with moveable sculptures that represent some fairy tale or another. Long, steep lanes bud out from the streets, which in their course spill out into busy squares with steam-operated horse troughs and prettily trimmed trees. 

I wander aimlessly about, but always downhill. 

Men in the aprons of the Baker's Guild stand behind street vendor tables, cheerily greeting their customers and cutting thick, brown slices from bread loaves. Journeymen carrying full sacks on sledges trundle along the sidewalks. Children in back courtyards chase each other, or are admonished by adults to always keep an eye out for quickly moving locomotion machines. 

On one of the main streets a laughing group of women in colourful dresses walk past me. I raise my hat to them, wish them a good afternoon, and step over their little dogs, several of which are high-quality mechanical reproductions of popular races. 

After a week at Court in a rather ambitiously stuffy Munich, I really wouldn't have expected to find so much exuberant geniality in a city only a jaunt away by airship. 

And then it happens.

On a corner next to a shop window full of state-of-the-art cooking utensils, I am literally seized and pummelled by a thought — I'm not in Berlin! 

My brain fuzzes like it has bad radio reception and for a moment I'm completely speechless.

I stare at my reflection in the glass.

He can't believe it either.

I conclude that by the eyes widened in sudden realisation and the dumbfounded way his mouth has dropped open. In between, his jaunty moustache trembles lightly.  

Indeed. I. Am. Not. IN BERLIN. 

There is no Frau K anywhere around to take me to task for my plans and remind me of the Rules Of Conduct in the Department manual, or anyone else who knows me and would tattle should I happen to so much as blow my nose ungracefully.  

I have practically three and a half days off!

The tingling sensation spreads from the inside of my head all the way out to the tips of my hair and I want to do something utterly insane this very instant. 

Just for the hell of it. 

Out of pure, thoughtless joy. 

But wait! Not so insane as I must be back at Marlene's punctually for dinner to meet Brother-in-law Helmut. 

Oh well, then later at some point. There is still a tomorrow (and another tomorrow and another tomorrow, jawohl.)

I continue on, barely noticing that I've begun to whistle. 

Shortly before the Main Market Square something moving up on a niche grabs my attention. It turns out to be little automaton in a bishop's outfit. With one hand, it elegantly repeats making the sign of the cross, blessing the entire street again and again.  

I'm a fancier of quality Automatons, especially rare and creative specimens, and this tiny bishop is first-rate.  After I've been blessed about twenty times, I walk on, my gaze rambling all over the walls of buildings for more such mechanical delights. 

As I'm not paying attention to where I'm placing my boots, what was bound to happen does — I almost collide with the edge of stone bridge I did not, in any way, see coming. 

At the last second, I twist away to avoid slamming into the iron-girded post, but stumble over an unevenness in the cobblestones and land painfully— on both hands and stomach — against the wide stone balustrade. 

 A man dressed in the red kit of the Boilermakers Guild slaps me cordially on the back as he passes. "Rather early to be so deep in yer cups, eh mate?"

I can feel my face going red.

I straighten up, inspect the palms of my hands.

No blood.

My waistcoat is also undamaged, if a slight bit gritty.

I lean against the balustrade and take a few deep breaths. 

Below me, a narrow greenish-brown river flows lazily. After a pause in which I do nothing but stare at the water and curse myself for being such a tin chimpanzee, I feel I'm able to continue searching for more of those splendid niche automatons. 

I am just about to be on my way when a long, slender, raven-black wedge comes floating out from under the bridge and into my view. 

What the Kaiser beard?

I lean over the edge to get a better look. 

After the long wedge...a group of passengers on benches appears, followed by a man in hat and stripped shirt wielding a long pole. 

I don't believe it. A Venetian gondola! And an old one without Aquamotoric, at that!    

The Gondolier manoeuvres his boat in the direction of the river side, where a small jetty has been attached to a stone staircase. He ties the lines and the gleefully smiling passengers climb out, jabbering and laughing to each other (obviously tourists). At street level there is an informative sign advertising twenty-minutes gondola rides at a fairly reasonable price.

A gondola ride in southern Germany! Well, if that's not something absolutely bonkers I could tell them about back home. 

I take out my pocket watch. Loads of time till dinner. 

An echo of shock is still rattling around in my bones, and I'm eager to find more of those automatons, so I decide to take the opportunity for a short cruise on my way back to Marlene's. The boat's not going to float away on me in the meantime, I'm sure. 

My plans are immediately dashed, of course. 

Because, as I cross the bridge, I spy two ladies of approximately my own age strolling towards me.

One is a brunette with a heart-shaped face in a fluffy pink dress decorated with silver beads and ivory thingamabobs. Linked arm-in-arm with her is a black-haired woman with more of a square face, wearing a plain dark blue dress of some shiny material, bronze buttons on the cuffs.   

As they whisk past, I left smelling the trail of their graceful perfume. 

Their sun umbrellas twirl like windmills in a field and I feel oddly, pleasurably queasy.

Lovely women.

Really lovely women.

Really rather...

I'm not about to make the same mistake twice and stumble over my own boots. 

I might not the brightest light bulb in the chandelier (my surname is Mernick, after all) but I am perfectly capable of betterment and therefore come to a full and complete stop before turning about face and gazing after the two angelic creatures. 

When the ladies reach the bridge, they turn to the left at the sign and descend the gondola stairs. 

Ah.

Well. 

Why not take that cruise now, hm? What's the point in waiting?

As I reach the steps, the gondolier is just helping them both on board. "Carefulla, da ladies. Welcome onna Gondola Fornetti!" 

While the brunette gathers up her skirts and sits down, the black-haired one asks: "What would it cost for a private ride for only the two of us?"

"Justa you-a two?" 

The gondolier pretends to be surprised, pressing his bushy eyebrows together in the middle of his forehead and shrugging. Then he strokes his chin in a thoughtful manner, as if he must first consider what an appropriate price for such an unusual request might be.

Ha, what a showman! He's bound to have had similar requests a hundred times or more and already have a complete price list for special requests in his head. There are dodgy specimens like him lurking in every doorway at home. One must simply ignore the acting and get straight to business. I'm not with the Department for nothing. I know a cad when I see one. 

Time to pull out the gentleman.

I clear my throat.

"Is there room for one more?" I ask politely - but firmly - in the direction of the gondolier.  "I am also willing to pay a little more for an abundance of leg room."

Both women look up at me like startled mice not expecting to see a tomcat so close to their cheese. I feel the urge to raise my top hat and give them a charming smile, but resist.

This is a matter between men. 

I want in that boat. 

"Beh..." The gondolier looks from me to them and back again. I can literally see how the Devil of Customer Gouging bends down to his ear and whispers him sweet nothings about a tankard of cold beer and knocking off work early. 

I decide to give the devil a hand. 

I stare daggers at the man. (I can do daggers. Ask Theodor.) 

It's the black-haired woman who decides the round. "Of course!" she with a friendly cry. "Come aboard, sir, come aboard. There's plenty of room. And it might be more of an amusing jaunt with three than with two."

I should certainly hope so!

Luckily no other potential customers have trundled down the stairs during our little conversation and I step on board as the only other passenger. The gondolier gets his money (too much, but there we are) and unknots the lines from the jetty.  

"You aren't from here," observes the black-haired lady as we slowly drift away from the bank. They are seated across from me in the middle of the gondola.

The brunette throws a quick, and it would seem bored, glance my way before dedicating all of her attention to the scenery.

"No, I'm from Prussia. Not far too from Berlin."

"Berlin! How charming," says the black-haired one. She smiles, raising her handsomely arching brows. "And what leads you to our humble city?"

"I'm visiting family." I relate an abbreviated version of my shameful dodging of familial duty. Somewhat humorously. Or perhaps not, I can't gauge it very well.

I'm still delightfully queasy.

"And you are a local?" I ask in return.

"As good as. May I explain the sights to you, if this is the first time you're honouring us with a visit?"  

"It would be a pleasure. My name is Mernick, by the way. Leopold Mernick."

"Vianna. And this is Lydia." She nods to the brunette. Lydia doesn't respond with so much as a batting of the eye to her name, allowing the burden of polite conversation fall entirely on the charming shoulders of her friend.

We sail on the left past small tree-covered islands and countless sights before the river suddenly widens and wind-driven millhouses command the landscape. The city walls appear ahead and we float under an impressive drawbridge construction. 

The silent gondolier (he hasn't as much as hummed a tune for us, and that at these prices) rotates the boat around and we sail back, this time on the other side of the islands. 

Everything is quite picturesque, but if I'm honest, I'm only listening to Vianna's voice, because she's talking like a waterfall. 

A deeply relaxing, gurgling waterfall that melts into the background sough of the river current. I don't register half of what she says, but still manage to nod and murmur oh and really? at the appropriate moments. 

I feel as if I've been bedded down on magic pillows.

Lydia ignores me pointedly. She plucks off a glove and lets a pale hand slip into the water, moving it this way and that as a swimming fish might. I'm reaching the conclusion that she had no desire whatsoever to take this little ride on the river and is here under protest.

Or she is always like that.

"I have an idea!" Vianna cries as we near the other end of the Old Town. She swivels around and addresses the gondolier. "Would it be a terrible bother to show us the place where they used to throw the witches in the river? The witch execution spot? Our guest from Berlin shouldn't miss it out, and I believe it's not so far from here."

She turns to me with no small measure of frothy enthusiasm, "That was a long time ago, of course, but it's still quite deliciously creepy. You simply must see it."

Oh no, I don't!

No witches, please. I can't abide witches. 

When I was a little lad our grandmother would read to us out of a big black book of fairytales that she kept in a special place and only brought out when we came to visit.

And which stories did my rotten little siblings always clamour to hear? Jawohl, witch stories! The more horrific, the better, because they knew how afraid I was of those hags roaming around in dark, scary forests casting evil spells on unsuspecting young men.  

And Grandmother? She would simply wink conspiratorially and join in the fun without considering the consequences it had on me for a single moment. (Typical Mernick. What can one say.)

The gondolier hesitates. 

This time it's not an act.

I sense my chance and stare meaningfully at him. (I'm fairly good at meaningful.)

"Perhaps we shouldn't overtax the good man," I say. "Our twenty minutes are almost up."

"But we paid extra," Vianna says. And then to the gondolier: "Please?"

"Ummm...issa shallow atta da place. Difficult to-a navigate. But I take-a you so-a close to da asa possible, issa fine?" 

No, it is decidedly not fine!

"Thank you very much, sir. We greatly appreciate it. What's the matter, Herr Mernick? Are you not feeling well?"

"No, no, everything's perfectly fine." I attempt to return her smile, but I don't quite manage it entirely and present more of a grimace. 

Stop it, Leopold, I reprimand myself. You are an adult and in imperial service, and you've been on more dangerous excursions that this, and do you really want to behave like a coward in front of Vianna, and anyway, those were just stories and grandmother was just having a laugh and witches aren't real, or at least not anymore, damn it, you tin chimpanzee. 

None of it helps.

We sail witchward.