Free Letters From Prague by Sue Gee

yawning. There were one or two people drinking coffee, and a middle-aged man with a jacket round his shoulders sat smoking and reading the paper, but it was early still, with few people about, the shops empty and inviting. In places, in the shade, the pavements were still wet from the cleaning lorry which moved through the streets with brushes and a sprinkler, leaving them spotless.
    Harriet, in what Victor Hugo had once called the loveliest city square in Europe, looked up at the richly decorated façades, Gothic and baroque, of the houses all around them, gilded blues and greens and greys, elaborate gables rising in harmony to the morning sky, and despite the anxious moments of the night she felt her heart lift. She was on holiday, for the first time in a long while, and what yesterday, standing in the spacious bedroom, had seemed uncertain and unsettling, now felt light and carefree.
    Beside her, Marsha and Susanna briefly touched each other, stepping out of the way of an ice-cream cart. They smiled at each other, and their hands fell back to their sides.
    Harriet observed them, noting their obvious affection, grown from the memory of a wedding four years ago and the acquaintanceship of a few hours. Susanna, this morning, looked at ease, relaxed. She was wearing her linen trousers, with an open-necked shirt and a pale blue sweater; a fine gold chain was round her neck, and tiny stud earrings showed when she pushed back shining hair. Surely this picture from Vogue could not have been overheard weeping in the small hours: it was hard to imagine Susanna weeping at any hour, so perfect had her control seemed yesterday, so composed did she seem today.
    â€˜In the Middle Ages,’ Harriet told Marsha, as they walked over the cobbles, ‘this place was a marsh. Then it was drained, and became the market of Brussels. All these heavenly buildings went up, blasted to bits at the end of the seventeenth century by Louis XIV. It was rebuilt extraordinarily quickly – by powerful tradespeople, dedicated to the glory of commerce.’
    â€˜And to God,’ said Susanna. ‘Look at that spire.’
    They craned their necks.
    â€˜That’s the Hotel de Ville,’ said Harriet, who had seen pictures.
    â€˜It is.’ Susanna touched Marsha’s shoulder. ‘The Town Hall, to you. See the figure right at the top? The weathervane?’
    Marsha leaned back, shading her eyes. ‘No. Yes. I think so.’
    â€˜That’s the archangel Michael. He fought the devil and won, and now he keeps watch over the city.’
    â€˜Gosh,’ said Marsha politely.
    Elaborately decorated with sculpture, the building stretched almost half the width of the south side of the square.
    â€˜I think we should see inside, don’t you?’ Susanna asked Harriet. ‘There are tapestries – they’re rather wonderful.’
    â€˜Yes, I’ve read about them.’
    Susanna smiled. ‘You’ve read about everything.’
    â€˜I wanted to get the most out of it. I almost felt I’d been here.’ Harriet looked about her. It had grown warmer, and the square looked bright – almost, already, too bright. Neither the Grand Place nor the Hotel, nor any of the streets through which they had walked to get here was, in reality, quite as she had imagined: she felt as though, like Alice through the looking-glass, she had strayed from within the pages of a book and found herself looking at the mirror image of what had, before, been the only reality. Did these soaring buildings feel in some Ways less substantial than those she had carried in her head? Well – yes, they did. And thinking this, as the others, ahead of her, entered the foyer, she was surprised to feel, again, a moment of uncertainty and unease, and, as yesterday, found herself thinking of Lucy Snowe, enduring the loneliness of the empty school, the empty city, during the long vacation.
    She followed Susanna inside.
    The main