Theresa surveyed the homes along the winding cobblestone street. She scanned the piece of paper on which she had scrawled the address. “I think.” “After an hour in customs I can’t keep anything straight,” Caylin said crankily. Jo squinted at a map. “Malá Strana,” she recited, ever the language expert. “The Little Quarter district of Prague. Our new home.” “Mozart used to walk these streets all the time,” Theresa revealed. “But I doubt he lived here.” Theresa pointed at the door in front of her for emphasis. The number 242 was painted next to it haphazardly. Drop-jawed, she gazed up and up—the run-down building was five stories tall. Forbidding stone gargoyles stared down at her from the rooftop. “It looks so . . . old.” “Chances are, it is,” Caylin quipped. “Could this all be for us?” Jo whispered. “Not,” Caylin said, dropping her bags by her feet. “It looks like my aunt’s apartment building in Paris. Didn’t Danielle give a flat number?”
