Albert Brennan didn’t have the look of adventure about him, quite the contrary in all actuality: he looked to be more at home in a library or sitting among scores of paper, tabulating account balances. It was true that he did nothing to hide his bookish nature–his wireframe glasses sat perched atop his nose, reflecting the dusk light. His sand colored hair had been tossed by the wind, and showed signs of neglect from his journey. Albert wore a dark jacket over his collared shirt, which was tucked into thick linen pants, which were in turn tucked into leather riding boots. And yet, still, the look of surprise the clerk at the train station had given him cut deeper than anticipated.
“Romania? This time of year?” the clerk had looked away from his book of tickets and looked down his long nose at Albert, “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into here?”
Albert took the ticket from the stodgy clerk and gave him a nod, “I’ll be fine, thanks. Just going to visit a friend.”
Albert smiled, pushing the encounter from his mind. Dwelling on the past would do him no good and, besides, he’d made it. He stood at the front gates of an expansive mansion, a gilded plaque affixed to the gate read:
9 Pinkett Street
With that, he knew he was at the right giant mansion in the foothills of Romania. He and his childhood friend had spent many an afternoon playing on the cobblestone streets of Pinkett Street, dreaming of their bright futures.