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“Surely you did not sleep with it open,” he said quickly.
“No, it would have been too cold for that, I think. But it was such a lovely morning—”
He gave a little sigh and the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “Of course. The maid doubtless thought you had slept with the window open, and such is a dangerous practise here in the mountains. There are bats—vespertilio—which carry foul diseases, and other creatures which might make their way into your room at night.”
I grimaced. “I am afraid I do not much care for bats. Of course I shall keep my window firmly closed in future. But when Tereza closed it, she hung basil from the latch.”
“To sweeten the air of the room,” he said hastily. “Such is the custom here.”
The word I had heard her speak trembled on my lips, but I did not repeat it. Perhaps I was afraid to know just yet what that word strigoi meant and why it seemed to strike fear into Tereza’s heart.
“I thought to find Cosmina,” I began.
“My mother is unwell and Cosmina attends her,” the count replied. “I am afraid you must content yourself with me.”
Just then the great dog moved forward and began to nuzzle my hand, and I saw that his eyes were yellow, like those of a wolf.
“Miss Lestrange, you must not be frightened of my Tycho! How pale you look. Are you afraid of dogs?”
“Only large ones,” I admitted, trying not to pull free of the rough muzzle that tickled my palm. “I was bitten once as a child, and I do not seem to have quite got over it.”
“You will with my boy. He is gentle as a lamb, at least to those whom I like,” he promised. The count encouraged me to pet the dog, and I lifted a wary hand to his head.
“Underneath the neck, just there on the chest, between his forelegs,” he instructed. “Over the head is challenging, and he will not like it. Under the chin is friendly, only mind the throat.”
I did not dare ask what would happen if I did not mind the throat. I put my hand between the dog’s forelegs, feeling the massive heart beating under my fingers. I patted him gently, and he leaned hard with his great head against my leg, nearly pushing me over.
“Oh!” I cried.
“Do not be startled,” the count said quietly. “It is a measure of affection. Tycho has decided to like you.”
“How kind of him,” I murmured. “A curious name, Tycho.”
“After the astronomer, Tycho Brahe. It was an interest of my grandfather’s he was good enough to share with me.” Before I could remark upon this, he hurried on. “Have you any pets, Miss Lestrange?”
“No, my grandfather had the raising of me and he did not much care for animals. He thought they would spoil his books.”
The count made a noise of derision. “And are books more important than the companionship of such creatures? Were it not for my dogs and horses I should have been quite alone as a child.” It was an observation; he said the words without pity for himself.
“I too found solace. Books remain my favourite companions.”
The strongly marked brows shifted. “Then I have something to show you. Come, Miss Lestrange.”
He led the way from the great hall, through a corridor that twisted and turned, through another lesser hall, a second corridor, and through a set of imposing double doors. The room we emerged into was tremendous in size, encompassing two floors, with a wide gallery running the perimeter of the place. Bookshelves lined both floors to the ceiling, and there were several smaller, travelling bookcases scattered about the room, all stuffed with books.
Unlike the rest of the castle, this room was floored in dark, polished wood, giving it a cosier feel, if such a thing was possible in so imposing a place. The furniture was carved and heavy and upholstered in moss green, a native pattern stitched upon it in faded gold. There were a few globes, including a rather fine celestial model, and several map tables fitted with wide, low drawers for atlases. In the centre of the room a great two-sided desk stood upon lion’s paws on a vast Turkey rug. Taken as a whole, the room was vast and impressive, but upon closer inspection it was possible to see the work of insects—moth upon the furniture and rugs and bookworm in the volumes themselves. It was a room that had been beautiful once, but beyond a cursory flick of a duster, it did not seem as if anyone had cared for it for quite a long time. A fire burning on the wide hearth did something to banish the chill, and the dog settled in front of it, claiming the place.
The count stood back, awaiting my reaction.
“A very impressive room,” I told him.
He seemed pleased. “It is traditionally used by the counts to conduct their business—the collecting of rents, the meting out of justice. And it is also a place of leisure. No doubt you think it odd to find such an extensive collection in such a place, but the grip of winter holds us close upon this mountain. There is little to do but hunt, and even that is sometimes not possible. It is then that we too turn to books.”
He moved to one of the cases and drew out a few folios. I smiled as I recognised Whitethorne’s Illustrated Folklore and Legend of the Scottish Highlands as well as Sir Ruthven Campbell’s Great Walks of the British Isles.
“You see, even here we know something of your country,” the count remarked, his eyes bright.
I put out a hand to touch the enormous volumes. The colour plates of the Whitethorne folio were exquisite, each more beautiful than the last. “Breathtaking,” I murmured.
“Indeed,” he said, and I realised how close he had come. He stood right at my shoulder, his arm grazing mine as he reached out to turn another page. There was a whisper of warm breath across my neck, just where the skin was bared between the coil of my hair and the collar of my gown. “You must come and look at them whenever you like. They are too heavy to take to your room, but the library is at your disposal.”
His arm pressed mine so slightly I might have imagined the touch. I stepped back and pretended to study an ancillary sphere.
“That is very generous of you, sir.”
He closed the folio but did not move closer to me. He merely folded his arms over his chest and stood watching me, a small smile playing over his lips.
“It costs me nothing to share, therefore it is not generous,” he corrected. “When someone offers what he can ill afford to give, only then may he be judged generous.”
I looked up from my perusal of the sphere. “Then I will say instead it is kind of you.”
“You seem determined to think well of me, Miss Lestrange. But Cosmina tells me you are an authoress. What sort of host would I be if I did not provide you with a comfortable place to work should you choose?”
He smiled then, a decidedly feline smile, predatory and slow. I did not know how to reply to him. I had no experience of such people. Sophistry was not a skill I possessed. Cosmina had told me the count had lived for many years in Paris; doubtless his companions were well-versed in polished conversation, in the parry and thrust of social intercourse. I was cast of different metal. But I thought again of my book and the use I might make of him there. He was alluring and noble and decidedly mysterious, all the qualities I required for a memorable hero. I made up my mind to engage him as often as possible in conversation, to study him as a lepidopterist might study an excellent specimen of something rare and unusual.
“You surprise me,” he said suddenly.
“In what manner?”
“When Cosmina told me she was expecting her friend, the writer from Edinburgh, I imagined a quite terrifying young woman, six feet tall with red hair and rough hands and an alarming vocabulary. And instead I find you.”
He finished this remark with a look of such genuine approbation as quite stopped my breath.
“I must indeed have been a surprise,” I said, attempting a light tone. “I like to believe I am clever, but I am no bluestocking.”
“And so small as to scarcely reach my shoulder,” he said softly, leaning a bit closer. He shifted his gaze to my hair. “I had not thought Scotchwomen so dark. Your hair is almost black as mine, and your eyes,” he trailed off, pausing a moment, his lips parted as he drew a great deep breath, smelling me as an animal might.
“Rosewater,” he murmured. “Very lovely.”
I stepped backwards sharply, ashamed at my part in this latest impropriety. “I must beg your leave, sir. I ought to find Cosmina.”
Amusement twitched at the corners of his mouth. “She is with the countess. My mother has spent a restless night and it soothes her to have Cosmina read to her.”
“I am sorry to hear of the countess’s indisposition.”
“So the responsibility of entertaining you falls to me,” he added with another of his enigmatic smiles.
“I would not be a burden to you. I am sure your duties must be quite demanding. If you will excuse me,” I began as I moved to step past him.
“I cannot,” he countered smoothly. And then a curious thing occurred. He seemed to block me with his own body, and yet he did not stir. It was simply that I knew I could not move past him and so remained where I was as he continued to speak. “It is my duty and my pleasure to introduce you to my home.”
“Really, sir, that is not necessary. I might take a book to my room or write letters.” But even as I spoke, I knew it was not to be. There was a peculiar force to his personality, and I understood then that whatever resistance I presented him was no more than the slenderest twig in his path. He would take no note of it as he proceeded upon his way.
“Letters—on such a fine day, when we might walk together? Oh, no, Miss Lestrange. I will begin your education upon the subject of Transylvania, and you will find I am an excellent tutor.”
He offered me his arm then, and as I took it, I thought for some unaccountable reason of Eve and the very little persuasion it took for the serpent to prevail.
I spent the morning with him, and he proved an amiable and courteous host. He behaved with perfect propriety once we quit the library, introducing me to the castle with a connoisseur’s eye for what was best and most beautiful, for the castle was beautiful, but tragically so. Everywhere I found signs of decay and neglect, and I became exceedingly puzzled as to what had caused the castle to fall to ruin. It had obviously been loved deeply at one time, with both care and money lavished upon it in equal measure, but some calamity had caused it to lapse into decline. It was not until we had finished the tour of the castle proper—the public rooms only, for he did not take me to the family wing nor to the tower where I slept—and emerged into the garden that I began to understand.
The morning was a cool one, but I had my shawl and the garden was walled, shielded from the wind by heavy stones. The garden was surprisingly large and had been planted with an eye to both purpose and pleasure. A goodly part was used as a kitchen garden, untidy but clearly productive, with serried rows of vegetables and the odd patch of herbs bordered by weedy gravel paths. But at the end of this was a door in the wall and beyond was a forgotten place, thick with overgrown rosebushes and trees heavy with unpicked fruit. A fountain stood in the middle, the pretty statue of Bacchus furred with mold, the water black and rank and covered with a foul slime.
I turned to find the count staring at the garden, his jaw set, his lips thin and cruel.
“I apologise,” he said tightly. “I have not yet seen it. I did not realise it had fallen into disuse. It was once a beautiful place.”
I could feel anger in him, controlled though it was, and I hurried to smooth the moment. “It is not difficult to see what lies beneath. The fountain is a copy of one at Versailles, is it not? My grandfather showed me a sketch he made during his travels as a young man. I recognise the heaps of grapes.”
“Yes,” he said, almost reluctantly. “My grandfather commissioned a copy when he planted his first vineyard. He was very proud of the first bottle of wine he produced.”
“It is an accomplishment. He did well to be proud of it,” I agreed.
To my surprise, he smiled, and it was not the casual smile he had shown before but something more heartfelt and genuine. “He needn’t have been. It was truly awful. The vines were pulled out and tilled over. But he was very fond of his Bacchus,” he finished, his eyes fixed upon the ruined statue.
“And you were very fond of him,” I said boldly.
He did not alter his gaze. “I was. He had the raising of me. Dragulescu men have always had trouble with their sons,” he said with a rueful twist of the lips. “My grandfather, Count Mircea, had neither affection nor esteem for my father. When I was born, my grandfather took it upon himself to educate me, to teach me the things that mattered to him. When he died, life here became insupportable under my father. I left for Paris and I have not been here since.”
“How long have you been away?”
He shrugged. “Twelve years, perhaps a little more.”
“Twelve years! It must seem a lifetime to you.”
“I was seldom here before that. My grandfather sent me to school in Vienna when I was eight. I returned home for holidays sometimes, but only rarely. It was so far there seemed little merit in it.”
“You must have had excellent masters in Vienna,” I ventured. “You speak English as well as any native.”
He flicked me an amused glance. “I ought to. My grandfather always said any gentleman worth the title must attend university in England. I was at Cambridge. After that, my grandfather himself took me upon the Grand Tour. It was shortly after that trip that he died.”
“How lucky you have been!” I breathed. “To have learned so much, travelled so much. And with a treasured companion.”
“You did not travel with your own grandfather?”
“No. He was quite elderly when my sister and I came to him. He preferred his books and his letters. But he travelled extensively as a young man, and he spoke so beautifully about the places he had seen, I could almost imagine I had seen them too.”
“You are growing wistful now,” the count warned.
I smiled at him. “I suppose I am. The loss is still a fresh one.” I hurried on, impulsively. “And I am sorry about your father. I understand the bereavement is recent.”
He said nothing for a moment, merely drew in a deep, shuddering breath. When he turned to me, his eyes were as cold and grey and unyielding as the castle stones.
“Your sympathy is a credit to your kindness, Miss Lestrange, but it is not necessary. I have returned home for the sole purpose of making certain he was dead.”
With that extraordinary statement, he moved to the door in the garden wall. “Come, Miss Lestrange. It grows colder and I would not have you take a chill.”
4 (#ulink_bc5f7045-553f-5f45-9fbe-9480f8f743bd)
He left me in the great hall to find my way alone, and I returned to my room, followed hard upon by Tereza with a tray of food. I had not realised the hour was so late, but as soon as she lifted the covers from the dishes, the appetising smells pricked my appetite. I ate a dish of steaming soup thick with cabbage and noodles, and sampled a plate of assorted cold things, cheeses and bread and salads, with a few hot, crisp sausages.
When I had finished, I went in search of Cosmina again, but no sooner had I reached the great hall than she appeared, looking pale and a little tired, and full of abject apologies. “Theodora, what must you think of me! I am so sorry to have abandoned you. The countess needed me. She is resting now.”
I waved her aside and reassured her that I had spent the morning pleasantly, careful to mention the count only in passing. But at the mention of his name, her face clouded. “I must speak with you, but not here. The countess needs her medicine from the doctor. We will walk down to the village together. Later we will talk.”
It was all very mysterious, but intriguingly so, and I dutifully retrieved my stout boots and warmest shawl from my room.
“The steps are quite shallow, and the walk is a pretty one,” Cosmina explained when I met her again in the great hall. She carried a little basket and had donned a bright blue cloak that very nearly matched her eyes. “There are still a few wildflowers to be found and there are rocks you may sit and rest upon.” Suddenly, she smiled. “But I forget to whom I am speaking. You still take pleasure in your rambles, do you not? You were always the sturdiest walker in the school.”
“I do indeed,” I said roundly. “I cannot think properly unless I have had fresh air.”
“Then let us be off, for you have not enjoyed Carpathian air, and it is like wine to the senses.”
I almost agreed with her about the excellence of the mountain air until I realised I had not told her about my tour of the garden with the count. But I was not eager to introduce him into our conversation, so I remained silent and followed her from the hall.
We ventured out into the early afternoon, and almost as soon as we left the confines of the castle, a weight seemed to drop away from Cosmina. I had not realised how bowed down she seemed, how anxious, until I saw her pause and take a great, deep breath, raising her face to the sun. After a moment she turned and grasped my hand, and I fancied I saw the glitter of tears in her eyes.
“It is so good to see you, my friend.” I had forgot how demonstrative she could be, and I withdrew my hand, but only after a moment, and gently.
“It is good to see you as well,” I said warmly. “I have missed you.”
“And I you. I ought to have written more,” she said, her expression somewhat abashed. “But there always seemed to be something to do. The countess’s health, the needs of the villagers, my duties at the castle. My aunt has given me copies of all her keys as chatelaine,” she added proudly. “But it means I am often so busy between the castle and the village.” Her voice trailed off. “Now things will be different, I know it.”
“You mean now the old count is dead?” I ventured.
She nodded. “Count Bogdan. I must not speak unkindly of him, for it was he who permitted the countess to bring me here to live. But he was…he is not mourned,” she told me.
I thought of this and of what the count had told me about his father. I thought too of the decaying castle and wondered precisely what sort of man Count Bogdan had been.
She lifted her face to the sun again, closing her eyes and smiling. “I do not want to think of him today. I do not want to talk about unpleasant things yet. You are here and the weather is glorious and all will be well, I know that it will.” She opened her eyes. “It must be,” she added firmly.
True to her word, we did not speak of unpleasant things, only the scenery and the history of the place as we picked our way down the mountain to the valley below. I had been so tired upon my arrival and the night so dark, I had not even realised there was a village tucked at the base of the mountain some little distance from the lodge.
We had almost reached the bottom of the climb when Cosmina ventured off the rough stairs and onto a little grassy patch thick with stalks of odd little hooded flowers that put me greatly in mind of monkshood. Cosmina drew on a pair of gloves and took a small knife from the basket to take careful cuttings from the plants.
“Omagul,” Cosmina said happily, showing me the plant she had found. “The proper name is Aconitum anthora, the healing wolfsbane. It grows only in the mountains here, and it is a true remedy for rheumatism and pain and it is said to strengthen the heartbeat. It is still in flower, but perhaps only a few days more.” She brandished the tall, spiky plant with its rows of capped blooms with her gloved hands. “I have promised to bring some to the countess’s doctor. He uses a number of native plants for his remedies.”
We made our way into the little hamlet. It was scarcely more than a cluster of houses, bright as an artist’s paintbox, gaily decorated with carving and pargeting, and each set apart from its brothers by a small patch of garden bordered by an iron fence and topped by a rose madder roof. A pair of the houses had been set aside for use as a smithy and an inn, their proprietors keeping living quarters at the back for their families. The gate of the inn was closed and over it hung the bleached white skull of a horse.
“To keep away ghosts,” Cosmina explained, passing by without further comment.
