“Do I intrude?” she asked quickly, uncertainty showing in every aspect of her demeanor. “Would you prefer that I leave?”
“No; I am curious—one of my failings.” His swift smile vanished as soon as it appeared. “Your aunt Evangeline is with you, Deme van Amsteljaxter—Ruthger informed me—so you are clearly upholding the proprieties.” Her aunt, as he knew, was in the main withdrawing room, doing needlework.
She stopped still, her face flushing. “I fear I am being most importunate in coming here, and were it not for the mortification I feel, I should not have bothered you,” she admitted. “But I have only recently discovered that three months ago my brother had written to you to ask for your help.” She put one hand to her flaming cheek, not daring to look at him. “I am dreadfully chagrined that he would do such a thing—you, a stranger with no ties to him any stronger than that you have published my book. I came to apologize on his behalf.”
“His circumstances seemed a bit precarious,” said Saint-Germain. “He had good reason to seek help somewhere.”
“That they were—his situation’s precarious. And may well be still.” She turned away from him and went toward the fireplace, staring into the flames as if to banish other visions from her thoughts. “I have written to him four times since Christmas, and I have had no word from him in return. I only know that he had written to you because I received a letter from the Landsmacht’s secretary, saying that my letters had arrived but that my brother has been unable to answer.”
Saint-Germain studied her thoughtfully. “It is winter,” he reminded her as kindly as he could. “Messages travel erratically in winter. It would seem, from the note you have received from the secretary, that his messages—or yours—have probably been delayed.”
“That is possible,” she said, her words measured and her manner controlled. “But couriers have twice arrived with letters from Bohemia and Moravia since Christmas, and they have affirmed that the letters carried there have been delivered, at least most of them, so they must be in the Landsmacht’s hands; why he should have them I hardly dare to imagine. Tabor is not so small a place that the couriers would not go there to collect letters, and Grussenwald is not so very far from Tabor.” She coughed. “I know my brother was troubled by the Landsmacht’s growing religiosity, and feared that his employment would end before the promised time—”
“So he said in his letter to me.” Saint-Germain motioned her to a chair. “I was given to understand you had encouraged him to write to me.”
“Not encouraged,” she protested as she sat down. “I only ventured to say that you might be able to advise him if he were dismissed out of hand, as I fear he may have been. The secretary only said that my brother could not answer any letters.”
“You were not in error to make such a recommendation, if that is what he wishes; I will do what I can for him,” he said, and waited for her to go on. “Is it? his wish.”
“I don’t know,” she said, unwilling to look at him. “He has told me so little since he warned me of his difficulties, and I am left to worry, and speculate, neither of which brings me any solace. There are stories every day of men and women—and children—put to torture and death for speaking against—”
“Why is that, do you think—that he has provided no other information to you?” The question was enough to stop her increasing dismay; Saint-Germain went to the heavy shelving and took down a small book of elegant love songs, composed more than three hundred years before. “Is he likely to fail to inform you of any difficulties he may have encountered? You know his character—would he inform you with his problems, or would he seek not to burden you with them?” He read hesitation in her restless gaze. “Let me put it another way—would he expect you to shoulder his difficulties if he is in a precarious situation? Have you done it before? Or do you fear he has been made a prisoner or become repentant, and that is the reason you have heard nothing?” Looking at the four-line staves with the odd, square nones, he heard the plaintive melody of the third song sound in his head while he waited for Erneste to form her reply.
“I am troubled that he has not—” She faltered, her voice becoming unsteady. “I thought he would have sent me a letter, you see, no matter what state of mind he may be in. He always has in the past. I inquired after his health, but learned nothing about it. And the secretary said he could not answer, not that he had not received the letters.”
“But there was nothing from your brother himself.” Saint-Germain said nothing more, waiting for her to speak.
“No. Nothing from him, and that is what causes me the most distress, and why I am afraid for him.” She put her hands together almost as if in prayer, and studied the walls around her.
“And since he has not sent any word to you, you would like me to use my influence to find out if any mishap has befallen him, or anything that would account for his silence,” Saint-Germain supplied for her, marking his place in the song-book with one finger and closing the book around it.
She shook her head. “I am not so forgetful of my place that I would do such a thing,” she protested. “I am beholden to you already, deeply so, and I would rather not increase my indebtedness.”
“You have no reason to be—what I may or may not do for your brother does not devolve upon you in any way: believe this,” he said gently.
But she continued on as if she had not heard him. “I am troubled about my brother’s silence, but I cannot ask you to discover what has become of him. I have nothing to offer you in thanks for what aid you may extend to him.”
“Why do you think that it would be your obligation, Deme? You are asking on his behalf, not your own, are you not?” Saint-Germain asked.
“I … I was hoping you might advise me. Now that I have heard from the secretary, I am at a loss how to proceed. I would like to make inquiries on my own, but not if they would be dangerous for Onfroi.” She looked about the room as if it were new to her. “You have no reason to help us.”
“I have no reason not to, either,” he said.
She rubbed her hands together more forcefully. “No. That wasn’t my purpose in coming here. I wanted you to know that I would not trespass on our association in so improper a way. You must see that. Yet, though I know it is reprehensible, I hope I may prevail upon you to write to the Landsmacht to find out what has become of … Onfroi. He is more apt to send you information than he is to vouchsafe it to me. I don’t ask you to prevaricate or—” She laced her fingers together, then unlaced them again. “And if this would mean another debt—”
“What can I do to convince you I do not think concern for your brother is improper, nor an occasion to be taken advantage of—but you are anxious, are you not?” He watched her struggle with contrary impulses, but held his tongue while she debated with herself.
Finally she sighed. “I admit I hope you will undertake to discover what has become of him, not simply because I ask it, but to know what might endanger the books your company produces.”
“I have such interests, I agree,” he said, letting her take this in. “No doubt your brother could provide me with a great deal of useful information.”
“Yes. I think so, too,” she said, relieved, then frowned again. “But he might not have sufficient to justify your—”
“What is it?” he asked, guessing the answer.
“I know that if you should lend him assistance on my behalf, you might have expectations of me that I may not desire to meet, no matter how grateful I may be—So for that reason alone, I would prefer not to be so greatly obligated to you. If you will tell me what I may do, then I will not impose upon you any longer.” This last admission was made hurriedly, somewhat angrily, and with renewed confusion. “You must think me very naive.”
“Hardly that,” said Saint-Germain, pulling his finger out of the song-book and returning it to the shelves only to take down a copy of Erneste’s book. “This is a most intriguing volume: Lyrics and Tales of the Peasants of Brabant. I was particularly struck by the story of ‘H
ow Valeria Was Wooed by the Night Demon.’”
“Because the hero is a priest?” she asked just above a whisper. “There are versions in which he is a knight.”
“He is a most unlikely hero, I agree,” said Saint-Germain smoothly, “but no; that is not what impressed me—I was struck by Valeria using a mirror to discover whether or not her suitor was a demon. That device is unusual, and for that reason, also distinctive.”
“Because you thought the mirror should have shown the demon as terrible as he was?” Erneste asked, doing her best to steady herself through this discussion.
“No—because the mirror showed nothing at all,” said Saint-Germain, a wistful note in his voice.
Erneste sat a bit straighter. “Isn’t that the most horrible thing that could happen: that the demon had no shape, that he took his appearance from her desires?”
“Is that what happened?” Saint-Germain opened the book and thumbed to the page he sought. “Here it is: ‘Alas, when she held up the priceless mirror, Valeria saw that there was no image on the surface of the glass. She knew then that the priest had spoken truth, and she made the Sign of the Cross, whereupon her lover shrieked blasphemously and vanished with an appalling oath in a gout of flames. His accursed vow remained after he had gone: that nothing could save her from joining him in Hell. She went to the priest who had helped her, and he accepted her repentance and forgave her sins.’”
“It is a vivid story,” she said when he closed the book; she seemed half-apologetic and half-proud of her work. “If it weren’t so remarkable, I wouldn’t have included it, for it may cause distress to some who read it.”
“You say that you heard the story from an old woman, who had heard it from her grandmother, who was said to have learned it as a child,” Saint-Germain observed. “If two such venerable women were not too distraught by its themes to tell it, then why should you hesitate.”
“Yes, Grav. The old woman was proud of all the tales she knew, for most of the people of her village didn’t know half so many as she,” Erneste declared. “Her name was Kundarie, and her family had once lived farther east, near to Luxembourg.”
“Most … interesting,” said Saint-Germain, ironic amusement lending his countenance a somewhat more angular cast, as he had a brief, intense memory of Heugenet, who had come to his life two centuries ago, only to die the True Death at her own hands a quarter century later. She had known him for what he was, and had embraced what he offered, however briefly. Her memory was easier to bear than that of Demetrice.
“I found many tales had diverse versions, and those versions were so remarkable that I could not record each variation, or I would have been forced to limit the book to a single tale.” She studied the spines of the books on the shelves with a kind of longing. “Even you might weary of such a volume, as much as you love books.”
“Variations on a single tale?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said as if admitting to a flaw in her character.
“I might, but I doubt it. That might prove most interesting, such a focused comparison,” said Saint-Germain, studying her more openly. “Which of these stories would you choose, if you were to prepare such a volume?”
Erneste touched her modified kettle headdress, attempting to conceal a bit more of her face. “I haven’t given such a notion much thought,” she admitted slowly. “But perhaps the story of the sons or daughters turned into birds or animals of different kinds through sorcery or other evil and then back through virtue would be the most divergent example I can think of just now. And one that would not be seen to encourage tergiversation in anyone.”
“That is a very ancient story, Deme van Amsteljaxter,” said Saint-Germain who had first heard a version of it almost three thousand years ago, while he had been serving in the Temple of Imhotep.
“So the priest in Saint-Etienne des Argenielles said when he had heard his mother tell me the version she knew,” said Erneste with a returning confidence. She managed a suggestion of a smile. “Is that something you would like to publish, if I should undertake such research? A book of many versions of the same story? Would that interest you?”
“It might,” said Saint-Germain.
She shook her head. “That is discouraging.”
He looked a bit startled. “It shouldn’t be,” he said in a kind voice. “It is not lack of faith in your work that makes me hesitate, it is the scrutiny to which my publications are subjected—to which all publications are subjected just now. You are right, such a compilation as you envision would probably be approved by Church authorities.”
“You say probably,” she pointed out.
“As I must. The Spanish arm of the Church favors a very stringent, doctrinal interpretation of all works, including those not directly and favorably bearing on the Church, and the standards they put forth are somewhat … shall we say … arbitrary.” He studied her face, aware that she was debating within herself. “Deme Amsteljaxter?”
Finally she looked toward him. “Grav, I cannot venture to ask you anything, not now. There are so many aspects to your … participation. Let me have some time for reflection; then I will know what I think best to do.”
“As you wish. But do not fear to ask me to make official inquiries—so far as I, a foreigner, may do so—if your methods do not succeed,” he said, making a point of keeping his distance.
“What do you—” She stopped herself. “I apologize, Grav. I think it best that I leave now.”
“To avoid any possible appearance of impropriety,” said Saint-Germain smoothly. “I do understand.”
She rose and curtsied to him, her face averted so as not to imply any hint of invitation. “You have been very good to receive me,” she said with a fine show of courtesy. “I thank you.”
“You have no reason to do so; not yet,” he said to her. “I look forward to speaking with you again, when you have reached a decision.”
She studied him for almost a minute, her silence as intense as a volley of rifle-fire. “If I cannot reach Onfroi, then yes, I will speak with you again. But I warn you, I will make no bargains then that I have not made with you already.”
“I did not doubt that,” Saint-Germain murmured, and kissed the air immediately above her extended fingers. “For your sake, I hope you have direct contact with your brother as soon as possible.”
“Most kind,” she said, and started toward the door. “I’ll think about the book.”
“If another notion strikes you as better, do, please, let me know of it,” he said, keeping his distance for her comfort. “Ruthger will arrange for a messenger for you, if this will suit you.”
“A messenger? That is a very expensive luxury for my aunt and me to bear.” Color rose in her cheeks.
“Consider it part of my costs of publishing. It is necessary that I think ahead, so that I may produce books on a schedule that coincides with the voyages of my merchant-ships. Books gain few readers if they sit in warehouses, waiting to be sent to market.” He spoke easily, as if this were a common arrangement that any sensible maker of books would expect to bear. “I think your current book is being wellenough received to incline me to want a second book from you. Providing you a messenger will simplify our dealings. I will have journeys to make, and it would be prudent to have some means to remain in communication with you.”
Erneste went pale. “Of course,” she said, trying to make up for what she supposed had to be the gaffe of a new author.
“Very good,” he approved, with a slight bow. “Ruthger will inform you within two days the name of your messenger, and when he will call upon you.”
“Thank you.” She spoke only a bit above a whisper, then went—a bit too hastily—to the door to let herself out.
Saint-Germain stood alone in the study, his head lowered in thought. He was so preoccupied that he hardly heard the soft knock that came roughly ten minutes later. Shaking his head as if to waken himself, he called in Imperial Latin, “Come in, old friend.”
Ruthg
er slipped into the room, his face set in severe lines. “She was willing to have a messenger?”
“When I implied it would be un-author-like of her to refuse, she was willing,” said Saint-Germain, a slight, sad amusement in his dark eyes.
“So I gathered,” said Ruthger.
“I can tell she is worried about compromising her honor,” Saint-Germain went on, his manner superbly neutral.
“The Spanish are very rigorous about such matters,” Ruthger reminded him. “She is already exposed to criticism, being a literate woman.”
“And not a nun,” Saint-Germain added. “Her aunt has some protection.”
“Precisely,” said Ruthger, and went to light the oil-lamps with the flint-and-steel he carried in the wallet on his belt.
“I’ll be careful, for her sake.”
Ruthger loosened the rope holding the main lantern up near the ceiling, lowered it, and began to light its various individual lamps. “Do you plan to visit her?”
“No,” said Saint-Germain. “Neither sleeping nor waking. She is much too frightened to accept a lover in any guise, let alone one such as I am—a foreigner of dubious status in the town, and one who sells books. I am already something a bit unnatural in her mind. If I attempt even sleeping contact, it would be enough to turn her against me, though I merely kissed her mouth.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Ruthger, making sure all six lamps were burning properly.
“But necessary, I fear,” said Saint-Germain. “No, while I am here I will have to confine myself to visiting sleeping women in the outer parts of the city, where the Spanish patrols are infrequent.” He coughed once, delicately.
“Yes; necessary; the Spanish would be glad of an excuse to confine you in a cell,” said Ruthger, preparing to pull the lantern aloft again. “Incidentally, the under-cook found someone at the kitchen door today.”
Saint-Germain regarded Ruthger levelly. “I must suppose that is not unusual, so why mention this person?”
“The fellow told me it was a large man, in stained clothing, seeming to be drunk, although it was early in the day,” said Ruthger, securing the rope to the wall-cleat once more.
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