by D. W. Goates
“The driver?” Elke asked with horror.
“Yes. And they would no doubt have gotten you too had we not arrived. Your coach was overturned near the ledge. It’s a wonder you’re alive. The horses must have fallen off the mountain.”
This last expression reminded Elke of the curious, sometimes humorous, phrases students—amateurs with the language—would come up with when they struggled for words.
“How did you face them?”
“I shot two of them. The rest ran off. Your driver should have known to pack a gun. They get hungry around here when the snow starts falling.”
“Well, thank you, again . . .” said Elke, still wondering about her things, but under the circumstances she refused to press the issue.
Her eyes must have spoken for her, however, for Drahomir was prompt with an epilogue. “I am sorry about your things, fräulein. They are probably still out there, covered in snow. We went back, but to offer a Christian burial to your driver, though the wolves had apparently returned in our absence. Your safety was our chief concern. We were so surprised to find you alive in there.”
Elke pondered her good fortune and what, if anything, it might mean. Concluding nothing on this in particular, she asked, “I have mostly recovered. Would it be possible for you to carry me over the pass?”
“Over the pass?” he repeated with some confusion.
“Yes. That is where I was going that day—to Bergdorf and beyond.”
“Then you don’t wish to return home to Waldheim?”
“I most certainly do not! It’s no home of mine.”
“I see. Well, the weather has been clearing . . . In another day or two I could take you as far as Bergdorf, but no further. That is from where we resupply, deliver and receive correspondence. But be warned, it may be weeks before a regular coach can take you further. The farmer there and his wife—they keep the way-house; there is no inn. They might not be obliged to keep a guest for so long.”
“I will have to take my chances. Please let me know as soon as we may leave for Bergdorf.”
“I will, fräulein. Good evening.”
“And to you,” she replied.
Drahomir took his leave, closing the door behind him. Elke went to her window to watch as he crossed the dimming courtyard below. Rather than enter the main house, the coachman selected another door, one built into the inner wall, to the left of the carriage house.
As the sun veiled its last dusky light beneath the castle wall, Elke could see the evidence of which Drahomir had spoken: the weather was clearing. Only a few wispy clouds lingered in the cold, winter sky.
The next morning, Elke was already awake and dressed when Bogdana arrived downstairs with the pre-breakfast firewood.
“I shall take that,” Elke said, blocking the old woman’s way on the stair and gesturing to her armload with a grin. “You have been so kind to me. There is no longer a need to nurse me so. I feel much better.”
Bogdana smiled and allowed the young woman to take the firewood. With this burden lifted from her, she stood noticeably straighter.
“I shall get your breakfast then, dear,” said Bogdana, before turning to go.
“I would be willing to get that myself as well, if allowed.”
Elke knew that Bogdana brought her food from the main house. She wondered if the kind maid, if pressed, would be as strict about visitors there as Arnaldo had been. Now that she was preparing to leave, she actually hoped for a brief audience with the elusive Margrave. Elke wanted to talk with him about his book, or, barring that, spend more time in his library.
“You know that is not permitted,” replied Bogdana coldly, turning back at the door and looking up to Elke at the top of the stair.
Where she stood Bogdana’s face was in shadow. Was it this, or her words that now made her seem more sinister?
Neither spoke another word, and after a moment the shriveled old woman departed, closing the door behind her.
Within an hour, Bogdana returned with Elke’s breakfast, the usual filling feast of hard-boiled eggs, hearty bread, and soft cheese. To drink was fresh goat’s milk.
In spite of their previous exchange, the two were as cordial as ever. This time, while Elke ate, they talked of the weather and of how Bogdana had come to Waldheim. The childless old Gypsy had been born in Wallachia, in the lowlands west of Bucharest along the Danube but, like her people, was from no place in particular. Elke’s improved health and impending departure had made her more curious about the castle and its inhabitants. Thinking she would have something of a story to tell when she returned home, Elke wanted to flesh it out as much as possible.
When her meal was finished, and Bogdana was preparing to go, Elke decided to launch upon her final gambit. “Bogdana,” she entreated, “I would appreciate it if you would deliver a message to your lord.”
“What’s this?” said the maid with surprise.
“Tell him I request a formal audience. I have spoken with his driver and am to leave as soon as the weather permits, but before I do so I insist upon thanking him personally for his hospitality. I owe him my life.”
“You don’t understand, fräulein. He will not see you. You best leave when you are able, and do not speak to others of your time here.”
“Yes, yes. I know. He doesn’t accept visitors. Arnaldo too told me this, but would you please? I insist that you deliver my request, at least.”
“I will do as you ask, but already know the answer.”
This answer was delivered with breakfast the following morning.
“Bogdana,” asked the impatient guest at the moment of arrival, “is there word from the Margrave on my request?”
“He will not see you,” replied the old woman flatly.
Elke protested, knowing it to be in vain. “But . . . I don’t understand.”
“You have his blessing to leave with Drahomir on his next trip to the pass tomorrow. The weather is fair and should remain so. Also, I understand they have found your things from the accident.”
“My trunk and bag . . .” The anxious traveler had almost forgotten.
“Yes, they were out early this morning. I expect Drahomir will bring them to you later today.”
The hours after breakfast passed interminably. Since her recovery—with nothing to do, and no way to pass her time—Elke had felt more and more like a prisoner in the gatehouse. Always eager thus to greet Bogdana, she pounced when at long last the door below again was opened. This time it was Drahomir, struggling to drag her cumbersome trunk in from the courtyard. Elke was about to inquire about her carpet bag as well when, before the door was closed, a bundled youth appeared grasping that very bag in his arms.
“Help me, Sascha!” complained the coachman, as he strained to get the trunk out of the doorway and against the wall.
Elke’s driver from Waldheim had been a burly man. Drahomir was nothing like him.
“I’ll take that,” said Elke, smiling at the boy as she intercepted him from the stair.
When he faced her, the young teacher was struck by his beauty and kind, piercing hazel eyes. He must be about twelve or so, she thought, as he freely offered her the bag and then moved to help Drahomir with the trunk.
“This is a most welcome surprise! Thank you very much for finding my things. I don’t know what I would have done without them!” Elke addressed her gratitude first to the coachman, but turned in the expression to include the boy as well. The two were together just getting the heavy trunk situated.
“It was no trouble, fräulein,” replied Drahomir, though with a pained expression that belied his words. He took a moment to catch his breath. “The weather remains clear for our run to the pass tomorrow. Do you still wish to leave with us?”
“Yes, thanks to Bogdana I have recovered. I have been more than ready to go home for quite some time now.”
“Well then . . . we shall get an early start of it, just in case. After breakfast?”
“I will be ready.”
Drahomir turned to go; the boy followed after him. As he opened the door to the courtyard, once again allowing the crisp air to invade, Elke felt compelled to compliment.
“You have a fine son.”
Looking back, the driver could see the young woman positively beaming at the pair of them.
“He’s a good boy,” said Drahomir, winking at Sascha, “and I would be proud to be his father, surely, but the fact is that he’s an orphan.”
“Oh, I’m sorry . . .” replied Elke with no little embarrassment.
“Don’t be,” said the boy with a certain quiet confidence. And then they were gone.
Elke spent the afternoon in inventory of her things. She was first pleased to discover that her trunk had suffered only superficial damage in the accident—scratches and dents, in no way a threat to its integrity. Locked still, when opened, the contents of the case were found as before, unscathed. Even a bottle of lavender oil she had wrapped carefully in cloth and placed at its center remained unbroken.
A check of her bag revealed the same, but for one exception: the book—her copy of the Margrave’s reader—was mysteriously absent. Searching her memory, Elke felt certain that it had been inside the bag and not loose with her in the coach. Her memories from before the accident were clear enough; only those of the incident itself and its immediate aftermath were precluded by her late unconsciousness.
That evening at supper, Elke asked Bogdana about the book, but the old Gypsy claimed not a clue in the matter.
Never one to let something of this sort lie, Elke convinced herself that the removal of this book from her bag was either the Margrave’s doing or that of his brusque steward.
The book would have to be recovered. Already the subject of a number of lesson plans, it was considered now to be an irreplaceable component of a new strategy the dauntless teacher had devised—one that she was sure would get her hired on as a permanent instructor upon her return to Bremen.
Into the evening Elke stewed, unable even to read from her favorite travel books—despite her recent reunion therewith—to soothe her disquieted mind. Agitated, she was reduced to pacing the floor like a caged animal waiting for nightfall.
“Just because he wrote it does not mean that he owns it,” she proclaimed when the sun had finally descended in the west. Then, after a quick peek ensured that no one was in the courtyard, Elke buttoned her coat, wrapped a scarf tight around her neck, and made for the door.
VII
The waning gibbous moon bathed the frigid courtyard in unearthly light, making it easy for Elke to mind her footing as she crossed to the main house. On her way she saw that the doors beneath the gatehouse were unusually closed and barred.
In the light of day, Elke had never seen the gatehouse entry closed to the road. It had stood open even that first time she had passed it in the coach. She wondered if this meant that her evening foray would be in vain, and that the house doors would be barred for the night as well.
This worry, however, proved needless: the great door to the house yielded as before, and in equal soundlessness. Favoring the carpet and the balls of her feet, Elke crept, catlike, through the entryway to the cross hall.
The quiet of the castle corresponded to the intruder’s previous experience, though now it militated against her. Ameliorating this was the dimmer light and greater shadows cast by sconces burning the last of their fuel.
Reaching the library, Elke peeked around the corner to ensure its vacancy before entering. Finding only an abandoned fire burning in the fireplace, she set to her task, but not before loosening her scarf and unbuttoning her coat, the warmth of the mature blaze still proving most sufficient to its purpose. Elke would have preferred to remove this clothing entirely, but her fear prevented this; she knew at any moment she may be called upon to make a hasty exit.
Elke found a candlestick in the corner and lit it by the fire. Then, starting with the bookshelves opposite the doorway, she began methodically scanning the tomes for signs of order or category.
She had yet to finish the first shelf and was already astonished at the variety and depth of this formidable library. The section she had chosen first was apparently dedicated to history, with very little of it vernacular. By her reckoning, most of the texts were in Latin or Greek. The first of these she knew well enough from college to appreciate works by not only the greats but even lesser-known Roman historians. And though she was less conversant with Greek, it was clear that the Margrave’s collection in this great language was equally exhaustive. But these were far from all that she saw. She spied sweeping classics along with pointedly esoteric works penned in Spanish, Russian, French, English, and other tongues, ones wholly unfamiliar to her.
This pattern repeated itself as she worked her way around the room; in each subject the collection she encountered was surprisingly international. In spite of her pointed search, she frequently felt herself compelled to pull out and examine these books more closely, only to discover that in many cases she held either an original edition or an early copy—ancient in its own right, and just as delicate.
Upon finishing the ground floor, Elke took a break to stretch. Her back ached from the stooping as her neck did from craning at the tall shelves. In browsing amidst the literature, she had lost her original purpose. An hour, at least, must have passed, she thought. Her watch confirmed it was nearing midnight, and though she grew tired, there were still two full floors of books to contend with.
She mounted the switchback staircase, but stopped dead at the landing. Her destination was barred; at the top of the stair, framed by the books behind him, stood a man.
Elke had not heard this man enter the library, but he must have; when she arrived, she had looked thoroughly about the room—both below and above, through the carved wooden railing—and seen no one. Furthermore, the space between the open railing and the shelves on this second floor was not so deep as to be able to hide this tall man from below, even if he had wished to conceal himself, and the large door—noticed then as the only apparent entrance to the room on the level—remained closed. Had she been so distracted by the books to have missed the sound of this door being opened?
Irrespective of how he had managed his entry, here he was: this ashen-haired man in strange dress—a broad-shouldered and strikingly embroidered robe, the culmination of layers upon layers of fine silk. No Arnaldo, surely this was the Markgraf himself—a thought which further frightened the already startled young woman.
Her instinct was to bolt, but try though she might, Elke could not bring herself to move. Her heart began to flutter as she contemplated the real possibility that she was being held most unwillingly in his thrall.
“Good evening.” His greeting was calm, without a hint of sarcasm. He paused before continuing; it seemed the air was drawn from the room. “It never ceases to amaze me how inconsiderate and self-serving you people can be.”
Slowly he descended the stair, while Elke—with ever-growing alarm—remained affixed to the landing. Something about him kept her from speaking, from moving, despite his proximity—scarcely now more than an arm’s length!
Elke felt equally trapped in his penetrating gaze—though difficult for her to meet it, she found it impossible to avoid. Even his scent was ensorcelling, and reminded her of an orchid she had encountered once while in a hothouse as a girl.
“Wenn man dem Teufel den kleinen Finger gibt, so nimmt er die ganze Hand.” He spoke this to her as if she were a child. “My gatehouse and hospitality were not enough for you. You ignore my steward and come, uninvited, once more into my house. For what, exactly? A souvenir?”
Appreciating an invitation to debate, Elke was shaken from her stupor. She had never once in her life shrunk from an argument. Accepting as given that she dealt now with the
Count himself, she nevertheless set upon him in counter to his accusations.
“I only wanted to thank you. That I am in debt to you and your staff gives you no right to treat me so rudely. ‘You people’, indeed! Am I to expect from you the kind treatment I received from your subjects below? If so, then no thank you. Oh, liberate me from the civility of these southlands and send me home! I don’t think I can take much more of it. And by the way, while your library is expansive, I came here not for a souvenir but for something that is mine.”
Confronted with this diatribe, the Margrave’s face betrayed a genuine look of surprise. “There is nothing in this house—my house—that is yours. You, like the world with you, lack the proper boundaries that foster healthy society.”
“All of my things were recovered from the accident, but for a book—my book—which I know was in my bag. I suspect it was you who had it removed, and I want it back.”
“Did you expect to find it hidden within the pages of De vita et moribus lulii Agricolae? You certainly lingered long at it, and others, in contravention to your argument.”
“Your library is most impressive, my lord.” Elke spoke this with such patronizing flourish that she immediately regretted it—sure she was pushing her luck.
“Pretty, smart, and with quite a bit of cheek. Come, Fräulein . . . Schreiber, isn’t it?”
Reflexively she nodded.
“Come, Fräulein Schreiber. Sit with me by the fire. I think you have earned yourself a ‘spot of tea’ as the English say.” He spoke this Briticism as clear and pronounced as his German and Latin.
Though still put off by their dispute, Elke felt obliged to do as she was told and took a seat on the large couch, as far from the Margrave as possible. Thence she observed while the Count prepared their refreshment. First, he fetched an ornate copper tea kettle from the black lacquered chest. After filling it with water from a nearby pitcher, he then took this to the fireplace, setting it upon a metal plate that was swung out for the purpose. This accomplished, he began circling back ’round to his great desk, but not without Elke’s eyes always upon him. She had watched him warily throughout his entire endeavor and was not about to cease for some little discomfort in turning.
