by Lorelei Bell
Fortunately the servant hadn't seen anything, or at least he didn't seem alarmed in any way. Even he would have had some sort of reaction if he'd seen something out of the ordinary. Settling at her table, Zofia took quick peeks at the old butler, making it appear she was deeply engrossed in her work.
“Madam,” Percival said as he chugged back through the room carting the domed lidded plate back with him. “My master has instructed me to bring you something you need.”
“Yes?” she said, coming around the table, meeting him half way.
From a small pocket on his coat, Percival extracted something in a small tin and held it out to her.
“He said you would know what it is for.”
Taking the tin from him, Zofia opened it up. Inside was greenish goo. Salve for her poor lip.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Thank you for bringing it to me. And thank Count Saint Germain for me again.”
“Of course, madam,” Percival said, already chugging his way out of the room with the platter. She was happy to note he now called her madam, and not miss. Saint Germain must have instructed him to do so.
She searched for a mirror. Finding none, she decided that the reflection of her work table was all that she needed. She sat down, opened the salve and dipped her pinky into the greenish goop. She applied it to her sore lip. It tingled slightly. It had a slight taste of spearmint. How interesting. Recapping the tin, she moved to rise. A sudden light-headed feeling swooped over her. She sank back down to her chair.
“Madam? Are you alright?” Biddle asked, concern in his voice.
“I'm okay, but I do feel a little”—she yawned—“sleepy.”
“A nap, perhaps would do wonders,” Biddle suggested. There were times when Biddle made a whole lot of sense. Like now.
She stood. “I think I will. But not too long.” She stared over at all the books waiting for her to repair. “After all, I am supposed to be working.”
“Go take a nap. I'll wake you in twenty minutes,” he said. “Meanwhile, I'll bring another section down for you.” While Biddle brought a few books down, Zofia strode across to the other end of the room, to lay on the couch.
“Right. Like you warned me about Percival's coming in?” Zofia admonished mildly.
“He caught me off guard,” he muttered. “And then it was too late to warn you.”
“Riiii-ght,” she said, curling up on the couch.
Chapter 18
BOOOOM!
Jumping up from a prone position, Zofia felt her heart thumping hard in her chest. She'd been asleep, and the sudden sound woke her, and now she found that she was levitating a foot off the couch. And she couldn't see. Wait, the lights had either gone out or had been turned off. She had to ascertain where she was. That's right. She was inside Dark Castle, in the room with the piano and all the books. She could see the piano's high-polished lid glinting not far away. But it seemed even darker than she remembered. Had the sun set? Why were all the lights turned off?
Gazing around she called out, “Biddle?”
“Here,” came his reply. A lit candelabra floated toward her out of the gloom and settled before her on the table.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“At least two shadowpasses,” he said.
“Great galloping gargoyles! Why didn't you wake me?”
“You seemed to need the sleep, madam,” he said quietly.
Rumbling overhead brought her attention back to the sound which had woke her.
“What is that?”
“Thunder,” he said bluntly from somewhere nearby. “I believe it is about to storm.”
“Well, duh.” She winced at herself. She really had to curtail those colloquials from First World if she wanted to live here and not have people look at her strangely.
A sudden and very terrible crash of thunder rent the room. The lights flickered. She now noticed that the lights over her work table were still on, and then flickered again. The third time, they went out completely. The only light now, was the five-branched candelabra Biddle had so quickly thought of lighting and bringing over to her.
Outside she could hear the wind beat the roof. Or was that the rain? It pelted it. Perhaps it was hail. It hailed a lot on her world. At the moment, the roof sounded as thin as cardboard. So much for a sturdily built castle.
Wind howled down the chimney, making the flames in the grate jump, dodge and flatten, nearly going out. Whistling through some small holes, somewhere only added to unnerving expectancy, as though the roof were merely tin and about to be ripped up. This was a typical violent spring storm.
A chill of trepidation surged through her, and Zofia had to rub her arms.
“Biddle, what—”
“Shhh!”
Going still, she strained to peer past the candle light, into a mostly darkened room. Lightning strobed through the doorway at the end of the room. Keeping her eyes on that spot, a human form appeared through the doorway. She gasped sharply. She tried to make out the form. Tall, stiff-backed. Percival. And he held a candle in his hand.
“Madam?” he said.
“Percival?”
“Yes, madam. Not to worry,” Percival's voice filtered to her. “The master is checking his generators. He has asked that I come and check on you.”
“Yes,” she said, rising from the couch. “I found the candelabra when the storm hit. I thought it would be wise to light it.”
“Very wise indeed, madam.”
“Does this happen often? I mean these lights going out during storms?”
“I does, from time to time, during the very bad storms. I do not completely understand it.” He was in front of her now. The candle in his hands moved and bobbed around, etching his deeply lined face into an eerie mask. “In the meantime, madam, I will escort you back to your quarters. Follow me, and bring the candelabra.”
Grabbing the candelabra, Zofia strode carefully around the table and followed Percival. They entered the corridor with the windows. Greenish lightning ripped across the inky sky. Thunder rumbled, and caused her to quicken her pace to catch up with Percival. They moved into a stone-walled hallway, and the floor beneath her feet trembled. Sudden vertigo hit and she threw out a free hand, and found a firm stone wall for support just in time. Her sudden gasp of surprise caught Percival's attention. He turned back.
“Madam? Are you alright?”
“I'm okay,” she said, deciding that the strange feeling had dissipated. “That one was close. Did you feel that?”
“Yes. The castle sits high, and often is struck by lightning. This way, madam.”
Following the manservant, Zofia's nerves tingled. The castle sat on the highest point of the menhir, a perfect target for lightning. Percival moved expeditiously through tight corridors and darkened rooms. Down and then up steps and flights and turns. She decided she would get a wonderful work out every morning and evening when she went to work and back.
Percival would stop every so often, making sure she was keeping up. She was. She just didn't know where they'd wind up. She tried telling herself her edginess was from being in this strange castle, with even stranger people. And now the storm. It all played on her nerves like a knife's edge drawn across the strings of a piano.
Even though she was doing her best to defuse her unrealistic fears, she found herself looking over her shoulder at every turn, as though someone was following her. Her neck muscles tightened and she just couldn't dismiss the feeling of someone following them, even though she saw no one.
Get a grip. It's only Biddle, she told herself.
While she followed the servant, she tried to self-analyze why she was so spooked. This was all new to her. She had never had a job in which she had traveled so far away from home, and from her family. Unless she counted escaping from Vesselvod Blood, all the way across the galaxy to First world. That was it. Certainly. She was rarely without one of her family members being somewhere around. Even when the children were at school, and when she lived here, Dorian
was off doing his Knight job, Tillie was there with her.
Her mind automatically shifted from her own fears to wondering if Dorian was here, somewhere, out in this storm, or safe inside one of the inns. She wondered which one he might stay in. Then a new dread filled her. What if Dorian was there when Saint Germain brought her to the inn tonight? If he saw her with the count, what would he think? Or would Stephen have had the foresight to send word to him that she was there in Ravenwood, and that she was on the job? Surely he would have. Why was she worried about what Dorian thought? It was over between them.
“This way, madam,” Percival's voice pulled her out of her thoughts. He lead her down the stairs where the four stained glass windows were arranged in stair steps. They had gleamed resplendently before, but now they glowed evilly in the wash of flickering candle-light, and behind it, the distant lightning. Before they reached the bottom of the stairs, a huge flash threw ghastly light down through the glass.
Zofia nearly bumped into Percival who had wrenched open the door. She peered out. The rain came down at an angle. She'd get soaked for sure, but what could she do? She nearly felt as though she were being thrown out into the rain like a bad puppy.
“I think the storm is letting up, madam,” he said. “Do you wish to try it?” Let up?
“I'll be alright.” She handed him the candelabra, the flames had all gone out anyway. If he were not there, she would have managed an Umbrella spell, but the Ugwump would notice she wasn't getting wet, so she surged out into the wind and rain. It was maybe twenty or so steps down to the covered bridge. She all but Transvected, but was soaked well before she reached it.
Gasping for breath, she halted beneath the shelter of the bridge. “Biddle? Are you with me still?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“Good. Can you get back inside through a chimney?”
“I can try,” he said.
“Good. Go back. Try to find out where Saint Germain is. What he's doing and report back to me.”
“Are you sure you wish me to leave you? Wouldn't you rather I come with you to the Nest and then leave after you have reached its safety?”
“I'll be fine. Now, go. I'm soaking wet already. Whats a few more drops going to do?”
“Very well, madam,” Biddle said, sounding forlorn. Lightning struck just then.
Screeching, Zofia ran across the covered bridge, her feet soaked sloshed around in her shoes and she couldn't wait to get them off. Closing in on the entrance of the Nest, she thrust her hand toward it and yelled, “Open!”
The solid wooden door swung open on creaking hinges, and Zofia rushed into the sanctuary of the cave-like entrance. Turning toward the fire pit, she incanted, “Oflamo oblamo!” At once a flame shot up, surrounding her in a cocoon of amber light. Her feet felt like soaking wet sponges inside her shoes and she toed them off, leaving them on a rug before the fire to dry. Leaning against the wall, she slipped off the black stockings and she spread them out over the bench in front of the fireplace. They would dry, eventually.
Grabbing a brass candle holder, she made the same incantation. Flames jumped from each wick. Satisfied she would be able to see her way, she padded barefoot toward the hall which would take her to her private rooms, leaving a snail-like path across the stone floor as she went. She pushed through the tapestry that hung over the entrance into the passageway to her living quarters.
Zofia tried not to glance at the giant fireplace as she passed it. But she couldn't keep her eyes from looking in that direction. She was totally convinced that evil things had happened here. Very evil, but she didn't know what. Didn't want to either. Cauldrons, strung from chains hung down from somewhere well above inside the chimney, were large enough to cook an ox in. A meal for a very large individual, or a whole tribe.
She pushed the notion out of her mind as she slipped past it, and into the very quiet and very welcoming apartment which she was to call home until her job here was finished.
Save for the dull glint of brushed metal of the cauldrons, which picked up the low fire in the grate, cave-like darkness filled her vision with only her meager candle light to help her see her way.
Muffled sounds of thunder crashed outside the Nest. The sound of rain, barely audible, slothed and beat against the roof above. Fortunately, the roof here sounded more solid and sturdy than where she had been in the library room.
Something scraped the bare stone behind her in the room she had just exited. Jumping, she turned with a jerk. She eyed the tapestry she'd just come through. Was it still moving because of her coming through it? Or was someone on the other side of it?
The tapestry settled and hung with a slight ballooning out, probably because of the wind seeping in through cracks. Obviously this was why it had been placed there; to keep the colder air out of this part of the Nest.
You're letting your imagination get to you, she admonished herself. Probably a mouse—or nothing—she convinced herself. Or, maybe something larger.
A shiver raced down her back as that thought lingered in her mind for a moment. She didn't mind mice, but rats were another thing entirely. If she saw one, she would take it out, no question about that.
Backing away, her teeth gripped her lower lip. “Ow!” Pain went through her like someone had stabbed her in the lip with a needle. “Curse you, Myron, for giving me this giant hickey!” Her voice sounded lost somehow. She remembered the tin of salve. She slipped her hand into her pocket and retrieved it.
Palming it, she moved for her rooms. The polished table and the large hanging lamp peeped out of the darkness at her. So much for electricity, she mused as she made her way toward the bedroom.
The hallway was tight as she took the four steps up, negotiating the narrow passage through the stacked, masoned limestones. She paused before the door. She'd shut the door when she had left this morning. The door was still shut. She wanted to trust that no one was actually waiting for her just inside. Her thoughts throughout the day on Myron being able to return to the Nest without asking permission had been ping-ponging around in her mind. As far as she knew, a vampire had to be asked in—by name and by the person who dwelled there. The ley line popping him in last night didn't count. At least the way she understood it, it didn't.
Myron also knew that if he tried to enter her place uninvited, he'd get a heck of a jolt. And the next time she wouldn't hold back. She thought she had held something back last night. Just a little. She could have really given him a good beating. Zofia was convinced that women's hormones behind a hex had a lot to do with why they could pack a real punch into one good zap, if they were really worked up. Not to take anything from a wizard, of course. But he had to whip out the wand, and the magic had to travel through the wand, and depending upon how well that wand was made—and by whom—the wizard's powers were really restricted in that respect. That wasn't to say a pissed off wizard couldn't do real harm as well. He could also use alchemy to imbue his powers by ten or twenty fold, depending on how good he was at spell casting, but that also took time to work the spell, gather all the ingredients together, call down Power, that sort of thing. If he was evil enough to use the really bad spells, then really terrible things could happen to those he turned his powers on. That's what had made Vesselvod Blood so horrible, and horrifyingly bad. It was why the Immortals had taken all his powers away from him, so that he could not use them against anyone ever again, even if he did get out of Hamparzum's. (No one had even thought that possible, and yet he had escaped.)
Using the candle, Zofia scanned the room and found nothing out of place. She couldn't see if anyone was hiding in the water closet, since it had another tapestry draped over the entryway.
She knew there were more kerosene lamps and individual candles stationed throughout her room and made the incantation, and lit them all at the same time. The room became much brighter. Somehow the overly red decor looked oddly inviting by candlelight. Directing her hand toward the small corner fireplace, she magically lit that too.
Still dripping on the very lush gold and black carpet, Zofia stepped into the stone and tiled bath and peeled her wet clothes off. Leaving them in a pile on the floor, she grabbed a towel off the rack and dried off. Taking her robe off a hook—where Biddle must have placed it—she snugged it around herself.
A bath was in order. Quickly locating her bath salts, she turned the faucet on the bath. She had both cold and hot water, and wondered how this would be possible while the lights were out. She knew that on First World, that if the hot water tank didn't get warmed up, they would be without hot water. Plus, if the electricity was out, the pump would also be out—no water at all. The mystery would have to remain unanswered for now. She kept checking the the hot water to see if it turned cold. But it never did.
Once she had the tub filled, she let her robe slip off her shoulders and she stepped in and slithered down into a deliciously hot bath. Groaning uncontrollably, she felt all her tight muscles begin to relax. What a day. She let her mind drift.
Her day wasn't exactly over with. Saint Germain was going to take her out for dinner. Would he still, since the weather had become so bad? But the storm would pass soon, no doubt. She thought of something suitable to wear. The nice green dress that Stephen had given her would be just right. And those boots Tillie had bought her—mainly because the other ones were still drying out.
After possibly half a shadowpass, Zofia extracted herself from the bath, dried off, and slipped into her chemise. Just as she did, a knock sounded on her bedroom door. It was loud, too.
Alarmed, she pulled on her robe. A woman didn't go answering the door in her chemise. Not on this planet. Could it be Saint Germain all ready? But he wouldn't come right into her living space uninvited. Would he?
Her heart pounded as she went to the door and stopped.
“Who is it?” she asked as she stopped next to it.
“Cheese,” Biddle said.
Letting a sigh slip from her lips, and rolling her eyes, she unlocked the door and opened it. “What, you and Tillie both reading from the collection of bad jokes or something?”
