by Lorelei Bell
They both laughed then.
Zofia gazed up into the starless sky and realized clouds covered up all three moons completely. Maybe tonight was going to be a non-werewolf night.
“I guess I'll tell you about my two children,” she said, and knew she had to leave out anything to do with Evanishing, spell casting, or broom-riding and the like. But she had been rehearsing this in her head for a while, and knew she could safely tell him aspects about her life and not slip up. By the time they reached the bottom, Zofia had pretty much exhausted that subject. A black coach with two black horses pulled up at the same moment.
“Evenin' m'lord,” said the thin man who jumped down from the driver's box to the ground. He was wearing a black wool driver's cloak, and a dark brown or black jacket underneath. The sleeves of his jacket were too short, they didn't even come close to the wrists. His high bony cheekbones, and large hooked nose gave him the look of a cadaver hunter. That and the one wandering eye. It was hard to not stare at it. Even as he strove to doff his hat, and act the gentleman, Zofia caught that these actions had not been refined in him. He was merely going through the motions as a matter of function for his employer. In a way it was endearing, as he was more clumsy than graceful, but he looked capable, and probably was more intelligent than he looked. Plus, he probably had more love for horses than people.
“Randal,” Saint Germain greeted. “Nice evening for a little jaunt, isn't it?” Saint Germain said, attempting small talk.
“Think it might rain again,” Randal said, eying the sky, looking nervous. Clenching his hat in both hands he made a deep bow to Saint Germain.
“It might, but I don't believe so,” Saint Germain said soothingly. “And no need to worry about Weres, as the moons are all covered tonight.”
“O' exactly. Exactly,” Randal said, doing a nervous head bob, and as Zofia moved closer, she could see the man's large teeth were crooked and dingy. He opened up the carriage door for them.
“We'll be going to Raven Inn, tonight, Randal,” Saint Germain said.
“Right sir.”
Zofia climbed in, and Saint Germain climbed in after her, sitting right beside her, and leaving only a little space between them.
Randal shut the door and climbed up to the driver's box. The coach lurched forward with a snap of the reins and sharp whistle.
“Are there many Weres in this community?” Zofia asked. She had wondered this since her arrival. Perhaps even before.
“You would be surprised who is a Were, and who is not,” he informed with a smirk.
“I've told you about myself, Franz,” Zofia said, wanting to change the subject. “It's your turn.”
“Ahh,” he gasped. “Where to start?”
“From your birth,” she mimicked. They chuckled at that. “You have no wife, no children?” she asked, trying to get him to open up some chapter in his life. The painting was of someone special, obviously. Who she may have been, and what had happened to her was a mystery that Zofia was very curious about.
“My wife died, some time ago,” he said almost darkly, shifting his gaze out the window.
“I'm very sorry,” she said. “How did she die?”
“She died of something I was unable to diagnose, and could not cure.”
“Cure?” She had noticed that a number of the titles in his library were medical. “You are into the medical branch of alchemy?”
His eyes turned to her and glittered as they searched her face. Ah yes. She would know since she was working on his library, she could see the thought going through his head. “I have studied medicine and human conditions and frailties for a number of years,” he said. “I have several degrees from at least three well known colleges—eh—in a faraway—eh—country.”
“I see,” she said evenly. “What colleges would they be? Perhaps I've heard of them.”
“You would never have heard of these.” Once again, Saint Germain was unwilling to share some secrets. Faraway lands? Or worlds? She wondered if one of them might be Harvard.
“That's fine, if you don't want to tell me some things about you, Franz. I don't mind,” she said quietly. “I understand that some things are best left alone.”
“You do not know how true that is, my dear.”
“So, did your wife come and live with you here?”
“No.” Turning his head, Saint Germain gazed out the window. Obviously, this subject was painful for him. His hands clenched and un clenched. His body language was somewhat easy to read.
Randal's constant loud gibbering, to either the horses or himself, filled the void outside and within the carriage.
“I'm sorry if I seem to be prying into your personal life,” she said finally.
“Do not apologize.” He turned to glance back at her, allowing himself a smile. “One would think that to speak of her would not bother me still. It has been a long time.”
Zofia pondered over what she knew, that she wasn't supposed to. The painting which hung in some private room resembled her, according to Biddle. She wondered if that woman in the painting was his wife, why else would he have it? What he revealed about his wife was tragic. Especially if that was a portrait of her, and the fact that Zofia resembled her must have taxed him some.
“I understand, Franz,” she said with a weak smile. “We needn't talk about it, if you don't wish to.”
He didn't return her gaze, but stared out the window. This time he leaned out the window, peering up at his driver. Randal was shouting something.
Zofia leaned out her window as well, and could clearly hear the driver yelling, “Hey there! Hey! Whoa! Whoa!” Randal brought the horses to a sudden halt. The horses whinnied, and one tried to rear up, but couldn't because of the harness. He stopped the coach just as three figures, dressed in hooded robes, darted across the cobblestone lane right in front of them.
“Hey there! What d'you think yer doin'!” Randal griped loudly. “Scared m' master's horses!”
Hoods up, covering their faces, the three darted quickly away, and disappeared into a stone house across the way. There were no lights on in that house. But Zofia did notice smoke rising from the chimney.
“Who are they?” Zofia asked as Saint Germain moved out of his seat and leaned over to her side and stuck his head out the window.
Before he could answer, a woman's wails could be heard above the growing crowd noises. Zofia had to shift her view to the other side of the equipage. There was a knot of people gathered around a woman who was sobbing in front of a familiar yellow house with an attached little shop.
“Obadiah!” Saint Germain called to one of the bystanders. The large man turned. He was a bearded, burly man who looked like he lifted horses in his spare time to keep his muscles big and firm. He might have been twenty or he might have been forty. Zofia couldn't tell in this light. He wore brown long breeches tucked into black leather boots. A cocoa-colored shirt was belted at the waist, and a feathered hat topped him. He wore no coat, or cape, as though the chill didn't faze him. The man was as big as a mountain bear, and looked just as formidable, Zofia decided, and if his body was any indication of what he was, she could easily win a wager that he was the local blacksmith.
Obadiah stepped over to the carriage. “Oh, it's you, m'lord,” he rasped peering in at them. Zofia noticed he had no front teeth in his mouth, and slurred his words.
“What is going on? What happened here?” Saint Germain asked.
“Been a burglary at Mrs. Clutterbutt's place,” he said in that raspy grating voice.
“Her home, or her business?” Saint Germain asked.
“Business.”
“What was taken? Money?” Saint Germain wondered.
“Not money so much as every damn candle in the shop.”
Zofia's mouth tightened into an O with her astonishment.
“Outrageous!” Saint Germain cursed vehemently. “Has the sheriff been notified?”
“Someone's gone to get him now,” Obadiah growled.
“Ho
w was the business broken into? Window, or did they go through the door?” Saint Germain wondered once again.
“Neither,” Obadiah answered. “That's the puzzlin' part, iddn't it? All doors 'r' locked, an' every winder looked secure on the inside, but every candle's gone, jus' as if theys all disappeared—vanished into thin air.”
Zofia turned back to the stone house with darkened windows. She wondered if those men in robes she saw had anything to do with the burglary. But she hadn't seen them carrying off anything like boxes of candles. It was odd, however, that they had just ran in front of them in direct line from Mrs. Clutterbutt's house. Very curious.
Saint Germain thanked Obadiah and told Randal to drive on. The coach lurched and continued on, horses' hooves clip-clopped sharply along the cobblestone as the beasts all blew exhaustively, as though they were happy the event was over with.
“That was very odd,” Zofia said after a heartbeat or two.
“Very,” Saint Germain agreed.
“Did you see the men in hooded cloaks rush across the street? Poor Randal had to halt his horses to miss them.”
“I saw,” he said, still steaming like a kettle taken off the fire as he sat back. “There are at least three dozen cults, and secret societies who congregate or meet here at different times of the year.”
“You can do nothing?” she asked.
“It is up to Sheriff Tyndale. I'm of the opinion he is a member of at least one cult that resides here, however I've never quite been able to catch him doing anything shady, and so I cannot fire him.”
Zofia looked away from him and shook her head dismally. Seems the lawlessness of Ravenwood went deeper than she'd at first thought. The numbers of illegal cults which originated from the Oblast, or elsewhere, often crossed the border into the Provence, or, in this case, into the small enclave of Ravenwood. When unchecked, their lawlessness often got out of control, and sometimes they became thieves in order to continue their illegal ventures, mainly because it took money to keep themselves, or what they did, running. The money might, in fact, be used to bribe the local constable. But candles? Maybe they needed light to see wherever they met.
They traveled to the other side of the village. Music filtered to her ears as the coach made a U turn in the street. People making merry inside the tavern spilled out and the noise carried to her ears as they trundled up in front of the inn. She caught sight of the wooden sign. This was Ravenwood Inn. All dark stone, wonderfully diamond-shaped windows—two of which bowed out from the face of the building on either side of the entrance. The entrance itself was slightly indented, with two torches to guide their way up the stone steps to its heavy wood door.
“Here we are,” Saint Germain announced unnecessarily.
The brougham came to a squeaky halt. Randal hopped down from his driving box and opened the door almost before the carriage stopped moving.
Saint Germain exited first, took possession of her hand, and guided her down out of the carriage.
Once outside, Zofia took in the three-story stone building. All the first story windows were ablaze, and a few on the second story as well. It was almost bursting at the seams with people dancing, singing, and drinking. The usual carousing one would expect in a tavern of this size.
“Ah, the Gypsies are here,” Saint Germain gasped with a gleam in his eye. “No wonder there seems to be more people than usual.” He turned to her. “I think since the news of Vesselvod Blood's death the villagers have been kicking up their heals in celebration.”
Flabbergasted, Zofia could think of nothing to say, since she was the one who had caused his death—indirectly—but still, she had caused it. She needed to say something, maybe ask if he knew how it happened, because some times such news only traveled from village to village by word of mouth, rather than by any printed news—since their printing machines were so slow, it would be months before this would even be in print and reach the masses. Thus, rumors were the way news got around from town-to-town.
The moment to say something fled. He took her by the elbow and gently lead her up the stone steps, toward the double, heavy doors.
“Shall we?” he invited, pausing to hold one door for her.
The other door flung open suddenly. A man and woman jostled past them and all but fell down the steps with obvious intoxication, holding onto one another, managing some how not to fall flat on their faces. The exiting woman's high scream of laughter made Zofia flinch slightly as she gazed inside, through the haze of smoke.
She realized this was as risqué as most taverns could get. Even though the tavern was viewed more as the local eatery, and drinkery, it was also an inn for those who traveled, and had no other place to stay. But always the locals would come, eat, drink and become as merry as they wished on whatever wine or beer the place could either make themselves, or import from elsewhere. As a rule a woman did not enter such domains by themselves. It tended to indicate you were a loose woman—at least on this planet.
She decided that being in Saint Germain's company would not only place her on a high scale in the eyes of the locals, but also, they may speculate as to her position. Employees did not, as a rule, dine with their employers. Especially a count. No matter what, or how he ruled or how small his rule, a count or a king did not bring his castle underlings with him to a place such as this and seat them at his table to dine with him. As the count's scholar, Zofia was middle class. And even here, the two classes did not mingle in such a way. Thus, it was so utterly unusual that someone of his ilk should be here, thus, there were no ground rules to go by. So, Zofia was in a dither as to how to act, or react. The best way she could keep a low profile was to not draw attention to herself. But she was soon to learn that Saint Germain generated enough attention all to himself enough to drown out anyone who might be in his company.
“Come,” Saint German spoke near her ear so that she could hear him over the loud music and noise. “You will be safe. I assure you. Nothing shall happen to you while you are in my company.”
Zofia allowed him to escort her through the doors and into the low-beamed ceiling of the tavern. Energetic strains from a violin, a guitar and a squeezbox brought the decibels just over the tolerable level, enjoined by the voices of possibly in excess of twenty or thirty people clamoring for more drinks, laughing or dancing and whooping it up.
Typical of the Ugwump type establishments, drinks were drawn into tankards, wine in wine glasses with short stems. Serving it all up were overly made-up barmaids, who kept their chemises down off their shoulders, and tight-fitting bodices loose, and the lengths of their petticoats pulled up and tucked into their belts to allow for freedom of movement around the barroom while bustling through the crowd, platters of food and drink carried aloft. They made the task look easy.
The tavern revelers greeted Saint Germain in loud voices as he strode through with Zofia on his arm. They all invited him to join them. He graciously turned them down with a bow and apology.
They reached the middle of the tavern when one of the barmaids, in a low-necked chemise—showing a mile of cleavage—sailed over to him. In one hand she held a tray full of tankards and wine glasses filled almost to the rims. Wispy strands of honey-colored hair escaped her up-swept do.
“Saint Germain, it's all ready for ya, sir,” she said in a definite Scyldings accent. She leaned to him, “Swept the place m'self, and put all the linens out for ya,” she added with a wink.
“I thank you,” Saint Germain said palming several coins. He crossed her palm with three gold coins. “This is for the room's back rent, and this”—he slid another gold piece into her hand— “is for you and your very good work, my dear,” he said.
She made a curtsy as best she could after collecting the fee, thanking him several times as though he'd made her day with the gracious tip. It was probably the only time she would see such a large tip.
Seeming to be overwhelmed by Saint Germain's generosity, she planted a juicy kiss on his cheek and flounced away. Zofia watched as she ne
gotiated the tables, settled the tankards on a table where five men sat, gathered a couple of butt slaps as her tip, and sauntered on to the next table.
Before Zofia could make a roll of her eyes, a man with a wide face, over-large eyes and even larger nose was before them shouting, “Mon ami!”
Not an inch over five-five, Jacques beamed at them both, hands out wide in greeting.
Saint Germain twirled around. Had there been anyone between the two men, he would never have seen him.
“Jacques! Bonsoir!” Saint Germain greeted and they gave each other a three-cheek kiss. Something Zofia had only seen once before, and it wasn't on this planet. It was actually something she'd seen on First World Ugwump news where the president of France was greeting some foreign minister. Ugwumps here probably did the same thing, but she'd never seen it. At the moment, Zofia was confused as to what Jacques was to Saint Germain. A friend would greet him this way. A servant would not. Or would he?
“Madame Zofia,” Jacques said in his heavy Arpiesian accent and drew his fingers beneath Zofia's out-stretched hand and bowed over them, but didn't touch his lips to them. Straightening, but never gaining much height, he said, “You brighten up zis dingy room!” He flung his other hand up, and fluttered the digits in a comical manner to indicate the tavern at large.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling graciously with a curtsy.
Jacques' attention snapped back to Saint Germain who spoke loudly in Arpiesian. Jacques nodded, then tossed back his head and laughed in a fruity, high-pitched giggle at whatever Saint Germain had just said.
Jacques pantomimed, making a comical face as though weary, and flinging an arm over his forehead, he swiped it across his brow as though he were wiping sweat from it. They both laughed.
Zofia chuckled, even though she had no idea what was being said, and found Jacques a jocular character with an infectious laugh, bubbling over with energy and charm.
Saint Germain said something to him.
“Bon, d'accord!” Jacques said, then spun on his heal and made his way quickly through a legion of small tables, merrymakers camped around each and every one. It looked as though there were no tables to be had.
