Spell of the Dark Castle

by Lorelei Bell

  Zofia leaped from the bed and Transvected to the door. She placed an ear to the door to better listen in. Even though she couldn't understand what was being said, she wanted to know if it was her they were arguing about. If only one of them would slip and say her name, she'd know for sure the argument involved her. It could very well be about something else entirely. It could be about the rogue wizard or something as benign as polishing the silver.

  Just when she was about to give up and move away from the door, she heard one of them use her name. Jacques said it first, and then Saint Germain.

  “I wish I knew what they were saying.”

  “They are arguing about your staying inside the castle while the moons are still going through their waxing phase,” Biddle said.

  Zofia's mouth fell open as she gaped in the general direction where Biddle's voice had come from. “You know Arpiesian?” she asked, startled she'd never known this.

  “Oui, madame,” Biddle said haughtily and in perfect Arpiesian.

  “You say they are worried about my staying in the castle while the moons are still full?”

  “Oui.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about your safety being in jeopardy.”

  “My safety? Here?” That was a little confusing. How more safe could she be? And what did the moon's phases have to do with it? “They haven't discovered I'm a sorceress, have they?”

  “Non.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Be quiet so that I may listen in,” Biddle complained.

  Zofia cut him a sour look of disdain, wherever he was. It was difficult to argue with him, since he was invisible. She could never know if he was right in front of her, or moved off to another room entirely.

  “Saint Germain is positive you will be safe enough,” Biddle said low. “ 'After all,' Saint Germain is saying, 'the potion you are taking has kept you from turning.' ”

  “Potion? Jacques takes a potion? What on Euphoria for?” she whispered huskily.

  Without warning, a dizzy spell washed over her. Turning, she leaned back against the door, waiting for it to subside. The heralding squelch of a queasy stomach made her dart toward the bathroom—the little room behind the curtain—and managed to bend over the toilet bowl just in time.

  “Oh, yuk,” she grimaced as she flushed. “I just love being pregnant. What fun it is!”

  “Mais non, you do not, madam,” Biddle injected. “Have you forgotten the note that Baruche gave you for the apothecary to fill?” he asked as Zofia washed her face off and rinsed out her mouth.

  “I haven't had a chance to even find a alchemist or a potion maker,” she explained in a huff, ignoring his first question. She went to her drawer, next to the bed—and half way there realized that all her things had been left behind at The Nest.

  “Saint Germain is an excellent alchemist. Du-u-uh,” Biddle very snidely reminded.

  Yes, he most likely was. And even as much as she deserved the duh part, she felt it was unnecessary.

  Stumbling back out into the bedroom, Zofia crawled back into her warm bed with a moan.

  “Madam? Are you alright?”

  “I'm pregnant. Du-u-uh,” she quipped sarcastically.

  A knock on the door brought silence to their arguing.

  “Come in,” she said after two heartbeats.

  The door opened to Percival laden down with one of his usual trays with a domed lid over a plate of food, and a silver serving urn residing to the side with an elegant cup.

  “Good morning, Madam Zofia,” the majordomo said in as cheery a voice as she imagined the man was capable of—which was flat and just one notch up from solemn. “I trust you had a restful night?”

  “I—” Before she could say what type of night she'd had, she breathed in the unmistakable aroma. She knew exactly what it was, but knew better than to acknowledge it. “Percival? What is that aroma? It's so rich and exotic!”

  “It is called coffee, madam,” Percival said. “The master thought you might enjoy the delights of this wonderful drink from his world.”

  Zofia wondered if the man had blundered, or was his admission that Saint Germain was from another world something that had been okayed by his boss? Yes, Percival, she knows I am from Earth, and you may say so whenever it comes up. She also knows I'm an alchemist, a doctor, a mystic, and have practiced law…

  Eying the silver coffee urn she could almost taste the hot, dark brew she had only known on First World. Eager to take a sip of her first cup of coffee since leaving First World, she sat up, pillows bracing her back. She would try and ask Saint Germain how he was able to bring this drink with him to this world, later. She knew if she asked Percival, he would act dumb as a troll. It was obvious that Saint Germain made little trips to First World via his Portal Machine, and went grocery shopping. She imagined his list could be quite long: Champaign, coffee, Oriental rugs, sheets, and various pieces of valuable art—she was certain she had seen a Monet hanging in one of the many halls, just yesterday—as well as the various 18th, or 19th century music machines.

  “May I pour you some?” Percival asked, perched to do so as he'd settled the tray on the table next to the bed.

  “Yes. I think I would like some. It smells wonderful. Wakes you up,” she said, recalling the first thing she'd said when she'd walked into her first coffee shop on First World. An IV would be better, that way she could avoid her stomach and the all-day morning sickness she was having. She would have to go to Saint Germain for her herbal concoction, eventually. She didn't have much choice in the matter.

  “Very good, madam,” Percival said as he poured her a cup. “I've also taken the liberty of bringing you a plater of sweet rolls, fruit, and pastries,” he added, placing the carafe onto the hot pad.

  Why not? She'd already been sick. What would coffee and a roll do to her? She waited for Percival to finish setting the plate out for her. Pleased with his task, he stepped swiftly toward the door, stopped and turned back.

  “Will there be anything else, madam?” he asked stiffly.

  “I was wondering if Count Saint Germain was up?” She didn't want him to know she had heard the very loud argument outside her door.

  “Yes, madam. The count is almost always up,” Percival said in his very Ogenthow accent.

  “You mean he doesn't go to bed?”

  “He—” that seemed to stump him. “The master takes small naps, madam.”

  She nodded.

  “If there is nothing else you require, I shall take my leave of you, madam.” He was halfway into his bow already.

  “Only that if I'm to stay in the castle, I need my things, my wardrobe,” she said, making a gesture toward her state of dress. “I can hardly go to work in my nightgown.”

  “Yes, madam. I mean, no, madam,” Percival sputtered, seeming to blush. She had actually embarrassed him. His rapid eye blinking seemed to be the only show of emotion he had, aside from the slightly pinked cheeks of his otherwise oatmeal skin. “Of course not. The master has arranged to get your things as soon as you were up. I shall tell him that you are now awake. In the time it will take you to eat, I'm certain that we will have all your things delivered to your doorstep.”

  “Thank you, Percival,” she said as he bowed once again and shut the door quietly. Once she was sure that he was gone, she hissed, “Biddle!”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “I hope you got some sleep.”

  “A little, not much, since you asked me to keep watch.”

  “I need to send a letter to Stephen,” she said, flopping the covers off herself, and sliding out of the bed.

  “What letter?” he asked as she claimed the cup of coffee, splashed some cream and two spoons of sugar into it—which looked suspiciously like a sugar substitute—and took a sip. Perfectly blended, not at all bitter. She sighed as she closed her eyes with that first sip. If not chocolate, she would have to feed her other weakness for coffee. She had become an addict.

  “I need to wr
ite one. I need to find a quill and paper and ink—”

  “A tall order, madam,” Biddle quipped. “You should have requested it from the old manservant.”

  Zofia frowned slightly, but set her cup down, and picked up a nicely iced pastry—apple, she decided—and strode the room as she took petite bites. She began hunting earnestly for writing materials in the drawers of a small bureau, then a desk, and then tried some of the shelves around the small nook, and then came upon a little secretary, and voilà she had everything she needed. Padding to the small table in her room she said over her shoulder, “Biddle, bring the tray. I'll work on it here.”

  “Very well, madam,” Biddle said wearily, and did as she bid him. The tray landed gently next to her elbow. “Now go and see if you can find the Night Hawk. I need to send this letter right away.”

  “Yes, madam,” Biddle said just as wearily, and left her through the flue of the larger fireplace, near her bed.

  While she wrote her letter, she sipped the coffee and ate two pastries. By the time she was done, she had several pages of jagged, large writing, and her lines had tended to slant down. Her poor handwriting would have to be excused because she had to rush this off. She'd had to include everything she'd learned about Saint Germain, after all, plus as much detail about last night's attack as she could. She'd used up all the parchment, but had found no envelope.

  Biddle's return was announced by the fire dancing slightly. “There was no Night Hawk, madam.”

  “Well, then, here,” she held out the letter which she had carefully folded in thirds. “Be careful with it as I couldn't find an envelope. You'll have to take this directly to Stephen as is.”

  “Moi?” Biddle said, sounding shocked she should ask such a thing.

  “Yes, you,” she said more firmly and waved the thick letter out toward him. He captured it and now the folded parchment was hovering in mid-air. “You know your way, don't you?”

  “Go southwest, turn south at Scyldings, cross the Sea of Nectar, cross the Bay of Rainbows, go through Naegling Forest and over the Cassiopia Mountains. I should be back later tonight, or at the most, tomorrow morning.”

  “I would think more tomorrow some time,” she corrected. “Be careful.”

  “Yes, mistress, I will.”

  “And don't loose any part of that letter. Everything I've put into it is what Stephen needs to know. I think he will be especially interested in the rogue wizard.”

  “Yes, madam,” he said and she watched the letter float toward the lit fireplace.

  “Wait!” She was up out of her seat. “Not through that fireplace.”

  The letter's trajectory came to a halt before reaching the fireplace across the room.

  She strode to the half wall of stone that separated the nook from the rest of the room. “Use that one.” She pointed to the smaller, unlit one in the nook.

  “It will be a tight squeeze,” he protested.

  “What's the matter, Biddle? Gaining weight?” she said, ripping off a bit of sweet roll.

  “Ghogals do not weigh anything, madam,” he said haughtily. With that settled, the letters floated off with Biddle toward the small cook fire pit, and disappeared up the chimney, with grunts as he went. Sometimes it just took a little coaxing, and sometimes it took an insult with him.

  Sighing with relief, Zofia returned to the table, picked up an apple and crunched into it. She was famished, and realized it was because she hadn't eaten anything since yesterday. Plus she'd thrown up quite a bit. She felt as though she had conquered something and was ready to begin her day. But she needed her clothes. Of course, she didn't expect her things to just materialize at her door, but she peeked out and checked to see if they were there, anyway. They were not.

  She paced the room a few times and then realization hit. All her things had been put away, hung up in the armoire and would have to be taken down, folded and all her underthings—goddess!—the men would have to handle. The trunk was heavy. It would take two men to carry it, just as those Gypsies had done the night when she'd arrived. She should have offered to go back to the Nest and pack everything. Sudden palpitations surged through her as she imagined Saint Germain, Percival and Jacques all handling her very personals, packing them into the trunk, and then the valises.

  “Dragon poop, the books!” she cried. “Oh, and the portfolio from the Knights of Witenagemont!” She'd forgotten all about them. Why hadn't she thought to at least grab them last night before rushing out? And how would that have looked? The two books and portfolio held protectively in her arms as though she feared something would happen to them. As though they were something of vital importance to her—which they were, of course, but now they might learn who she was, or why she really was there.

  She felt terribly sick again as a knot clutched in her stomach. Why hadn't she thought to send Biddle for those few things early this morning? She wondered if he would have been able to bring them down a chimney. Probably not. But he could have hidden them until she could retrieve them later.

  Now she was wringing her hands and stalked the floor, nearly wearing a path in the carpet. She tried to remember where she'd put the books. The book by Barty, probably wouldn't raise suspicions, but the Knight's Code book definitely would. Had she put it inside the trunk, not wanting to just leave it out while she was up at the castle? She might have, but so many things had happened yesterday, she just couldn't remember.

  Then she remembered that Biddle had said he'd been reading it. He would have put it away. He was anal about such things. At least he was an organized Ghogal.

  Relief washed through her. Certainly Biddle would have put it—and anything else—away. She hoped. She also hoped that no one would rummage through her things and find anything incriminating. She couldn't imagine Saint Germain being a snoopy person.

  Jacques on the other hand…

  The rap on the door startled her out of her thoughts and she twirled to face the door. Heart thumping, she said, “Yes?” in an almost innocent girlish way. She grimaced to herself.

  “Zofia?” It was Saint Germain's voice filtering through the door. “I have your thing's here.”

  “Yes, come in,” she said, drawing her robe about herself even tighter, and moving toward the door, but stopped midway.

  The door opened and in marched Jacques and Percival carrying her trunk between them. Saint Germain carried two of her bags, and the portfolio.

  The portfolio. Where were the books?

  She clutched her hands, twisting her fingers in attempts to keep from snatching the portfolio from him as though it were the most important thing he could have of hers. Goddess!

  “Thank you very much. All of you,” she said, including them in her gaze.

  “Where, madam? Eet is very 'eavy,” Jacques grunted.

  “Oh, right there, at the end of the bed. Thank you,” she said. Turning to Saint Germain she said, “And those are fine on the bed. I will tend to them. I really could have come with you and packed—”

  “Think nothing of it,” Saint Germain cut her off, looking not the least put out. But then he'd had the easy job, she suspected.

  Jacques slumped against the trunk, face glazed with sweat. He muttered something under his breath, in Arpiesian.

  Saint Germain's gaze snapped over at him, but he said nothing.

  “Will that be all, sir?” Percival asked, looking none too put out, more or less as though he were used to lugging heavy chest around.

  “Yes, thank you. You both may go.” Not budging from where he'd paused near the bed (which Zofia had thought to make, since she knew the men would be coming in.), Saint Germain watched the two men leave. Once they were gone his gaze slid to take her in.

  “My dear, forgive us for having to interrupt you this way.”

  “It's alright,” she said, clutching her robe a little closer at the neck, wondering if he'd even peeked inside the portfolio. If he had, he would have seen all the papers, official and otherwise, pertaining to the Knights. He would
know she was a member, or at least had been put up to spying on him. She suddenly felt so terrible about this sham. She didn't feel he deserved being spied on. Even if he did take side trips to and from Earth. She didn't feel, deep down, that he was menacing in any way, or a threat to anyone buying Champagne in France, or sheets at J.C. Pennies.

  “You have brought a great deal with you,” Saint Germain observed, motioning to her things. “I have forgotten how women seem to need so many things when they traveled.” His lips tipped in a wry smile. Another little joke.

  “I am away from home,” she explained. “You wouldn't believe the things I actually had to leave behind.” Like a whole house, plus the contents of a small shop.

  He made a slight bow. “I am sure it would stagger me.”

  Zofia lifted her eyes, striving to not smile, but it was difficult. He had a quick wit, and even quicker tongue, and yet he was able to not insult her.

  “I am curious, however, what you carry in the trunk that is so heavy.”

  “Just things. A few books, dresses. I didn't know what to bring, and so I brought a little of everything.”

  “And the leather ledger?” He turned to gaze back at it on the bed. “I can't imagine what you would need with something that looks so official?” She'd forgotten the seal of the Witenagemont on the front. Skulls carried a lot of meaning to different people. She hadn't even thought of it until now.

  “Oh, that,” she tried to make it sound as trivial as she could. “I needed something to carry papers in. It was all that the castle had.” It sounded lame, but what else could she do?

  “Papers?”

  “M-my divorce papers, of course,” she strained to keep a tight smile on her face. “Plus, I needed official papers to travel here, as you know Dark Castle is an enclave.”

  “I see,” he sounded mollified for the time being. But his face looked grimly amused.

  “What?” she said, trying to gain control over the conversation. “What did I say that was so amusing?”

  “Nothing,” he said, his expression changing chameleon-like, going from humored to serious in a matter of seconds. His gaze held hers. “You must realize, my dear, that I am not used to having a woman under foot. Therefore, I…” his words trailed off. His gaze also sliding off her, as he strove to find the words.