“Someone is at the door,” said the count.
After a long moment of breathless silence, the sound came again, harder this time. At the count’s side, Tycho stood, watchful and bristling slightly. The count nodded almost imperceptibly, and Florian moved forward and threw open the door. Lit from behind by the pale starlight, a man stood silhouetted in the doorway, his shadow looming long against the floor, almost touching our feet. He stood there for the space of several heartbeats, then moved out of the shadows and into the room.
He was just above average height and solidly built. He was dressed for travelling with a long coat of chamois over country tweeds. He carried a small leather bag in one hand, and a wide-brimmed hat shaded his face. The candlelight was deceiving; for the space of a heartbeat I thought there was something familiar about him, something in the way he held himself, but how could that be? I was a stranger in this place, and with the exception of a handful of villagers, I had no acquaintance.
He turned his head, surveying the company from under the brim of his hat, saying nothing. Then, with an exclamation of satisfaction, he tore the hat from his head.
“Theodora!” cried Charles Beecroft.
I stared at him, wondering what sort of mad dream I had conjured that I should see Charles in Transylvania, in the Castle Dragulescu of all places.
But he was real. I could smell him, horse and sweat and leather mixed with something sweet like honey.
“Charles,” I said, moving forward. Behind me I could feel the count stiffen like a pointer. “Charles, what are you doing here?”
Charles puffed a little. “What am I doing here? Isn’t it perfectly apparent that I have come to see you?”
I turned swiftly to the countess. “Madame, may I present Mr. Charles Beecroft of Edinburgh, my publisher. Charles, this is the Countess Dragulescu, my hostess. And her son, the Count Dragulescu, master of the castle.”
Charles bowed, a trifle awkwardly to the countess, but she inclined her head graciously.
“You have come a very long way, Mr. Beecroft.”
“Aye, I have. And I apologise for disturbing the household at this hour. It took a bit longer than I expected to ascend the mountain.” He smiled at her, his gentle, winsome smile, and I could see that she was charmed.
Charles turned to the count. “Sir, my apologies to you as well.”
The count regarded him coolly, canting his head as he assessed him.
Charles looked abashed and turned to me. “Does the fellow have no English? What language does he speak? My French is fairly abysmal, but I could try.”
“He speaks English,” I said, sotto voce. “His excellency was at Cambridge.”
“Indeed?” Charles raised his brows, and I knew he was not pleased to hear it. He had been schooled before his family had risen to prominence in publishing, and his own education had been spotty. It was one of his few shortcomings and one that Charles felt keenly. He fixed the count with a smile I did not quite believe. “I must again extend my apologies for the intrusion.”
The count smiled coolly. “Accepted. If you will excuse me, I wish to retire.” He gave me a significant look, then turned on his heel and left us, the dog trotting after him.
Florian and Cosmina hovered near and I took the count’s departure as a chance to introduce them. The countess was still watching Charles carefully.
“You must be tired, Mr. Beecroft. You will of course remain as our guest here.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, madame,” Charles protested. “That is very kind of you, but I only wished to see Theodora as soon as I arrived. It was impetuous of me, and as I say, I misjudged the distance to the top of the mountain. I can easily hire a room in the village.”
I stared at him. Charles, impetuous?
The countess merely waved her hand. “I will not hear of it, and the villagers are nervous of strangers. You will stay here for the duration of your visit, Mr. Beecroft. You will be a welcome distraction,” she added.
If Charles thought her choice of words odd, he gave no sign.
“That is very kind of you, countess. I will accept then.”
“Excellent. Miss Lestrange, will you be kind enough to show your friend to the room next to Cosmina’s? It is always made up. I think he will be comfortable there. Come, Cosmina. You may light me to bed. Florian, bolt the doors, and Clara, I should like some milk.”
They departed, but I noticed Cosmina, lingering a bit behind, casting the odd speculative glance at Charles. When she had gone, I turned to him.
“Charles, what—”
He stopped me short, his voice clipped and cold, unlike I had ever heard it.
“Theodora, I have not slept in three days. My last meal was yesterday morning. I am filthy, I am starved, and I am in an extremely bad temper. We will talk later. Now be a good girl and show me to my room.”
I obeyed, lighting him to the room the countess had specified. The hearth was swept and freshly laid, and it took but a moment to kindle a bright fire to banish the chill from the room.
“You ought to have something to eat,” I told him.
“In the morning.”
I hesitated at the door. “If there is nothing I can get for you, then I will bid you goodnight.”
“You look different,” he said suddenly. I turned back. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, one boot still on, the other in his hand.
“So do you, Charles.” I went to him and knelt swiftly, drawing off his other boot. I put them aside, a little distance from the hearth so as not to damage the leather. I took his hat and his coat from the bed and placed them on hooks by the window. I drew the curtains closed and by the time I was finished, he was fast asleep, sprawled over the bed, fully clothed.
I took up a coverlet, another of the great furry robes that abounded in the castle, and draped it over him. He murmured something unintelligible, but it sounded like my name.
The next morning I went to Charles’s room just as Cosmina was approaching his door with a tray for breakfast.
She did not seem entirely pleased to see me.
“I thought your friend might be hungry. It is the day for laundry and poor Tereza is run off her feet this morning.”
“How kind of you,” I said, embarrassed that she should wait upon Charles. She was of the family, after all, and it was my fault he had come. If there was a burden to be borne, it ought to be mine.
“Let me take that.” I lifted the heavy tray out of her hands, but she released it a trifle reluctantly. She turned and tapped her way down the corridor as I kicked lightly upon the door. Charles answered, rested and in good spirits it seemed. He was half dressed, wearing the same breeches and boots of the night before and a clean shirt open at the neck. He held a razor in one hand and a towel in the other.
“Thank God,” he said upon seeing the tray. “I was about to gnaw upon the bedposts.” He waved me in and went back to his ablutions, shaving carefully as I watched.
“You will forgive the impropriety, I am sure,” he said lightly as he caught my gaze in the looking glass. I turned away and began to uncover the dishes.
“There are bread rolls and a maize porridge called mămăligă. It is rather tasty. The maid ought to have brought it, but she has not been herself of late. Her sister died a fortnight ago.” I was chattering from nerves. This new Charles was a stranger to me, cool and aloof where my Charles had always been kind and undemanding.
He turned from the looking glass, wiping at the traces of shaving soap with his towel.
“I will pour out the coffee. It is Turkish-style, quite thick and very bitter. Cosmina did not bring sugar. I will go to the kitchens for you and fetch some.”
“Theodora,” he said, his voice low. I did not look at him.
“There is new butter for the bread rolls. You might like a bit of that, and here is some honey for the porridge.”
I reached for a spoon for the little honeypot, but he took it from me. I put my hands behind my back and stepped away.
&
nbsp; “I ought to be rather angry with you, you know,” he said mildly as he sat to his breakfast.
“Angry with me? Whatever for?” I plucked irritably at the withered basil tied to the window latch.
“You have been here the better part of six weeks and you have not written a single line.”
“I wrote to Anna.” I heard the note of sulkiness in my voice, but I could not help it. Something about Charles’s presence had aroused my petulance.
“And Anna wrote to me. She was not at all pleased to hear about the dead maid, and she said your letters have been peculiar. She wanted me to come and take matters in hand.”
“Matters here are not yours to take in hand,” I retorted, now thoroughly annoyed. I did not like the familiarity with which Charles referred to my sister. It bespoke a conspiracy between them I could not like.
“You’ve no call to be crabbit,” he said mildly.
I took a deep, slow breath and strove for patience. “I am sorry. I did not mean to be ill-tempered. Not when you have come so far to fetch me.”
He folded his arms over his chest and raised his chin, affecting a rather mulish expression. “Sit down, Theodora. I cannot think with you flitting about. And I did not come to fetch you.”
I obeyed and took a chair, sagging into it in my relief. I had feared a scene, imagining myself a reluctant Helen, dragged back to Sparta by an importuning Menelaus. “But why else—”
“Oh, I came to see you, partly to ease Anna’s mind, but also because there is unfinished business between us.”
He went to his leather bag and withdrew a notecase. He dropped it into my lap and resumed his seat, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he looked over the food.
“What is this?” I asked. The case was thick with Scottish banknotes.
“The proceeds of the sale of your last two stories,” he explained, spreading the bread rolls thickly with sweet butter. “You did not leave your bank details. Most irresponsible,” he finished severely. “But the money belongs to you and have it you shall.”
He continued to eat, chewing serenely while I fumed.
“That is absurd,” I said finally. “You might have sent it to Anna or held it yourself. You could have made arrangements with any of the Imperial banks and I could have collected the funds in Hermannstadt,” I pointed out.
“That horrible little hole I travelled through last week? Don’t be absurd,” Charles rejoined. He sampled the mămăligă. “You are right. It wants a bit of honey.” He spooned on a modest amount and tried it again. “Better. Besides, I told you, Anna was worried. I thought it far better to come and see you for myself, and allay her worries. I would have already come and gone had it not been for the disasters along the way.”
“How long have you been away?” I asked.
He made a gesture of impatience. “Forever and twice as long. I was actually in Vienna attending to business when Anna wrote to me. It ought to have been an easy matter to travel here, but my pocket was picked,” he said. “I lost my money and my papers. I could not purchase a ticket on proper railways then, not in the Austrian Empire, so I had to travel illegally. I fell in with a rather dashing crowd of Gypsies who let me ride with them as far as Zagreb.”
I felt a little faint. “But if you lost all your money, how was it you still had mine?” I asked, brandishing the notecase.
“I carried your money in my bag for security. My own funds were upon my person, and before you ask, no, I was not going to spend a pound of your money,” he said firmly.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Charles would have sooner starved than touched a penny of what did not belong to him.
“Once in Zagreb, I met up with a shepherd at the market who promised to take me as far as Belgrade. From there I met up with a band of travelling musicians who were bound for Klausenberg.”
“Klausenberg is a day’s journey too far,” I told him, rather unhelpfully.
“Yes, I realise that now, but at the time, I simply wanted to get out of Belgrade. I could not rest unless I was always pushing onward. In Klausenberg, I met a farmer who said he would take me a few miles down the Hermannstadt road. And that is how it went. Every day, pushing onward, meeting someone kind enough to get me a little further on my way.”
“Charles, I am so sorry,” I murmured. “I never imagined that what I did would lead to this horrible journey for you.”
He stared at me, his eyes showing some hint of the old spaniel softness. “Horrible? It was the adventure of my life.”
“Adventure?”
“I rode with brigands in Serbia. I slept under the stars. I drove a herd of sheep to market. I have met the most extraordinary folk. I have never felt so alive in my entire life. Not that I wish to repeat the experience,” he finished with a warning look. “It has all been quite too wholesome and rough, and I am ready to be back amongst the civilised. I expect it will make for some rather good conversation at my club,” he added with a nod of satisfaction.
I sat in silent stupefaction. “I suppose it will at that. Well, you have given me my money and I will be happy to make you the loan of it for your return journey. The Dragulescus will loan you a horse and a man to guide you back to Hermannstadt. That is the nearest train station. You can replace your passport there as well, I imagine.”
I rose, but he put down his spoon. “Not so quickly, if you please. I may have completed my errand, but I cannot leave you without making certain you are quite all right. As I said, you look different to me. Tell me about the death in the castle and about this count fellow.”
I told him, haltingly at first, then more quickly as I warmed to my theme. I was so relieved to have a confidant that I told him more than I had intended, with the solitary and notable exception of my feelings for the count.
Charles’s expression grew increasingly thunderous as the conversation wore on, particularly when I made mention of the strigoi and the savage lupine habits of the Popa men. When I finally reached the agreement we had all made to keep Aurelia’s death secret, he could contain himself no longer.
He dashed his spoon to the table and burst out with, “Is that all? A vampire killer stalking the castle? Are you quite certain there aren’t any banshees in the stables? A werewolf in the library? Oh, I forgot, the werewolves are outside in the forest. How stupid of me!”
I rose and spoke with as much dignity as I could muster. “If you are not going to be serious, there is no point in having this discussion.”
“I am serious, Theodora. What has happened to you? You know this is nonsense. You are a student of folklore. You know that every people has its superstitions, and you know them for what they are—tales to frighten children. You know there is a logical and rational explanation for everything that happens. That is what separates us from these poor superstitious folk who live their lives in fear of the bogeyman. You’ve a fine mind, my dear. Use it,” he instructed tartly.
“You do not understand! You did not see that body, that awful body. I tell you it was not a human responsible for what happened to that girl. It was something less than a man. And how else can you account for the death? You must at least allow for the possibility of some supernatural agency.”
“I could offer half a dozen possibilities,” he replied, his tone calm and reasonable. “And none of them supernatural. For instance, one of these wandering Popa fellows. They have the whole countryside convinced they are wolves, but I say it is a tremendous fraud. What married man would not like to leave his family and carouse with his brothers? Perhaps their antics got out of hand and they killed the girl. Perhaps a wandering pedlar or Gypsy did the deed. Perhaps it was an accident or suicide. Perhaps her sister, this Tereza, was jealous over a trifle and decided to dispose of her.”
I shuddered. “How cold you are.”
He pulled an indignant face. “I am pragmatic, Theodora. And so you should be. You are an Edinburgher. You were raised with the tales of Burke and Hare, stealing bodies from graveyards and murdering unsuspecting fo
lk to sell their bodies to the cadaver schools. You know that man is capable of any horror towards his fellow man, and that may be doubly true of women. The most fiendish creatures I have ever known have worn skirts and the Devil’s own smile.”
“What about the corpse of Count Bogdan?” I demanded. “How can you account for the state of it, plump and rosy and brimming with blood? It was unnatural.”
“Was it?” he asked. “Theodora, I have never seen a corpse some weeks dead, but my youngest brother has. During his medical studies, he told such tales as would frighten the heart of the stoutest man at the brightest noon. His stories from the dissecting room are larded with folk who gasp and moan and roll their eyes when they are touched—some even weeks after their deaths. It is all quite normal to a rational mind.”
I considered what he said. It seemed so reasonable couched in those terms. But he had not yet felt the pull of the black forests of the Carpathians, and he had not yet listened to the howling of the wolves under a silver moon.
“But what if it is just possible? This is not like other places, Charles. Things happen here that do not happen elsewhere. I cannot explain it except to say that what I have seen defies science.”
He fell silent a moment, stroking his chin as he thought. His hands were pale and soft, nothing like the hands of the count, with the wide smooth palms and the long, deft fingers.
“But even if your premise proves true, and there is no supernatural force abroad in this place, it would make no difference to my situation. I have promised Cosmina that I will remain, and I mean to honour my promise.”
He pushed his coffee away. It must have grown stone cold in any case. A skin wrinkled the top of it.
“I cannot leave you here until I have satisfied myself that you are in no danger.”
“I cannot leave,” I told him firmly.
“Theodora, I never thought you stubborn, but this—”
“It is not stubbornness,” I corrected. I hesitated. “It is the book.”
The Dead Travel Fast Page 19
