The Dead Travel Fast

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “That poor man! How lonely he must have been for all of these years.”

  “Yes. Apparently, he gave up his family for love of a woman. The Frankopans did not approve of his beloved, and when the doctor wanted to offer her marriage, they were intransigent. They insisted he take a long sea voyage, doubtless hoping the attachment would not last. But before Dr. Frankopan returned, the poor creature died. He never forgave them for sending him away, and they never forgot he chose her above them. He has been here ever since.”

  “How tragic for him—and how providential for the people of this valley. They would have had no proper medical care without him,” I pointed out.

  “I suppose. Still, a hard consequence for a love that did not last,” Charles returned.

  “A hard consequence indeed.”

  Charles left me then to pack his own things, and when I had finished, I went to Cosmina’s room to break the unwelcome news to her that I must leave. I rapped lightly upon the door and she called for me to enter.

  “Oh! I did not realise you were not alone,” I said rather awkwardly, for the countess and Frau Amsel sat next to the bed, and the three of them looked for all the world like the weird sisters upon the heath, waiting for MacBeth.

  “Do come in,” Cosmina begged. “I have been so bored, and Aunt Eugenia was kind enough to read to me. She is feeling stronger today.”

  The countess placed a ribbon in the book that lay open upon her lap, and Frau Amsel began to collect her needlework.

  “We will leave you now you have Miss Lestrange to keep you company.”

  “If you would delay a moment, madame, I must speak with you as well.”

  “Oh?” The lightly marked, aristocratic brows rose. She was not accustomed to doing another’s bidding, that much was apparent. But she obliged me, settling herself back into her chair. Frau Amsel unrolled her needlework with an air of malevolent anticipation.

  “I am afraid that my friend, Mr. Beecroft, has had a communication forwarded to him from Vienna. He has urgent business in Edinburgh and must return home at once. And I must go with him.”

  “No!” Cosmina cried. Her hair, unplaited, spilled loose over her pillows, and her eyes were darkly shadowed and unnaturally bright.

  “I am sorry, dearest. I have no choice in the matter. I must go.”

  Cosmina began to speak, but the countess interrupted her smoothly. “Cosmina, you must not importune Miss Lestrange. I am certain she feels quite badly enough to be leaving so quickly as it is.”

  The countess was perceptive, and the smile she gave me was almost kind. “We will be sorry to see you go, Miss Lestrange. When must you take your leave of us?”

  “Tomorrow, madame. By first light. It is a long way to Hermannstadt.”

  “That it is. I will make certain Frau Graben prepares a hamper for your journey. The wayside inns can be quite impossible.”

  “That is very gracious of you,” I told her, inclining my head. She returned the gesture, and I marvelled at how civilised we were being. But the countess could afford to be generous. I was leaving, after all.

  Frau Amsel did not bother to conceal her glee. She smiled broadly and as she followed the countess from the room, she fairly radiated pleasure.

  I settled myself into the countess’s vacated chair, bracing myself for the inevitable scene which must follow. Cosmina had always been quiet, but she was capable of passionate rages when she was thwarted. I still remembered a fairly ridiculous scene over a penwiper at school that had resulted in a broken window.

  “Are you very angry?” I asked.

  She shook her head, and to my distress, a tear fell to her cheeks. “No, only sad. I have so loved having you here. But Aunt Eugenia is right. I must not be selfish. You have a life to lead, and it is far away from me.”

  I plucked at the bedcovers, pleating them between my fingers. “I do hate to leave you when you are ill.”

  She gave me a smile, a brave and trembling thing. “I will be well soon. It is just a cold, a trifling matter.”

  We fell silent then, and I was deeply relieved that she did not mean to make our parting a difficult one.

  “Will you write to me? I mean really write to me? Once a month at least,” she urged.

  “Once a fortnight, and that is a promise,” I told her. I rose and placed a kiss upon her brow. It was cooler than I had expected, and I was glad of it. “You’ve no fever now. Perhaps you will be out of bed soon.”

  “Tomorrow, I hope,” she said seriously. “I should like to see you off. And Mr. Beecroft,” she added, colouring slightly. I had forgot her fondness towards Charles, and I hoped she would not take his absence too much to heart.

  “I would like that. You must rest this evening, and I will come to you in the morning even if you are still abed,” I promised.

  I took my leave of her then. I had no desire for company that night, my last at the castle, and Frau Graben was kind enough to send up a tray. She had outdone herself, for the tray groaned under a variety of regional delights. There was a dish of vine leaves, stuffed with meat and rice and spices and smothered in gravy, and half a dozen others besides, as well as the usual accompaniments of pickles and breads and cheeses. I ate little, picking over the delicious morsels with only a feeble appetite. I ached to think of leaving this place, of leaving him. It would have been difficult enough to part from him under any ordinary circumstance. With such questions yet unanswered, it was insupportable. I did not know the extent of his feelings for me, or if indeed any such feelings existed. I did not know the truth of what he was, simply a man or something darker and more sinister. And perhaps most chilling of all, I did not know what he feared. Was it the possibility of his own destruction or mine that caused him to send me away?

  Such questions teased and tormented me through the course of the evening, and finally I could bear it no longer. I went to the count’s room, determined to break through his resolve at last. I understood the dangers of it; I had already seen that to prod him beyond endurance would cause him to strip the scales from my eyes and teach me unpleasantnesses. But I could not leave without seeing him one last time, and when I reached his bedchamber, I did not even pause to knock, but opened the door and walked straight in.

  He was not there, but a fire burned upon the hearth, and the bed had been turned back as if he had expected to retire soon. I mounted the little stair to his workroom, surprised to find it empty. I had thought to find him there, tinkering with the orrery or reading one of his grandfather’s almanacs. The night was windy and the sky full of cloud, unsuitable for astronomical pursuits. If he had gone to the observatory, he would only tarry a moment or two, and I decided to wait in the workroom for him. Before I could settle, I glanced at the window and gaped. I would have screamed, but my voice was stopped in my astonishment, for a great black shape hung at the window, pressing itself against the glass. It swung wildly, thudding hard against the window, and I realised it meant to break in, to gain entry to the count’s room, and it was then that I recovered myself. I screamed, and before the sound of it died in my throat, the shape hurled itself against the window, destroying it in a shower of splintered glass. The form fell heavily upon the shattered glass with an inhuman groan, and it was only then that I saw it was the count, bleeding freely and insensible. I flung myself to the floor, heedless of the glass, and wrenched open his neckcloth that he might breathe more easily. I put my handkerchief to the jagged wound upon his cheek, but the snowy cloth turned scarlet as soon as it touched him. I ought to have gone for help then or fetched water or done any of a hundred useful things. Instead I knelt beside him in the midst of the destruction, willing him to wake, to speak.

  After a moment—it may have been a moment, although it felt an eternity—I was pushed gently aside. “Let me see him, let me see him.” It was Dr. Frankopan, with Florian and Charles hard upon his heels. I had not realised the doctor had even called again at the castle, but never in my life had I greeted anyone with greater pleasure.

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nbsp; I moved aside, but only a little. Whatever Dr. Frankopan did to him, I meant to help.

  “Good God, what happened?” Charles demanded, but no one made him a reply.

  The count stirred and emitted another deep groan when Dr. Frankopan touched his forearm. The doctor nodded. “As I suspected, as I suspected. His shoulder is out of place.” He nodded towards Florian and Charles. “I shall require help to put it back.”

  Charles blanched but stepped forward. “Of course.” Florian stepped forward as well, awaiting the doctor’s instructions.

  “I do not like to do this here, but the pain is extraordinary and the joint must be replaced before the muscles stiffen. Stretch out his arm, like this,” he gave a series of detailed instructions, then turned to me. “I think you will not like to watch this. What we must do is most unpleasant.”

  “I will stay,” I said, stubbornly, although I regretted it almost instantly. Unpleasant was not the word, I decided, for as they twisted and torqued his arm into the socket, he rose up and gave a great, guttural scream, then lapsed into unconsciousness again, pale as new milk, the blood still streaming from his face.

  Charles was unsteady on his feet when they had finished, and even Florian, who had doubtless seen and done his share of unpleasant things upon the farm, seemed shaken and ill at ease.

  “It is restored,” said the doctor with some satisfaction. “Now, we must remove him to his bedchamber and assess the rest of his injuries before the lacerations can be repaired.” Dr. Frankopan was a man changed, for he was cool and confident and thoroughly in command of the situation, even when the ladies of the castle appeared in the doorway. The countess gave a deep moan of anguish and would have sunk to her knees but for the support of Frau Amsel. Cosmina stood unsteadily, a dressing gown wrapped about her, her hair untidy and her feet thrust into slippers as if she had risen hastily from her sickbed. Frau Graben had even roused herself from her room next to the kitchens, but it was Tereza who commanded the household’s attention. She pushed her way into the room, raising a shaking finger as she stared at the prone form of the count. She spoke in shrill and rapid Roumanian, but the horror and disbelief in her voice required no translation.

  Florian related what she said, murmuring hastily to me in German.

  “‘I saw him,’ she says,” he told me. “‘I saw him there upon the observatory. I was making the windows fast as I do every night before I retire. I was at the window in the opposite wing, and I saw him perched upon the edge of the observatory walk. And then I saw him fly!’”

  The countess let out a great sob, and Cosmina reached for the doorframe to steady herself. Dr. Frankopan spoke up.

  “What do you mean, child? Count Andrei did not fly. He fell from the observatory and was fortunate enough to fall through the window. He might have plunged straight to his death in the valley had he not caught himself,” he said firmly. Tereza blinked at him and he repeated his argument in Roumanian.

  But Tereza continued to utter the same phrases she had used before, and I had no need of Florian to know she would not be swayed.

  “Child, he did not fly,” Dr. Frankopan said patiently, saying the words over and again in Roumanian and German. “He fell.”

  “Or was pushed,” Frau Amsel said, her voice overloud in the quiet room.

  There was a gasp, and I think pandemonium might have broken out were it not for the fact that Frau Amsel was pointing to a bit of fabric snagged upon the broken window. She walked over and plucked it free, but I did not need to look upon it to know what she brandished in her hand. Clutched in her triumphant hands was the tartan shawl I had left in the garden draped over a tarragon bush.

  17

  I did not feel it when the countess slapped me, for I had gone quite numb, and it was only distantly that I heard Charles remonstrate with her angrily. The room spun and jerked around me, faces swam before my eyes, and the only constant was my own voice, repeating over and over again, “But I love him.”

  It was Charles who finally guided me away and took me to my chamber, and when we reached the room, he wrenched open the window and pushed my head outside, forcing me to drink in great draughts of the cold, crisp air until my head cleared. At last he drew me back in, and pressed a flask upon me.

  “Good Scottish whisky,” he said firmly. I drank deeply of it, and the room cleared at last.

  “I do not understand,” I said, my voice thin and feeble.

  “Neither do I,” he told me, his expression grim. “But it is best to stay here quietly until someone comes.”

  I did as he bade me, sitting upon my hands to stop them shaking and listening to the little clock tick off the hours. The night was half gone when there was a rap at the door and Dr. Frankopan entered, his cuffs folded back and smeared with blood. His blood, I thought wildly, and for an instant I was certain the doctor had come to tell me he had died.

  “Is he dead?” I demanded.

  Dr. Frankopan gave me an odd look. “Dead? Of course not. He suffered a dislocation of the shoulder and some rather severe cuts and bruises, but nothing he cannot overcome with rest and good care.”

  I sagged into my chair, murmuring an Ave under my breath. If nothing else, the Carpathians would teach me religion, I thought wildly.

  Dr. Frankopan drew a chair next to me and motioned for Charles to sit with us as well. “I have spoken to the countess, for it is she who rules during her son’s indisposition. She apologises for her outburst and begs you will understand a mother’s hysteria.”

  “She does not think me responsible then?” I asked, dizzy with relief.

  Dr. Frankopan’s response was carefully phrased. “She does not know what to think as yet. She wishes to make no decisions until her son has regained consciousness and can speak for himself as to what happened upon the observatory walk.”

  “Tereza!” I said suddenly. “Tereza must have seen that I was not there when the count fell. She may absolve me.”

  Dr. Frankopan shook his head sorrowfully. “Tereza saw nothing. I questioned her closely, and she saw nothing but the count.”

  I lapsed back into my chair, feeling a thousand years old. “What am I to do until the count rouses and can clear my name?”

  He shrugged. “It would be best for everyone if you were confined to your room. It would bring a greater ease to the family if you were not at liberty.”

  “I am to be held prisoner until he wakes?” I asked, incredulous. It seemed impossible, and I looked to Charles to support me.

  “I think it is for the best,” he said, to my astonishment.

  “Charles! You cannot think that I—”

  “Of course not,” he was quick to reply, using the same tone one might to soothe a fractious horse or a fretful babe. “But this is a necessary expedient. I must insist that Theodora not be locked in without visitors,” he said firmly to Dr. Frankopan. “She will receive regular visits from me, and writing materials and books besides. And anything else she should require for her comfort,” he finished.

  “Naturally, naturally. The countess wishes her to think of herself as a guest still,” Dr. Frankopan said, his relief almost palpable. He had expected a fight then. But I had none left in me to give him, for all that mattered to me in that moment was that the count should live.

  “Very well. I will sit quietly until I am bade to leave,” I promised.

  Dr. Frankopan took his leave then with Charles, and after the door was shut, I heard the turn of the key in the lock, the loneliest, most frightening sound I had ever heard. I was a prisoner in the Castle Dragulescu.

  Charles was the first to break in upon my solitude the next day when he carried in my breakfast. I had finally lapsed into sleep just before dawn, and it was very nearly noon before he roused me.

  “You needed your rest,” he explained, when I scolded him for not waking me sooner.

  “I know. And I know you are the only friend I have at present. Pay no mind to my churlishness. I do not mean it,” I finished helplessly.


  He said nothing, but busied himself uncovering dishes and pouring out strong black coffee. The smell of it turned my stomach to water, but he had brought tea besides, and a cup of that with a nibbled bread roll comprised my breakfast.

  “How is he this morning?” I asked finally. I had hesitated, both from the fear that he should have taken a turn for the worst, and out of the concern that speaking of him would grieve Charles. It is no easy thing for a man to measure himself against another and be found wanting.

  But Charles was more a gentleman than I had credited him, for he brought me news of him and delivered it without resentment. “He does well enough, although he has not yet roused. Dr. Frankopan stays with him, and the countess comes and goes. Cosmina has been there as well, doing what she can. There is naught to do but wait until he wakes. His pulse is strong and his colour good, and although it was a shock of some magnitude to his mother to find that he is an opium-eater, Dr. Frankopan does not think the habit is of long enough standing to have damaged his constitution.” Charles hesitated, then took a breath and plunged on, speaking rather more hurriedly. “He murmurs a good deal in his sleep, and once or twice he has called your name.”

  I finished my tea before I could master my tears enough to speak. “Thank you for that. It could not have been easy to tell me, but I am glad to know it.”

  “Do not thank me. Half of them seem to think it proof of your guilt—as if he speaks your name to accuse you. Still, I know you are guiltless, and so will everyone else once he wakes.”

  A sudden chill ran through me, stiffening my hand so that I nearly dropped the cup. “Charles, I am innocent, but someone else is not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I replaced the cup carefully onto the saucer and rose to pace the room. “They think I pushed him, but we know I did not. What if he did not fall or fly of his own accord? What if he was pushed, but by someone else?”