Her seriousness was touching, and I inclined my head. “Very well. Then I will say I am more generous to my characters than I am to myself. I give them the happy ending I have not yet fashioned.”
I would have turned then, but she stayed me with a hand to my arm. “One thing more, Miss Lestrange. I was particularly moved that your heroine was able to give the whole of her heart to her beloved guardian, even though she suspected him of being a werewolf. Do you not find it extraordinary that a woman should be so accepting of such a thing?”
I thought of the count then, and the impenetrable mysteries he had constructed for me, the questions he had seeded so carefully in my mind, leaving me to puzzle over, until I had come to understand that some things were never meant to be known.
“I believe in the human heart, and the power of it to love, even when such love is unwise or even unwanted. It is an enduring thing, love is. It will weather the fiercest storm and stand, bowed but unbroken. And when life is gone, love itself may still live on. That is what I find extraordinary, my lady.”
I excused myself then, and turned to find Charles at my elbow.
“There is another gentleman who begs an audience,” he said, his colour high and his manner a little stiff.
I followed, and there he was. Charles tactfully melted away and the crowd seemed to have dispersed a little, for we were alone in the corner of the great salon. It was a long moment before I could find my voice, and when I did, it was so low he had to bend to hear me.
“You look well,” I told him, for he did. The great slashing scar had faded to a thin, white line that—as I had suspected it would—merely emphasised the elegance of his bones and took nothing from his looks. There was a touch of silver at one temple, and I noticed the black armband of mourning crepe pinned to his sleeve.
“I am well,” he said, and the melting honeyed tones were just as I remembered them. He brandished a book, and I saw that it was mine. “I have just concluded it.”
I swallowed against the quick dryness of my mouth. “What did you think of it?”
“A compelling tale. It was good to see my country described by one who clearly loves the place.”
“I did love it. I love it still,” I said, wondering if he noticed that my hands trembled to have him near to me.
He must have, for he took them in his.
“Will you return then? I told you once I had nothing to offer you but a broken and imperfect man in a broken and imperfect place. But I am a better man now than ever I was, and if you will have me, I am yours.”
I considered it carefully. “I am not the sort of a woman you would marry, you told me once. And even if that were untrue, I cannot be content breeding sons and ordering servants and sewing your shirts. I know my place in the taxonomy,” I added with a small smile. “I cannot be the wife you expect.”
“But you are the wife I want,” he said firmly. “I was a fool to ever think otherwise. I want a wife to stand with me, to believe in me, to love me for the man that I am and the man I can yet become. I want you.” He reached out his hand to my shoulder, the heavy silver ring gleaming in the light, and I saw that it had been set with a great pigeon’s blood ruby. “I have put aside my tricks, my stratagems and sophistries, and I am nothing, have nothing, but my heart. And poor and wretched as it is, it is knit to yours and cannot be unbound.”
And those simple and honest words mended all that had been broken before. I put my hand in his, feeling his fingers close over mine, warm and strong and possessive, and I gave myself up to my own happy ending.
In the end, the life we fashioned for ourselves was a compromise. I learned to shake hands with domesticity, and he learned to love freely. He found a calm and centered peace in our life in his homeland, and I found infinite inspiration. Curious, I often thought, how two such different people could be happy in the same place, but we found contentment there. There were shadows from time to time, as there must be in such a land, for we walked with ghosts there, and the dead do not always lie quietly in Transylvania. The Popa men continued to take to the mountains when the moon rose full and low over the Carpathians, and in spite of my best efforts, folk in the village still crossed themselves when my husband passed. But they accepted him with a sort of fierce and peculiar loyalty, and whether they believed him a strigoi or not, they became devoted to him and called him master with genuine affection.
They accepted me as well, although they found me meddlesome at times, and thought my stories curious and strange. They tolerated my inquisitive prodding into their legends and tales, which provided endless inspiration for my novels through the years, and together we created a prosperous and happy time in the valley.
And as the sun gilded the birch forests on the side of the mountain one afternoon, I scribbled upon my latest effort in the library, rocking my baby’s cradle with my foot and pausing occasionally to read a passage aloud to Tycho. As I did so, I thought of that long-ago day when my brother-in-law felt the weight of responsibility for me, and I thought with some satisfaction that I had solved the problem of what to do with Theodora rather well on my own.
READERS’ GUIDE QUESTIONS
Theodora Lestrange is not the typical Victorian heroine. How does she differ from other women of her time?
Which of Theodora’s two suitors—Charles Beecroft or Count Andrei—is a better match for her? Why?
Why does Theodora remain at the castle when events take a dark and frightening turn? Would you?
Many of the characters have interests which are reflective of their personalities. Discuss how Cosmina’s work with medicinal, Florian’s music, and the count’s passion for astronomy extend their characters.
Are the strange events at the castle supernatural or are there logical explanations for Theodora’s experiences?
What elements of classic Gothic literature did you find in this novel?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, I am tremendously grateful, not only for the support and many kindnesses I have received, but also for the chance to acknowledge them. Great appreciation and tremendous thanks:
To my family—my daughter for laughter and hugs and cups of tea, my mother for tidying up everything in my life, including my manuscripts, and my father for unfailing support.
To my agent, Pam Hopkins. I ought to have the words to adequately express my appreciation for all that she does, but they do not exist. I can only say that not a day passes that I do not marvel at the gift of her friendship.
To my editor, Valerie Gray, whose attention to detail and quest for excellence are equally inspiring.
To my dear friend Kimberly McArthur Taylor, whose enthusiasm for her work in epidemiology is surpassed only by her generosity of spirit, and without whose contributions this book would be less than it is.
To all of the unsung heroes and heroines of publishing, the many hardworking people through whose hands my books passed to be made better and who work so tirelessly to get my books into the hands of readers: editorial, marketing, sales, public relations and production. Particular thanks to the gifted and attentive Michael Rehder for his beautiful cover.
To the many booksellers who have shared their enthusiasm with their customers and converted them to readers.
To the readers of blog and books who have been so gracious and enthusiastic, who have written and e-mailed and traveled to book signings and who humble me every day with their praise. Thank you.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4964-0
THE DEAD TRAVEL FAST
Copyright © 2010 by Deanna Raybourn.
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