Varanus looked at her, intending to be admonishing, but all she could manage was a smile. Ekaterine looked back at her and smirked before taking a sip of tea, turning to Elizabeth, and embarking upon another probing topic of conversation.
Perhaps, Varanus thought, the trip would not be so bad after all.
* * * *
The walk upon the moors proved just the thing to alleviate the burden of dealing with Varanus’s relations. Family was family, of course, but that understanding did little to lessen the tension caused by such tedious company. Varanus had never held much interest in the intricacies of polite conversation—filled as it was with its little power struggles for some sort of fleeting verbal domination—and since joining the Shashavani order, she had virtually exempted herself from it altogether. Now she lacked even the veneer that she had once possessed. To assume it now, after fifteen years of freedom, was exhausting.
But the moors. They were marvelous: beautiful, barren, majestic. In the fleeting hours before sunset, she strolled across them with Ekaterine, accompanied by Korbinian who talked endlessly of “sublime desolation”, or some such nonsense. He had always enjoyed the wilds of the world, even while he had lived. And in death he had become even more enthusiastic, as if brought to life by the very absence of civilization. He had once spoken of visiting Mont Blanc in tribute to the poet Shelley. Perhaps once the matter of the estate had been settled, they could make an excursion there before returning to Georgia.
Varanus and Ekaterine stopped atop a stone-topped hill—a “tor” as they were called—and paused there for a time, admiring the view. The hill was unusually high in the otherwise low and flat moorland and granted a tremendous view of the surrounding countryside. Ekaterine removed a pair of small binoculars from her bag and used them to survey the landscape, smiling in delight as she did. Varanus studied the view as well, though she had no need of tools: her eyes were strong enough to manage where a mortal required lenses.
The Blackmoor house was some distance behind them, perched upon its high ground. All around them the grass and heath sloped away into the low plain, dotted here and there with smaller hills, few of which were of any significance. A short distance away Varanus saw an old stone church, as worn and weathered as the ground it had been built upon. A rough path wove its way from Blackmoor Manor to the church, and a second connected the building to the nearby town through a rather more serpentine route.
There were other sights as well. The ruins of some old priory rose in the distance, situated upon one of the lesser hills. There was no telling how long the building had been abandoned, but by now the remains of the stonework were little more than a skeleton merely hinting at its former glory. But what a glory it must have been, for even in decay the priory was a sight to behold. What a pity it must have been for the monks to lose such a treasure—or had they lost their lives as well?
“I suspect that was their fate,” Korbinian said, as if hearing her thoughts. “Put to the sword by that beastly Henry VIII. He was a very bad Catholic.”
Varanus turned toward Korbinian and saw him standing at an easel and painting a picture of something—where the paint, easel, and canvas had come from she could not imagine, but she had long ago learned not to question such things. Korbinian came and went as he pleased, did as he pleased, and with such accoutrements as he required.
“Henry VIII was not a Catholic,” Varanus answered, for the moment forgetting herself.
Ekaterine lowered her binoculars and glanced at her, asking, “Oh? Wasn’t he? I shall never remember your English monarchs. Was he the one who killed Thomas Becket?”
Varanus silently chided herself for addressing Korbinian in the company of others. It was so tedious having to remember to rein herself in. She had often contemplated confiding in Ekaterine to make her occasional lapses more reasonable, but it seemed a foolish thing to do. Tell her dearest friend that she saw and conversed with her dead fiancé on regular occasions? She would seem utterly mad!
“No, that would be Henry II,” she replied, smiling. “Henry VIII is the one with six wives.”
“Oh, the bigamist,” Ekaterine said. This seemed to satisfy her, and she returned to her binoculars.
“What ever are you doing?” Varanus asked.
“Sightseeing,” Ekaterine said.
“Any luck?”
“Well, I’ve seen some sights,” Ekaterine replied. “I suppose that counts as success.”
“What a pity we didn’t bring along a guidebook,” Varanus said. “It might have told us what to look at. Still, the ruins are something of a sight.”
Ekaterine shifted her gaze a little to study the skeleton of the priory.
“Quite so,” she said. “A pity we’ve so little time. I think I should like to see it up close.”
“Suppose it may be haunted,” Varanus said.
“Oh, then so much the better,” Ekaterine said, smiling. “After this afternoon’s tea, I think I rather fancy being assaulted by the ghost of a dead abbot. It might relieve the monotony.”
At his easel, Korbinian added his own comment about the conversation:
“It is not the priory that is the most interesting, I think you will find, but rather those standing stones off behind it.” He pointed with his paintbrush. “I wonder how old they are and what else that hill might conceal.”
Varanus looked where he had pointed. Indeed, she could just make out a set of tall stones set in a cluster atop another tor—one of the tallest hills in the entire expanse of moorland. Interesting perhaps, but no doubt of little significance. They had likely been erected in some primordial age before the dawn of civilization. What interest could some old monoliths hold for any but a historian? Varanus was far more interested in the ruins of a building constructed with the aid of planning and architecture.
“I do apologize for my relations, Ekaterine,” Varanus said. “I did not anticipate them to be such bores. Perhaps I should have, but I did harbor feelings of hope.…”
Ekaterine laughed and said, “Nonsense, Doctor. They are a curiosity. I must confess, I rather enjoyed toying with them. Vulgar of me, I know, but they are so inclined to become indignant! And over matters of such limited consequence. It’s all rather exciting.”
The wind began to pick up, and Varanus reached up with one hand to hold the hem of her veil.
“I can only imagine,” she said. “For me, it is most embarrassing. Just the thought of it: Cousin Elizabeth speaking to you as if you were some benighted heathen. And Cousin Maud assuming that the Church of England was the One True Religion as God intended.…”
“The world is not so Enlightened as we are,” Ekaterine said, smiling brightly at Varanus. She reached out and took Varanus’s hand in her own. “It is good that we are reminded of it, lest we become foolish and forget.”
“How could we forget?” Varanus asked. “Mankind is ignorant and parochial. And above all, selfish. I shudder to think how negotiations will proceed once Robert returns home. I suspect I will be forced to fight for my inheritance tooth and nail.”
“We will fight,” Ekaterine said. “We.”
“How very touching!” Korbinian proclaimed, leaning out to one side and studying them intently. “Yes, I rather like that. Two sisters standing amid the barren wastes.” He returned to his painting. “It could be the start of an entire school of art.”
Varanus looked at him and sighed, dropping Ekaterine’s hand.
If Ekaterine thought the sudden gesture odd, she gave no indication. Instead, she asked, “How is the sun? Sufficiently mild? You aren’t in pain, are you?”
A sensible enough question. On such open country, the burning of sunlight could be a grave danger. There was far too little cover available. Still, there seemed to be no cause for concern. Varanus felt neither pain nor heat. What little sunlight touched her face through the veil did not sting her.
“Quite mild, in fact,” Varanus said. “I must confess a degree of surprise, but it seems the veil is sufficient.”
“Good,” Ekaterine said, clearly pleased. She perhaps did not relish having to cover a burning Varanus with her shawl and carry her the mile or so to the nearest shelter.
“In fact,” Varanus continued, her thoughts taking her, “it is a point that I have often wondered about. It ought not to be sufficient protection, yet it is.”
“Oh liebchen, what a marvel you are,” Korbinian said, still engaged in his painting. “’Ought not to be’? The sun does not burn you, and so you see the need to question it?”
Ekaterine, who could not hear Korbinian, merely asked, “Oh, yes?”
“Indeed,” Varanus said. “I have noticed it before. The time spent in the sunlight—however little the area of exposure—should eventually compound upon itself to produce injury. But it does not. Sunlight touches my face, and yet it is little enough that it does me no harm no matter how long I am exposed to it. That makes little sense at best.”
“Because in time your resistance should diminish and you should burn?” Ekaterine asked.
“Precisely,” Varanus said. “If one holds one’s hand close to a flame, it may not burn at first, but in time the skin begins to scorch and char and boil. Even those who walk in the shadow of death burn over time in the light of the sun. And yet, this translucent piece of fabric is all that I require to protect my face from the sun, which would otherwise turn my bones red hot and char my flesh like overbaked bread. It is peculiar.”
“Perhaps it is a matter worth investigating,” Ekaterine said.
“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it,” Varanus replied. “I consider it a matter of necessity.” She fussed at the veil and grimaced. “And what is more, however useful this veil is, I find it a great inconvenience.”
“Is there an alternative?” Ekaterine asked. “Lord Iosef uses the veil. It seems the most effective means that does not obscure one’s vision or one’s face.”
“You could always wear a mask, liebchen,” Korbinian offered, without looking up from his painting. As Varanus glanced toward him, frowning slightly, he grinned. “But that would obscure your lovely features, so kindly do not.”
“Nonsense, there must be another solution,” Varanus said, looking back at Ekaterine. “Perhaps some sort of paint to cover the skin and blot out the sunlight. A cosmetic or something of a similar nature.”
“That would prevent a person from standing out,” Ekaterine agreed. “Much less so than netting over one’s face.”
“Quite so,” Varanus said, musing aloud. “And a cosmetic would blend in as well. It might appear as one’s own skin tone. Our eyes would still require dark glasses, but even so.…”
Ekaterine mused about this for a few moments before she nodded.
“That actually sounds rather sensible,” she said. “I am surprised it has never been tried before.”
Varanus shrugged and replied, “For all I know it has been. I cannot imagine that I am the first of the Shashavani to have thought of such a thing.”
“When we return home, we shall consult the archives about the matter,” Ekaterine said, nodding firmly. She smiled at Varanus and looked out across the valley.
Korbinian leaned out from behind his canvas and studied them again. Varanus glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. Korbinian grinned in a most impish manner, as if considering some secret point of great amusement. He finished his work with a few gentle dabs of paint and turned the canvas toward Varanus. The painting depicted Varanus and Ekaterine standing together in profile, Varanus in the foreground with the setting sun behind them. In the painting she was without her hat and veil, which was a nice touch.
“Do you like it?” Korbinian asked. “I think it’s quite good. Of course, that is only because I had such a beautiful model.”
Varanus smiled at him, a touch of warmth coming to her cheeks. It was such a rare sensation since she had joined the Shashavani. It seemed that Korbinian alone could make her blush—though perhaps it was merely the memory of blushing that she experienced.
“I like it very much,” she said, again forgetting herself. She quickly added, clearly to Ekaterine, “The view. It is remarkable, if more than a little barren.”
“I find it almost romantic myself,” Ekaterine answered, smiling softly. “Such a place as this reminds one of the insignificance of mankind.”
“Insignificance?” Varanus asked. “How is our insignificance romantic?”
Ekaterine laughed and replied, “Because despite it, we accomplish great things. Our frailties make our accomplishments all the more impressive.”
Nearby, Korbnian tilted his head. “What a charming way to look at it,” he said, almost wistfully. He looked in the direction of the old church. “My goodness, can it be? Your young cousin out for her evening stroll? Perhaps you should go down and say hello.”
Varanus turned toward the church. It took only a moment for her eyes to adjust to the distance, and she saw that Korbinian spoke true. There stood Mary upon the doorstep: young, radiant, decked in pastels, and altogether out of place in the presence of somber moor and weathered stone.
“Ekaterine,” Varanus said, “I do believe that I spy Cousin Mary.”
“Oh?” Ekaterine asked. “Where?”
Varanus pointed and Ekaterine raised her binoculars to look.
“So you do,” Ekaterine said. “What ever can she be—”
But before Ekaterine could finish speaking, the figure of a fair-haired young man in simple clothes appeared in the doorway of the church and caught Mary in his arms. She smiled at him and kissed his lips, pushing him back inside the building.
“Oh dear…” Ekaterine said.
“Oh dear, indeed,” Varanus agreed. “I daresay young Mary has found herself a beau. Probably a local lad, from the looks of him.”
“The stable boy, I suspect.” Ekaterine sighed. “This cannot end well.”
“It will likely end in pregnancy,” Varanus said, “which is both a blessing and a curse.”
Damned fool girl, she thought. Varanus had little patience for the mores of society, but a child out of wedlock was a terrible thing, whatever one’s moral stance on the matter.
She felt Korbinian take her hand and gently raise it to his lips.
“How romantic,” he murmured. “Young lovers sneaking off to one another’s arms. Do you remember how we were at that age?”
Varanus flashed him a stern look. There was no comparison between the two cases. She and Korbinian were of similar station, and they had always intended to marry. But Mary and this stable boy.… No doubt it was a youthful passion at best, and while it might come to nothing, any complications could lead to ruin.
“We should intervene,” Ekaterine said.
“I rather suspect that the damage has already been done,” Varanus said. “Their familiarity suggests more than a first encounter. When she marries, it will not be as a virgin bride, regardless of whether we intervene or not. Although,” she added, “experience has taught me that virginity is held in much higher esteem than it deserves. Perhaps it will do her some good to sate her youthful passions.”
“Normally I would agree,” Ekaterine said, lowering her binoculars and frowning, “but I suspect that neither of them are well versed in the manifold varieties of contraception available to the young people here in Britain.”
“Is that sarcasm I hear?” Varanus asked, chuckling.
“Perhaps a little,” Ekaterine said. “Come, let us interrupt them before they have time to begin doing anything embarrassing.”
Varanus sighed and began walking down the hill alongside Ekaterine.
“You realize that this will only be a temporary measure,” she said. “We shall prevent it this once, but by tomorrow they’ll be at it again, I have no doubt.”
“In all likelihood, yes,” Ekaterine replied. “But at least my conscience will be at peace on the matter.”
Varanus looked back over her shoulder at Korbinian, who still stood at his easel. At her observation, he turned from his painting and loo
ked at her.
“Yes?” he asked, as if surprised. “Are we going somewhere?”
It was an act of course, so Varanus simply shook her head at him.
“Oh very well,” Korbinian said. “I am coming. And to think, my painting was almost finished.…”
Varanus turned back to Ekaterine in time to hear her muse aloud:
“The poor girl. I wonder if it would be terribly embarrassing for her if her foreign cousin were to take her aside and explain the details of pregnancy avoidance.”
What a notion! Varanus sighed and placed a hand on Ekaterine’s arm.
“My dear Ekaterine,” she said, “if I may be permitted to recall my thoughts at that age, I feel I can say without fear of contradiction that the embarrassment would be tantamount to death. And I have always felt it bad form to murder one’s cousins.”
* * * *
As a courtesy, Varanus conversed loudly with Ekaterine as they approached the door to the church and opened it slowly to give Mary and the boy time to extricate themselves from any compromising entanglements. The church was bare and humble, its stonework harshly weathered and its wood blackened by time like everything else in Blackmoor. Though the ceiling was built with high timber arches, the darkness of the ill-lit space left it feeling claustrophobic. Only a little light drifted in through the narrow windows, laying a path along the nave toward a stone altar adorned only with a single golden cross.
As Varanus entered, she saw Mary kneeling before the altar, hands folded in prayer. The girl was making a decent effort at pretending, but Varanus could hear the rapid beating of her heart. Mary’s clothes and hair were in disarray, though she seemed to have made a few futile efforts to straighten them. For a moment, Varnaus was reminded of her own youthful affairs with Korbinian. They had tried to conceal the evidence just the same, and with as little success.
Mary pretended not to notice them as Varanus and Ekaterine approached, but when she had walked to within a few paces of the girl, Varanus cleared her throat audibly. Mary looked up as if startled. It was not particularly convincing, though she seemed quite confident in her pretense.
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