In addition to the travel I have already described, the Comte has promised me a journey to Italy next year, and he will take me to hear whatever new work Signore Rossini has composed at that time. I have received some piano transcriptions of airs from his work Il Barbiere di Siviglia and enjoyed playing them; so amusing and witty. The instrument in the music room at his château—a forte-piano—is a bit old-fashioned but in excellent condition, and so it is always a pleasure to spend an hour or two at the keyboard. It is something I will enjoy as soon as I return to his château. He has penned a few melodies of his own for me to play, and a duet for us to play together. His musicianship is superior and it puts me on my mettle to play with him. Stickler that you are for accurate performance, I am persuaded you would find his playing to your satisfaction; he certainly performs beyond my capacity. The Comte also plays violin, viola, and guitar: he has one of each in his music room as well as some regional instruments, in particular, a Hungarian cimbalom, a kind of large, hammered zither. I am not overly fond of its sound, but I allow that he plays it well. If you should ever have occasion to visit here, I hope you will give him the opportunity to play for you on any or all of his instruments.
When your new book is published, I ask you will send me a copy so I may see how your discoveries are progressing. I often think of those days when we journeyed together, and all the places we saw: Rhodes, Cyprus, Egypt! While I realize it is impractical for me to accompany you as I did when I was a child, I cannot help but yearn for those days, and tell you how it saddens me that you are not able to give my children the same opportunities as I had from you; I fear they will be the worse for the lack of them. Perhaps when they are a bit older something may be arranged, for little as the Graf likes the Turks, he is an avid admirer of the ancient heros; in time he may see the advantage to permitting at least Siegfried, Bertram, and Berend to visit you at your excavation; I doubt he would permit Annamaria to travel into Ottoman territory, for fear she might be the victim of an outrage.
With every assurance of my continued affection and devotion,
Your most allegiant daughter,
Hero Iocasta Ariadne Corvosaggio von Scharffensee
4
There was mud on the hem of Hero’s walking-dress, and her kid shoes were all but ruined; still, she was laughing as Ragoczy helped her over the stile that connected his outer fields with those of his neighbor; her activity had excited her so that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. Her high-brimmed bonnet à la Hussar set off her face and the curls that clustered at the edge of this confection. She gathered the frilled front of her walking-coat more tightly and released his steadying hand. “What a beautiful day! I thought we wouldn’t get any spring again this year. Last year was so dreadful, it was troubling to think what might lie ahead. Yet here it is, sunshine and warmth, and not quite the end of May.”
“Two hard winters in a row have burdened everyone, from farmer to housewife. It will be some months before the land can be restored, assuming the improvement continues.” Ragoczy indicated the fallow field beyond where they stood. “I hope Herr Kleinerhoff is able to bring in all his crops this year; I hope all the farmers of Sacre-Sang do.” The last year had been almost a total loss for Augustus Kleinerhoff, and this year promised little improvement with the late arrival of spring and the poor display of developing fruit in the trees. “He will have to plant soon, and trust that the autumn is not an early one.”
“All men with fields must share that trust, not just those of Sacre-Sang,” said Hero. “You must have some concerns yourself, Comte.”
He shook his head, his dark eyes fixed on a distance only he could see. “Not so many as those whose fields are their livelihoods. I have shipping companies and other businesses that can sustain me through times of hard weather. Although shipping also suffers in hard years.”
“You also have forcing houses—nine of them,” she said with a tight little nod. “You can bring in cabbages and chard, at least.”
“Remember that two of my forcing houses were damaged by ice,” said Ragoczy. “They will need to be repaired shortly, or be useless this year.”
“Climate dictates all,” Hero said fatalistically. “When my father visited Egypt, he said that the people there suffered for the harshness of the climate: heat instead of cold, dry instead of wet. I remember many flies, and, because we were the only Europeans in the town, my step-mother and I had to wear veils whenever we went about.”
“It is the custom,” said Ragoczy.
“Yes; my father said so, as well. I wish it had been otherwise.” She glanced toward the mountains rising around them. “There have been avalanches this year, more than in most years.”
“There is a build-up of snow on the slopes; with more snow there comes more avalanches.” He started along the fence, helping her to pick her way over the uneven ground.
“No doubt you’re right,” she said, concentrating on where she stepped.
“If you would prefer to seek out the road?” Ragoczy offered.
“No. It is just as muddy as this field, if not more so.” She smiled at him once more, but there was more sadness than merriment in her expression. “Since Fridhold died, I keep thinking of how many perils are around us, and all the time. A beam becomes a bludgeon, a carriage becomes a death-trap, an open fire becomes a conflagration. I know it is foolish, but anything can distress me, from an unguarded fire in the grate to a sagging branch on a tree. I see danger in the field, and I see danger on the road.” For more than a minute she neither moved nor spoke, but then she said, “If you had not taken me in, I have no notion what would have happened to me.”
“Your father would have provided for you,” said Ragoczy, resuming their progress across the field.
“His second wife would not want me in their household, and he is not rich enough to provide for two households and his expeditions as well. Men of his profession spend their money, such as it is, on their expeditions, not on their comforts and families. He would have had to arrange a marriage for me, or a position as a governess, or a teacher at a girls’ school. At worst I would have had to become the nurse for some ancient relative, one whose body or mind was gone; I know from my days with Ortrude that I lack the patience for such continual employment; the few months I cared for her were sufficient to show me that. I try not to dwell upon it, but sometimes—” She sighed. “And the Graf—well, he might pay me to keep away from my children, but not one pfennig more than absolutely necessary to sustain me as little above poverty as his reputation could endure.”
“All because your husband left no Will to provide for you,” said Ragoczy.
“He didn’t think he would die so young,” she said, as she had said many times before. “And neither did I.”
“There is always a risk of dying.” Ragoczy paused by a narrow rill running through the center of the field; the amount of water, although small, caused him discomfort.
“Even for you?” She was almost teasing him.
“Even for me,” he said somberly; he glanced down at the sparking surface of the rill. “I’ll lift you over,” he offered.
“Just let me take your arm and that will suffice,” said Hero, testing the narrow bank of the rivulet to determine how slippery it was. She laid her hand on the arm he held out to her and stepped across the water. “There; you see?”
He crossed to her side of the little stream. “There should be a stone path along on your right.”
“I think I see it,” she said, trying to hold her skirts above the worst of the mud.
“Then proceed,” he said, still providing a steadying hand. “It is tricky underfoot, I fear.”
She made her way to the path and looked down at her shoes. “Quite ruined,” she said with a hint of a giggle. “Doubtless my own fault.”
“You will walk with your feet on the ground,” said Ragoczy, matching his tone with hers.
“So I will,” she said, continuing down the road. “At least the other fields are almost
planted.”
“This one will lie fallow another year, I must suppose,” said Ragoczy. “The orchards are finally in full bloom—that arguers well.”
“Herr Kleinerhoff has always taken pride in the fruit his orchards produce, or so his son told me last autumn.” She waited while her wistfulness washed through her. “Siegfried loves apples.”
“I thought most boys liked apples,” said Ragoczy with steady kindness.
“Yes, but Siegfried is especially fond of them. So was Fridhold.”
He rested his hand on her shoulder for several seconds. “You miss him.”
“I keep thinking I should stop,” she said by way of apology. “Missing him does no good.”
“Why do you say that? He was dear to you, he was the father of your children, you shared his life and his bed for nearly eight years, and he was not yet thirty when he died.” Ragoczy turned her to face him. “How can I fault you for your affection?”
“But you aren’t jealous, are you?” she asked tentatively as she resumed her progress along the stone path.
“Why should I be?” he countered. “Your love for him does not diminish your affection for me.”
“No,” she conceded. “At least, I don’t believe it does.”
He regarded her thoughtfully a short while as they reached the gate leading to the road to the small Trappist monastery farther up the mountain. “Every love is different, Hero,” he said as he drew back the bar that held the gate closed. “You may compare them all you try, yet no two loves are alike.”
“This is something you have learned in your life?” She regarded him curiously, her eyes fixed on him with steady purpose.
“Yes: long since.”
“You still miss Madelaine de Montalia; I know you do,” she said, not quite accusing him.
“Certainly; and many others, as well,” he said in his unflustered way, aware that his attachment to Madelaine was unlike most of his connections to those with whom the Blood Bond still pertained.
“But not the way you miss her,” Hero insisted.
“No, not the way I miss her, nor anyone else. Everyone I have known is unique in my experience and holds a singular place in my memory.” He had almost said my heart, but memories of Csimenae stopped the words before he spoke them. “You need not fear I will forget you, Hero.” As she walked through, he closed the gate behind her. “Those of my blood learn not to be distracted by one love from another. When you live as long as we do, any other understanding is folly.”
She considered this, her face somber. “What was it that drew you to me? I can’t imagine it was my beauty or my manner.”
He took almost a minute to frame his answer. “It was your honesty that led me to seek you out. Manner and beauty change from year to year, and what is handsome at one time is brutish at another; honesty is a constant, and rarer than pleasing faces.” He touched her chin lightly, smiling briefly. “You did not try to flatter me, or to deny your grief. You did not batten on me, or on any man, although the law and custom would encourage you to do so. You have made your own way in difficult circumstances.” He took a step away from her. “Such force of character commands respect.”
“And Madelaine de Montalia?” As soon as she said the name, she bit her lower lip and averted her eyes.
Ragoczy took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. “Madelaine knew me for what I am—for all that I am—from the very beginning, and had no fear of me. For such as I, that encompassing is beyond reckoning.” He kissed the side of her mouth. “Do not fret: you have nothing to worry about on her account.”
“I’m not worried,” she said staunchly. Then she swallowed hard. “Not too much.”
“You need not worry at all,” said Ragoczy. “Neither she nor I can provide what the other seeks.”
“But I feel so … haunted.”
“Haunted?” He paused. “Not by Madelaine, surely?”
“By Madelaine, by Fridhold, even by my children, although they are alive.” She reached for her handkerchief, tucked into the breast-pocket of her walking-coat. “I didn’t intend to … Comte, pardon me.” She dabbed at her eyes, embarrassment overtaking her with other emotions.
“Everyone is haunted,” Ragoczy assured her gently. “By the loss of friends and relations, the fading of youth, the opportunities lost—all haunt us. It is one of the prices of living.”
“That may be so,” she said, doing her best to regain her self-possession.
Five hundred years before he might have told her that in time she would understand, but he knew now that such assertions meant little to the living, particularly to the young, who felt the weight of time more sharply than those who reached old age; he took her mittened hand and kissed it. “You have been given hard choices, and you have made them without flinching. That is a true accomplishment.”
“I have flinched often,” she said by way of confession.
“And mastered it,” said Ragoczy.
“Have I? Sometimes I wonder.” She turned her head sharply as a large dog began to bark, running toward them from out of a lane ahead of them.
“Stay still,” Ragoczy told her as he stepped forward to intercept the dog.
The animal was chestnut-colored with black smudges around his eyes and muzzle; his coat was shaggy from winter and mottled from shedding, and his paws were caked in mud. He bounded up to Ragoczy, barking enthusiastically. He leaped up and struck out with his paws, half in challenge, half in play. His barking became higher, turning almost to puppylike yips.
“Be careful,” Hero called.
“Oh, Behemoth will not hurt me, not intentionally,” said Ragoczy. “He is just expressing his delight at being out for the day. A dog his size frets in confinement, and this winter he had more than his fill of it.” He held the dog’s front paws in his hands with seeming lack of effort even while the big dog bounced energetically on his hind legs, tongue lolling. “This is all very well, Behemoth, but it is fitting that you should get down now.” Firmly but without overt force, he settled the big dog on the ground. “You can come now, Hero. He won’t fly at you.”
“I hope that’s true,” she said dubiously.
“It is. Unless he’s badly startled.” He stood back from the dog and held his hand out for Hero.
She allowed him to guide her past the dog, who lay on the matted weeds at the side of the road, his head resting on his paws, ears slightly perked. “I shouldn’t fear him, I know, but he is so large.”
“And he is trained to protect Herr Kleinerhoff’s property,” Ragoczy added. “A task for which he is truly apt.”
As if in agreement, Behemoth let out a rumble deep in his chest, although he did not move from where he lay.
They reached the walk-way to Herr Kleinerhoff’s house. “It is just beyond that copse of trees,” said Ragoczy.
“I’ve seen it from your laboratory window,” she reminded him. “Or the western half of it, at any case.” She walked a bit more quickly, her face showing no emotion at all. Finally, as they passed into the shadow of the yews and larches, she said, “This is just the sort of place I always imagine my boys playing.”
“Herr Kleinerhoff’s children sometimes play here,” said Ragoczy kindly.
“I know,” she said. “I’ve watched them.”
“From my laboratory,” said Ragoczy.
“Yes.” Her head came up sharply as if in anticipation of a reprimand. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Nor do I,” he said as they emerged from the cluster of trees onto a broad swath of flagstones that fronted on a large, hundred-year-old farmhouse slightly in need of repair. Halfway along the front of the house the midden steamed ripely in the morning sun.
“Will Herr Kleinerhoff be here?” Hero asked.
“He and his wife and mother, and his children. Today only his hired hands work in the fields, clearing weeds and preparing for plowing.” He approached the front door, made of thick planks of pine painted blue and banded-and-hinged in iro
n. An old bell hung on a rusted rocker with a frayed cord attached to the clapper; Ragoczy pulled this and set off an unmelodious clang. “One of the privileges of being head-man in Sacre-Sang.”
“I hope they won’t be offended by my presence,” said Hero in a sudden wash of uncertainty.
“Why should they be?” Ragoczy asked, expecting no answer, which was just as well, for before Hero could speak, the inner bolt was drawn back and Herr Kleinerhoff himself threw open his door, bowing respectfully and beaming with painful determination as he welcomed Ragoczy and Hero to his home.
His wife, a substantial woman with a sagging face that spoke of many hungry days, hovered in the arch between parlor and kitchen, flapping the ends of her long, embroidered apron, flushed with excitement. When her husband barked an order for wine, she hastened away, glad to have something to do.
“I know you foreigners like wine more than our beer,” said Herr Kleinerhoff.
“A glass for my companion would be welcome,” said Ragoczy, “but I, myself, do not drink wine.”
Herr Kleinerhoff’s expression showed that he did not believe Ragoczy, but he said, “If you would prefer beer? I’m afraid what we have isn’t the best—the harvest being so …” He gestured to show his disappointment.
“Neither is needed. Just the wine for Madame von Scharffensee.” Ragoczy looked around the parlor with the kind of tranquil curiosity that banished Herr Kleinerhoff’s embarrassment, so that when his wife appeared with two squat glasses of butter-colored wine, he gave one to Hero and kept one for himself without apology.
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