by Lorelei Bell
“Do you need a nap, madam? Or—”
The letter fluttered to the floor as Zofia looked toward the exit, and then her feet moved her in that direction, automatically. She didn't know why, but she felt a sudden summoning for her to leave the room and go out into the hall. She stopped and looked out the canted window. There, standing quite still, and looking up into the sky was Saint Germain. What was he looking at? The sky?
Then a huge something swooped down onto the stony ledge, before him.
Pulling in a breath, Zofia stared. A huge Phaethontrodite had just landed ten feet away from Saint Germain, and they were going through some sort of bows and head bobbing.
Saint Germain turned and saw her standing in the window. He motioned toward her. He was beckoning her to come out.
She moved hesitantly toward that oddly-shaped door. Grasping the latch she pulled. The door came open easily enough. She stepped out cautiously and stood in the doorway.
“Slowly. Let him see you,” Saint Germain said, as he moved back toward her. “I have told him about you, so he isn't startled, but you have to be careful, of course.”
The large Birdman was making terrifying loud sounds and clicking his giant beak at her.
Zofia stiffened when Saint Germain tried to bring her forward.
“It's alright, Zofia. Come. He won't harm you. He knows you are with me. I've had to tell him you are my new mate, so that he understands that we are together. That's it, slowly.”
Saint Germain gently guided her toward the Birdman, which stood six-six. They stopped fifteen paces from him. The Birdman's wings and tail opened up slightly. Zofia guessed he had a forty-five foot wing-span. The wings were brownish-gray with a reddish hue at the ends of the primaries. Its large beak was hooked, and looked deadly. Along with the fierce yellow eyes beneath the hooded brow, he had the look of a very large eagle. He stood on very sturdy looking yellowish bird legs, which were tipped with powerful, sharp talons. The oddest part about a Phaethontrodite was the arm-like appendages, which grew just under the wings at the shoulders. They were held against the breast, partially hidden in the breast feathers. The one thing that set them apart from other birds—besides their size—were these arms, which were just as scaly as their legs, had three “fingers” with an apposing “thumb” that also ended in claws—and looked just as powerful. She had heard that with both feet and hands these creatures could pick up a full-grown bull. Definitely not the type of creature that you want pissed off at you. So Zofia smiled.
“Don't smile!” Saint Germain warned.
Zofia quit smiling. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Quit looking so nervous. Relax.”
“Said the spider to the fly,” she quipped.
Saint Germain made odd noises with his tongue and throat. The Birdman returned the noises. The two began to have quite a give and take that seemed like a rousing conversation, but she couldn't know really, they could be quite simple in the head. The Phaethontrodite cocked his head, listened, then made a few chucking sounds. Saint Germain made a whistling-chucking sound back, thrusting his head back for emphasis. This went on for a few more heartbeats. Then there was a lull. The Birdman seemed to bow slightly, and lifted his tail, and out shot the hugest pile of bird poop Zofia had ever seen. If he had turned and aimed it at them they would have been buried in it! But it went off the side of the castle. Hopefully there wasn't anyone down there.
As though this had been nothing out of the ordinary, Saint Germain turned to her.
“Zofia, this is Kokarr,” Saint Germain said, and then made some of those odd noises, that was obviously Bird People language for the same introduction for her.
Kokarr flung his head way back and made a huge, throaty sound, as though he were gargling. Refolding his wings, he settled them upon his back and looked almost tame. She hoped the great Phaethontrodite was satisfied that she was not a threat to him, or his clan.
Saint Germain said something in the creature's language. As though Kokarr were humored by whatever Saint Germain had said, he cocked his head and made a crowing sound, which almost sounded like a laugh. It was obvious that Saint Germain had mastered the language of the Phaethontrodites so well, he could tell a few jokes. Was there anything the man was bad at? Possibly not, if he'd lived as long as Tillie had claimed. A thousand years?
Still chuckling, Saint Germain turned to Zofia. “Kokarr now knows who you are. I told him you aren't to be eaten.”
“He thought that was funny?” Zofia observed.
“Eagle People's etiquette requires a few jokes, if you don't want to be eaten, or considered a threat. All politics, believe me. I weary of telling the same stale jokes, but it seems to humor him,” he explained at length.
“At any rate, he now knows and has seen you. He and his extended family live not too far from here, so he will make sure and tell them about you and what you look like so that they won't attack you.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“He also has informed me that a large storm is due in a day or so. Thus, if you have any letters to send out to your family, I suggest you write them and give them to me before tonight,” Saint Germain advised.
“Oh, well, if there's enough time, I would like to send some letters out,” she said nodding.
Saint Germain turned to Kokarr, began clucking and making those odd sounds again. Kokarr made a sharp click of his beak.
“He tells me there will be a window of time in which I may be able to send them out. The storm will not hit until later tonight, or tomorrow morning.” All that with a few clicks of the beak.
“I would like to get to those letters, then, if you don't mind.” She wanted to leave, but Saint Germain still held her at his side.
“Not at all,” he said. “Now, in order to leave, we must bow to him, signaling our conversation is over, and we are leaving. Never, under any circumstances turn your back on one of these magnificent creatures, or they'll take it as an insult and feed you to their young.”
Well, gulp!
“Like this,” Saint Germain took her arm, and bowed. She did as he, bowing quite deeply. While bowing, they took a step back, a sort of shuffle step, paused, and slid the other foot back. They did this until they were a safe distance away, then Saint Germain straightened. “That should suffice,” he said low. “You leave first.”
Needing no further invitation, Zofia slipped through the door, and stepped deep inside the hallway, and let out a relieved gush of breath. Saint Germain stepped inside after her, and closed the door with a heavy thump, then locked it. Turning toward the large windowed area, she watched as Kokarr spread his wings and with two great beats, was air born and sailing up into the azure sky.
Chapter 33
Eyes blurry, Zofia sat back, stretched and yawned. What time was it, anyway? It was hard to tell, since there were no windows in this room—the window was out in the hallway—and no time pieces. It felt like it had been a few shadowpasses. She felt that she'd gotten a good day's work in, as well as wrote three letters; one to Tillie, one to Elton and one to Stephen. She'd managed to repair a dozen books since lunch. Most of them were not too bad of shape. And, in between, she'd written the letters.
Earlier, the night hawk had been perched on a rocky wall outside, waiting dutifully for her letters, after Biddle had called to him. Biddle had more luck with calling to the bird than Zofia did. She had worried about sending three letters via one hawk, but the hawk was large, and didn't seem to mind having three letters tethered to his legs, and he took off into a crisp blue sky without any problems. She just hoped that the Bird People wouldn't kill the smaller bird for a snack.
Before leaving her, Saint Germain had told her that he would probably be very late, and not to wait up for him, but to have whatever she wished to eat. So far, she had been taking Saint Germain's potion, and it had helped her keep down food.
“Have whatever you like for supper,” he'd told her. “Jacques will make anything you want.”
“I'm sure he will,” she had a
nswered, wanting to put tongue firmly in cheek. She'd wanted to add, With something added, no doubt, that would make me retch. She thought he would probably know how to make a sleeping draught (since he worked with Saint Germain, in his labs), and put it in her wine or water. Their little confrontation this morning was only the beginning, nothing compared to what it could turn into, if she stayed much longer. Jacques may have been going along with Saint Germain's wishes, but she knew Jacques didn't trust her, or even like her. Possibly it had to do with her saying that he was a known wolfman wereing outside his boundaries, in the Provence. He might be afraid if he got her in trouble, she could get him in worse trouble.
Still, she didn't especially like the idea of Jacques making any meals for her. Tonight she was eating out. Dorian wanted to meet her at the Golden Dragon Inn, anyway. She could get something there. She had money to pay. If she had to eat out every night, she would, if only to be certain she wasn't being drugged or poisoned.
She'd given Biddle instructions to make sure no one was in her room, or near it, and if there was, he was to come and warn her. Biddle had returned, letting her know all was clear, and he'd gone to take a nap himself, since he'd had a very long trip: She didn't hear a peep out of him the rest of the day.
Leaving the library as her day was finished, she passed the large window. Earlier, the sky had been blue and clear. Now, dark blue clouds gathered, obliterating the setting sun. This made her a little more than uneasy, since Kokarr had said that the storm was not due until late tonight into tomorrow. Perhaps Kokarr was wrong, and it would storm tonight. She hoped not.
Even though Biddle had not returned to give her a report, she was getting hungry and wanted to get ready to go and meet Dorian. Giving him permission to leave her side was always an opportunity for him to find something to get into, she hoped that's all it was. She wanted to believe that he was merely off on his own, exploring the castle, and when he remembered to return to her, he would.
Several moments later, back in her own room, a rap on her door made her stop what she was doing.
“Who is it?”
“Percival, madam. I have a note for you,” he said through the door. “It arrived just a moment ago.”
Another note? She got up and strode to the door.
“Who's it from?” she asked as she bounded up the one step, and opened the door. The rush of current from opening the door so briskly moved her skirts slightly, and made a few wisps of hair around her face flutter. She had just pinned her hair up for the evening. Why she thought that she needed to look nice for Dorian was beyond her. On second thought, maybe she just wanted him to feel like dragon poo at seeing that she was unaffected by his decision to let her go. Which she was.
Standing on the other side of the door, Percival held out the note on the usual small silver plater. There was no envelope. Just something written on brown parchment that looked as though it had been crumpled and flattened a hundred times, put through a few cycles of laundry in an Ugwump machine, and dried in the sun to resemble leather.
She took in Percival's unemotional mien as she plucked the note from the small silver dish. As she took it, Percival whisked the silver tray behind his back.
She looked at the hastily written note in thick ink.
Meet me at the Golden Dragon Inn
That was all. It wasn't signed. Not even an initial, like D for Dorian. She studied the note, trying to discern whether it was Dorian's handwriting or not. It had been so long since she'd seen his handwriting, she wasn't sure one way or another. It could have been his handwriting. In a hurry, he might have penned it onto some old parchment he'd found somewhere, but she wasn't sure. The crinkles really did a number on its legibility. But who else would be sending a note to her to ask her to meet her at the Golden Dragon Inn? A couple possibilities came to mind. One of them was Myron. He wanted to abduct her. What better way to lure her there for him to attack her? But Dorian would be there. She was certain he could do a spell on both vampires at once. Or, they, together could gang up on the vampires.
“Will there be a reply, madam?” Percival asked politely, yet still held that stiffness to his mien.
“Uh, no,” she said. “No reply.” She looked up. “Who delivered it?”
“It was by falcon, madam,” he said.
“Oh.” She looked at the note, turned it over to find nothing hiding on the back. “Well, thank you.”
“Will that be all madam?”
“Yes—oh, tell Jacques that I will not be eating here tonight.”
He made a slight bow with his head. “I will let him know.”
“Thank you.” She closed the door and turned back to her room. She thought she should at least leave a note for Saint Germain, somewhere, in case he returned and she wasn't back yet. The note from the unknown person who wanted to meet her at the Golden Dragon Inn was still in her hand. She crumpled it up, and deposited it into the little waste bin next to her dressing table. She didn't want to use that piece of paper to write on, but took out a new sheet of parchment from her own supply. She wrote a simple note saying where she was going and why. He would probably be furious with her for going out all by herself. But she had no choice, unfortunately.
Reflexively, she reached for the cool, silver medallion that Saint Germain had used to dispel Myron's and Ommetress' thrall over her, that night at the Ravenwood Inn. Smiling uncontrollably as she remembered last night, with Saint Germain, as well as today with the Birdman, she wished they were going out together instead, as a happy couple. They would go up to his private room at the inn and they would hold hands across the table in the candlelight, and Jacques would be able to pour her the wine and serve her the gross-looking oysters, and she wouldn't get sick.
Startled by her thoughts about Saint Germain, she shook herself and began to dress. She donned every charm and bit of silver she could find, and placed it somewhere on her person. She hoped that Dorian would be at The Golden Dragon Inn, waiting for her. It would really be dangerous if she walked in and he wasn't there, but Myron was.
She left her note to Saint Germain propped up against her mirror so that it would be in plain sight when—or if—he came before she returned. Standing, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she thought she looked a little too fetching to be entering a tavern by herself. Well, that couldn't be helped. She was hungry.
Dorian had better be there, or she'd kill him.
She used her map to find her way through the maze that was the castle. Finally finding her way down the set of stairs that led to the heavy nine-foot, oak doors, she stopped. She knew she wouldn't be able to open them on her own puny muscle powers. Not only that, the latch looked like it would do a number on her nails, and she'd wind up breaking one or two, and they were a bitch to mend magically.
Taking a quick look behind and around herself, she thrust both hands forward. “Open!” The latch disengaged, and the door swung open. Nodding at the efficiency in the use of her powers, she pranced through the doorway, and closed it in the same manor.
The evening air was decidedly much cooler. She snugged her cloak around herself, pulled the hood up and plunged out into the night for the first time since she and Saint Germain had left the castle that first night together.
Smile planted on her face, she breathed in the scent of pines, heard the rush of the waterfall below, which was a constant background noise. She felt suddenly freed, until she came across the bridge and faced those tall gates again. Since she had no trouble using her magic to open and close a door, why stop there? Just the thought of going down all those steps just made her cringe. She Transvected up over the gates, and then, using darkness to cloak herself, she continued down from the menhir, and set down behind some trees and bushes. She stepped out from behind them without notice. She paused there, at the very end of the village, no buildings stood nearby, so she was safe from discovery.
Despite the cold, the village seemed lively. Horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped their way up and down the cobblesto
ne thoroughfare. Voices echoed against the great stone walls, and off the towering menhirs. People shouted greetings, laughing as they gathered before the inns, or strolled down the street. Tonight was different from the other night. The moons were now in wanning. There were no robed pedestrians skulking about. Must not be a meeting night for those secret cults, she mused.
A deep bonging brought Zofia to a halt. There, in the center of the village street was a towering black clock—odd how she had never noticed it before. The face of the clock was much like any clock she'd ever seen on First World. Presently it was bonging out the hour of twelve. Twelve o'clock here translated to right around the dinner hour. Perfect timing.
“Oh-h-h, Zofia! What a pleasant surprise!” a woman's rich voice chortled from nearby.
Zofia twirled and her vision filled with a large woman in a deep blue cloak standing right beside her.
“Mrs. Clutterbutt—”
“Doreen, please, my child!”
“Yes, Doreen,” Zofia said, trying to wrangle her facial muscles into a smile. The last thing she needed was the town gossip latching onto her. “What a surprise indeed.”
“Is Saint Germain with you?” she asked, straining her neck, looking around, as if he were hiding somewhere behind her.
“No. Why?”
“I wanted to thank him.”
“Thank him? For what?”
“Oh, that dear, dear man. Do you know what he did?”
“No, I'm afraid I don't,” Zofia said, not sure if she did want to.
“That dear man,” she repeated, a chubby beringed hand going to her ample chest, and eyes aflutter. “He resupplied my shop!” she blurted.
“He did?” Zofia was flabbergasted. But after thinking about Saint Germain's trip to First World today, it did make perfect sense. He had the means by which to go and buy her a new stock of candles. Cost seemed to be no object for him. Well, why would it when he could grow a few diamonds and give them away?
“You mean he resupplied your entire stock of candles?”
