The Dead Travel Fast (12 page)

And yet none of these parts could account for the attraction of the man himself. For all his physical charms and his elegant ways, it was his mind that captivated me most. He was a creature of mystery, with fathomless secrets, as enigmatic as a Grecian sphinx, a conundrum no mere mortal could hope to solve. He was so strange a combination of superstition and sophistry, of courtliness and cunning, I could not make him out, and the riddle of him teased at me, pricking my curiosity to obsession. I could tarry here a thousand years and still never know the truth of him, I thought in exultation. It was maddening, for he had begun to intrude upon my thoughts to an alarming degree. But to sit and think about him, to untangle the Gordian knot of his character, was a glorious diversion. He was providing me with inspiration for my work and for my own imagination, and it occurred to me that this man could well provide me the greatest adventure I would ever know.

But how could I confess such truths to Anna when I could scarcely own them myself? How could I possibly explain to her all that I had seen? I knew her well. Anna would counsel me to fly at once, leaving behind the horrors I had beheld. She would not, could not, comprehend the power of the count’s allure. And there were no words to make her understand.

Frustrated, I gave her a tepid and bloodless account of my stay at the castle, speaking of nothing important and concealing all that was. I gave my love to my nieces and nephews and I asked after William’s parishioners. I wrote about Anna’s garden, sympathising with her complaints about the wind that had stripped her prize rosebush. And I mentioned the dreary weather, omitting the wolves and the strange deeds we had done in the crypt. It was a lie, that letter, and I did not like to send it. But I knew Anna would worry if I did not, and so I wrote on, telling her a little about my book and that I meant, for the first time, to see my work published under my own name. I felt reckless in this place, a new boldness had crept into my work and my feelings, or perhaps it has always been there and merely wanted the spur of independence to urge it on. Whatever the cause, I felt myself—the passive girl Anna had known and loved—slipping further away the longer I tarried in Transylvania, and I wondered as I signed it with a flourish if I had said too much. There was nothing to alarm her until the last, when I spoke forthrightly of my ambitions, and the tone was so unaccustomed, I worried it would distress her. But I could no more unpen the words than I could have held back the tides. I knew Anna cherished hopes that my sojourn abroad would teach me tractability and that I would come home to marry Charles and settle to comfortable domesticity. I hated that my plans must divide us, but it seemed better she understand me now than later. With a wistful sense of having burnt my boats, I sealed the letter and put it aside for the post.

It was very late then, and my bones ached with fatigue as I brushed out my hair and plaited it firmly, tying the ends with little silken bows as I had done for Cosmina. I blew out the candle and slipped into bed, falling almost instantly into a deep, restless sleep.

Not surprisingly, I dreamt of the count. We were in the garden, but a different garden, for this one was beautiful and well tended, with soft grassy lawns and great knots of flowering plants and fruit trees, their branches heavy with lush fruit that bowed them nearly to the ground. We trod a narrow path in this garden, admiring the beauties of it. And then he reached for me, gently at first. But then he became urgent in his attentions, demanding even, and I wound myself about him as he buried his hands in my hair, his mouth hot against my neck. And although I had never yet spoken it aloud, I murmured his name, trailing a whisper over his skin.

Suddenly, with that drifting awareness that only the dreamer has, I was awake and yet not so. The man in my arms stilled and withdrew from me. I made a small sound of protest, but he put a finger to my lips, a finger cold as the grave. I slid back into slumber and if I dreamt again, I did not remember it when I wakened.

I awoke the next morning with a heavy head, my limbs leaden. I stretched slowly to waken myself, and as I did, I realised the careful, tidy plaits in my hair were undone. My hair was loose about my shoulders, the ribbons scattered over my pillow. I stared at them as if they were phantoms, scraps of unreality. I put out a finger to touch one, half expecting it to dissolve into the thin grey air. But it was real enough and cold, cold as only silk can be when not warmed by contact with the flesh. I took it up and saw that it had been carefully unpicked. The knots had been undone from both of the ribbons, the hair unwoven.

11

I sat up in bed, knees drawn to my chest, arms hugged tightly about them. The ribbons had not fallen from my plaits, that much was apparent. Only two possibilities remained. Either I had unbound my hair in my sleep or someone else had done so.

I thought of the dream I had had, reliving each moment of it in the cold light of day. There had been an embrace with the count, a moment of abandon when I had given myself up to his caresses. And then his hands in my hair, fingers twisting through the weight of it. Had I been dreaming of something that actually happened? Had I—or someone else, I thought with a shudder—been unbinding my hair when I dreamt of the count doing so? Was it possible that something that had actually happened in my room had invaded my dreams?

And if so, then what
had
happened? It was not impossible that I had undone the knots myself. I was not given to somnambulism, but I might well be capable of unbinding my hair ribbons in my sleep.

But what if I had not? My door was bolted, as it had been the night the dog had appeared in my room. What creature of flesh and blood could pass through stone? I thought of the ruddy, gloating corpse of Count Bogdan in his coffin and felt my stomach turn to water.

I rushed from my bed and dressed hastily, coiling my hair tightly into place, thrusting each pin as if it were a stake to contain a malignant creature. My hands trembled, but my resolve was firm, and I left the little room in the tower determined to keep my wits clear and my heart stout.

I worked in the library alone for some time before I was interrupted by Clara Amsel, sent to find me on behalf of the countess. The older woman looked pale after the ordeal we had suffered the night before, but if I expected our mutual experience to bind us closer, I was mistaken. Frau Amsel had never shown a sign of desiring better intimacy with me, and she looked at me with scarcely concealed dislike as she disclosed her errand.

“The countess is unwell today and Dr. Frankopan insists she keep to her bed. Still, she wishes to see you,” she finished, with a glance of interest at the sheaf of papers I had stuffed beneath the blotter.

“I would be very happy to see the countess,” I told her. “I will need a moment to tidy my papers and then I will find my way to her,” I said by way of dismissal. But Frau Amsel was not to be dismissed, and instead she stood by, a plump, silent sentinel as I tamped the pages of my manuscript together and secured them in my morocco writing case.

I left it upon the writing desk and followed her, wishing I had insisted upon taking a moment to wash my hands or neaten my hair. There was something rather grand about the countess that made one feel grubby and mean.

Even her room was majestic, I realised, as Frau Amsel rapped upon the door and waved me in. The room was decorated with silver-gilt embellishments and hung with lily-green silk, a lovely combination, but a chilly one on a cold, sunless morning. A fire roared upon the hearth, and the countess was covered in a multitude of coverlets and heavy furs.

“My dear Miss Lestrange, how kind of you to come,” she said rather breathlessly.

“It was kind of you to invite me,” I returned.

She waved me towards a chair, a pretty affair of silver-gilt, embellished by feathery carvings meant to depict the wings of swans. A tapestry portraying the courtship of Zeus and Leda warmed one long wall, and upon another hung a portrait of a young Count Andrei next to a painting of a pair of beautiful young women. Andrei wore the traditional robes of a Transylvanian boyar in his, but the girls clung together in magnificent court gowns of white tissue, their skirts billowing together like a pale silken sea.

The countess followed my gaze. “My sister,” she said, with a touch of wistfulness. “Cosmina’s mother. That was painted the year of our debut in Vienna.”

“Cosmina is very like her mother,” I observed, noting the same high, white brow and thoughtful blue eyes.

“Yes, it comforts me to look at her sometimes. I remember the old days and it makes me happy,” the countess confided.

She fell silent then and I glanced about the room, noting that it wore the same settled air as my grandfather’s room, the domain of an invalid with all the necessary comforts close to hand. On a wide table next to the bed were gathered everything the countess would require for her amusement or her care. Unguents and potions jostled with the latest novels from Paris and a stack of fashion papers. There was a basket of correspondence, the envelopes thick with coronets and coats-of-arms, and a pot of scented powder and a stack of fresh handkerchiefs rested upon an Orthodox Bible. Jostling them was a pretty ormolu clock laden with porcelain roses and thick with gilding. The paintings and tapestry were the only pieces of secular art permitted in the room, for the rest of the space was given over to mournful icons in heavily gilt frames.

“I wanted to thank you for your help yesterday with Andrei,” she began, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Madame, I beg you will not mention it. I am not certain I acted for the best,” I told her truthfully.

“But you did!” she protested. “It had to be done, and I am grateful for your support. I am surprised that an outsider would be so sympathetic to our ways,” she added with a nod of approbation. “Even for Ferenc it is difficult, and he has lived among us for many years.”

“I understand his family are Hungarian,” I put in, grateful to steer the conversation from the events of the previous night.

The countess lifted a derisive brow. “Hungarians who have lost all sense of whence they come. They once loved this place as much as we, but they have sold themselves for the Austrian Emperor’s favour. The Germans, they sit in their palaces in Vienna and think to understand us, but they never can. It is like asking a cow to understand a lynx. They do not speak the same language, they do not value the same things.”

I gave her a rueful smile. “Rather like the Scots then, ruled from London by people who do not understand us at all.”

“Precisely. And like the Scots, our troubles are of long standing, born in the mists of time. Long ago this land was settled by Romans, the warrior legions who wrested these mountains from the hill tribes and civilised them. In the middle ages, Transylvania was independent, ruled by ruthless princes who did what they must to keep the Germans and the Turks and their empires at bay. Always there were wars and bloodshed in these valleys. This castle was built by the first Count Dragulescu to hold the valley against either empire. He lost his life upon the highest battlement, defending his homeland.”

“Dreadful,” I murmured, thinking of the legend the driver had told me of the Devil’s Staircase.

Her lips twisted again. “Dreadful was the fate of his wife, the first countess, a beautiful Wallachian princess, she whose daughter was sacrificed to build this castle. When the count, her husband, fell in battle, she knew she would not survive the siege of the Dragulescu fortress, that once the enemy breached the walls, she would be taken and used cruelly, as no woman ought ever to be used. But she would cheat them, she decided. She wished to die with her honour held high for all to see. She flung herself from the tower to the river below, where the silver water ran red with her blood.”

I blinked. “The tower? The tower where I am lodged?”

“The very room.”

I drew in a slow, shuddering breath.

The countess went on. “Can you imagine how desperate, how frightened, she must have been? To destroy herself, and with it, all chance at immortality in the comfort of God’s presence?

“Of course,” the countess continued, “she may well have thought of those Roman generals who were the first Roumanians, the sons of Jupiter, come to settle this land before the Huns. They knew how to die with honour.”

“And how did the Dragulescus keep their home if the count was killed in battle?”

“The count had a younger brother who rallied his soldiers, and at the last moment, the castle was saved. Many centuries later, when the Hungarians came to power, the Orthodox Dragulescus converted to Roman Catholicism and swore an oath of fealty to their Magyar masters.”

I nodded towards the gallery of dismal icons. “But you are Orthodox.”

“Devoutly. It is well for the Dragulescu men to maintain they are Catholic, and my son does, as did his grandfather and my husband. But the women are free to embrace the true faith, for all that they are of the Dragulescu blood. I am not a Dragulescu only by marriage, you understand. I was born of the blood, a second cousin to my husband, and the blood of dragons flows in my veins.”

She pronounced the last words with relish, her eyes alight with some inner fire.

“Dragons?”

“Yes,” she told me proudly. “The name Dragulescu comes from the Roumanian word for dragon. It is said that long ago a dragon lived in the belly of this mountain and we subdued him to make his mountain our own. Folk said we harnessed the dragon and rode him over the sky, raining fire upon our enemies. Even now, it is said he slumbers for a thousand years beneath the castle, waiting to be awakened should we have need of him.”

“It must be lovely to belong to such a place with such history,” I mused.

She nodded thoughtfully. “But with that belonging comes responsibilities that must never be shirked. One owes everything to the land and the people, everything,” she finished fiercely.

Having seen for myself the hardship that such dereliction could cause, I could well understand the violence of her feelings. Such a feudal system could only possibly function if the lord and master oversaw his demesne carefully, involving himself in every part of his dependents’ lives. They must be able to rely upon him, as fully as children rely upon a father, to decide upon which crops to plant, when to harvest, which animals to breed and which to cull. Their very livelihoods depended upon his choices, the very lives of their children. I thought of the shuttered school and the boarded church, the flooded fields and the pitted street. I thought of all that had been left to fall to ruin in Count Bogdan’s time and how much labour and effort it would cost his son to put it right. One only hoped he was up to the challenge.

“And that is why my son must have the proper helpmeet,” she added, with such delicacy that I might have missed the meaningful glance she darted me. A tiny furrow had appeared between her brows, and I realised then the difficult position in which she found herself. She was my hostess and must be hospitable; still more she was grateful to me for the role I had played in persuading the count to fulfill his duty. But I must not be permitted to entertain hopes, I reflected bitterly, and the countess’s remarks were by way of warning me not to nock my arrow at that particular target. I was merely the granddaughter of an esteemed but impoverished scholar, and I earned my keep by means of my pen. I was unworthy of his attentions, particularly attentions of the matrimonial variety.

“Of course,” I said faintly, wishing the interview over, but understanding I had no power to stop it.

“I had hopes he would marry Cosmina,” she went on carefully. “The match would have finished what my union with my husband began, the bringing together of both branches of our family.” She reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her mouth, and I believed it was so she would not have to meet my eyes. “Andrei has proven difficult, and of course, his happiness is so important to me. It would grieve my mother’s heart to think of him unhappily settled. But there is more to consider than his own inclinations. The name and the blood of the Dragulescus must not be degraded by his choice.” The clock upon the table gave a little chime. “Oh, dear. It is time for my medicine,” she said, waving the hand that held the great pigeon’s-blood ruby. “Will you be so kind as to fetch Frau Amsel?”

I rose, and as I did so, I realised it was merely a clever stratagem on her part to change the subject. She had impressed upon me that I was an unsuitable match for her son and had done so in a way that had been calculated to bring embarrassment to neither of us, and the timing was calculated as well, I suspected, with the need for her medicine a suitable expedient to make certain the conversation would not be continued. It was cleverly done, and I could judge from the satisfied expression upon her face that she was pleased with the results. I had offered her neither argument nor resentment, and both of us knew I lacked the courage to reintroduce the topic once it had been so definitively retired.

I hurried to find Frau Amsel bustling in the door. Doubtless she had been hovering outside, perhaps even listening to our conversation. She brushed past me to attend the countess, and I closed the door softly after.

My rapid departure and the countess’s remarks left me feeling a little unsettled. A hasty glance out the window revealed that the sun had finally appeared, banishing the storm clouds, and I hurried to my room for my stoutest shoes and a warm plaid shawl. A brisk scramble down to the village might well prove muddy, but escaping the close atmosphere of the castle was worth any untidiness, I decided.

Just as I passed through the court and out into the paved area beyond, Florian called my name. His eyes were deeply shadowed, and I smiled at him in sympathy. Broken slumbers seemed to be endemic at the castle.

“Do you mean to be going to the village?” he asked.

“Yes. I wanted some fresh air.”

To my surprise, he gave me a rueful, knowing smile. “I am seeing to the pigs, so I am bound that way also. We go together?”

His face betrayed nothing arcane, no hidden motive, and yet I could not help but feel a frisson of emotion, as if he were silently appealing to me.

“Of course. That would be very kind of you,” I said, inwardly chiding myself for being fanciful. I had wondered if Florian nursed a modest affection for me, but nothing in his gaze seemed admiring. He was distracted, perhaps not unreasonably so, given what we had seen the previous night. It had made us comrades of a sort, and when he offered his arm, I took it with a greater sense of ease than I had felt in his company before. Whether from his innate courtesy or his desire to improve himself, he insisted we converse in English rather than German, and although it hampered us a bit, I appreciated his efforts.