The Dead Travel Fast (19 page)

My recollection was true and the events innocent enough, and yet I felt as if I were a penitent, called upon by her confessor to recount her crimes. I glanced at the muslin screen, but Cosmina was nothing more than an alteration in the light to me—no form, only the suggestion of a presence. In contrast, I was clearly revealed to her, every inch of my profile and expression laid bare. I felt naked and exposed, and I disliked it.

“Are you almost finished?” I asked.

“Very nearly, my dear. Hold quite still. I am at the neck and it is rather tricky as your hair is so heavy just there. Still, it would be worse if you were wearing your necklace,” she added, and I started, realising that I had quite forgot to retrieve the beads from the workroom. I should have to go to the count for no other reason than to reclaim my property before Cosmina detected my foolishness.

“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, her voice a study in woe.

“What is the matter?” I said, my voice a trifle too sharp.

I rose from my chair to see what the trouble was. Cosmina sat, black paper in one hand, scissors in the other.

She looked at me in dismay. “You moved so quickly, you startled me and I have quite ruined it.”

She gestured towards her lap where the tiny black image of my head had fallen to her skirts, the neck as neatly cut as if by a guillotine’s blade.

16

That night my sleep was broken by dreams of the count again, and the following day I felt thick-headed and dull; even Charles commented that I did not seem myself. Cosmina fell ill again, a relapse of her cold, and I did not see her, although Dr. Frankopan called and said he had given her something to help her to rest. Charles accompanied him back to the village, where the good doctor promised him a hearty meal at the inn, and I roamed the library, too distracted to settle. In the end, I decided a rest in my room would clear my head, but as soon as I entered, I realised someone had been there before me.

I was aware of my pulses quickening, as if I feared someone still lingered, watching me.

“I am not afraid,” I said stoutly. Almost as soon as I had said the words, my eyes fell to the table and I counted myself a fool. Coiled there was the string of blue beads I had misplaced. Since I had not gone to his room to retrieve them, the count must have returned them to me. Still, I could not rid myself of the feeling that someone had been in my room for a longer period of time than merely returning the necklace would have required. I searched my things carefully. Nothing had gone missing; nothing seemed actually disarranged. And yet I could not be completely at my ease in that room, and in spite of my fatigue, I took up my plaid shawl and made my way out of doors for a little fresh air.

Florian was about, and I was struck suddenly by the change that had come over him in the past few days. He no longer wore simply the long linen shirt of the peasant, for he had changed it for a properly tailored affair with cuffs and a collar. He wore a bit of faded silk wrapped and tied at the throat as a sort of neckcloth, and his boots were freshly shined. He had gained authority and it suited him, although his eyes were still the saddest I had seen.

“Good day, Florian. Where are you bound?”

He nodded towards the garden wall. “The last of the apples must be picked.”

“May I help?”

He said nothing but passed me a basket, and beckoned me to follow him. We worked for some time in the ruined garden, picking the last of the sinister black apples with the sweet flesh. A light wind had blown up, tossing the tops of the stunted trees and bearing upon it the scent of woodsmoke and pine. The sun was warm upon my face, and I soon discarded the shawl, draping it over a sprawling tarragon bush.

Florian hummed as he worked, a piercingly sweet and sad tune, like a lullaby for a dying child, and I found tears pricking my eyes as I picked.

“Are you well, Miss Theodora?” he asked.

I nodded and summoned a smile. “I am tired is all. I slept poorly last night.”

“Do you fear the
strigoi
?” he asked suddenly.

I hesitated, and then gave him honesty. “I do not know. I cannot think what to believe. One moment I am convinced that these monsters are real, the next I am chastening myself for a fool.”

“Will you leave this place?” he asked, and although it was only for a fleeting moment, I saw something hopeful spring to life in his eyes.

“Eventually. I have promised Cosmina to remain for some time yet. Perhaps through Christmas.”

“And when you go, will you be taking Miss Cosmina with you?”

I thought of the immense sadness in him, the chivalrous little attentions towards Cosmina, and the brusqueness with which she dismissed him. And I understood him a little better, or so I believed.

“You would not like for her to leave,” I said kindly. I had meant to offer him some comfort, to explain that I had no intention of asking Cosmina to leave with me, not least because I had no place to offer her.

But before I could, he burst out in impassioned speech. “Because it is good she should go. You take her far from here—and soon. When your friend leaves, Mr. Beecroft, you take Miss Cosmina. Save her.”

And with that extraordinary pronouncement, he turned upon his heel and left me in the garden, staring after him and pondering all that he had just told me.

I took one of the devilish black apples and shined it upon my skirt as I seated myself on a crumbling stone bench. It seemed clear to me, piecing together the revealing bits I had heard since my arrival, that Cosmina was in some danger. Perhaps from the spectre of the
strigoi
, perhaps from some inherent weakness in the blood of the Dragulescu women that seemed to afflict the countess and Cosmina in unequal measure. And Florian, in spite of Cosmina’s indifference to him, thought warmly of her and wished her to be protected. They had been children together, and it was natural that his feelings towards her should be cordial ones. She was the nearest thing he had had to a sister, and although time and maturity had given them both an awareness of the differences in their expectations—she was the ward of the countess whilst he would never rise above hired steward—it was understandable he should look to her best interests. It only saddened me that I could not accommodate his wishes. I had no home of my own, still less did I have a place to offer Cosmina. It vexed me that I could offer her neither sanctuary nor solace; indeed, I could scarcely look at her without thinking upon my impropriety with the count and how she might view the matter.

As if conjured by my thoughts, the man himself appeared in the garden. I had not heard him approach, and when he spoke my name, I started up, the unbitten apple rolling from my grasp.

He retrieved it and polished it upon his lapel. “I did not mean to startle you, but you were so deep in thought. I called your name twice.”

He extended his hand, holding out the apple upon his palm. I took it, feeling for all the world like an unchaste Eve.

“You seem low of spirits. Has your friend been bullying you?” he asked, but the nonchalance of his tone did not deceive me. He lounged against the tree, affecting an air of casual interest, one booted ankle crossed over the other.

“Charles? He would not know how,” I told him. “He manages, he does not bully.”

“And does he mean to manage you?”

“I cannot think that it should make any difference to you what becomes of me,” I said. I bit into the apple with a sharp snap of the teeth, but it tasted like ashes in my mouth.

The count’s eyes narrowed, and I saw suddenly that he was angry but determined to conceal it.

“You can say that after the letter? My God, you are a coldhearted little beast.”

I tossed the apple into the bushes for the birds to quarrel over. “What letter?”

“You really did not read it?”

“I tell you, there was no letter. What did it say?”

“It was by way of an apology,” he said, watching me closely. “I have behaved very badly with you, and it has caused me to experience an emotion I have very seldom felt before. Shame.”

I wished then that I had kept the apple. It would have furnished me with something to occupy my hands. I twisted my fingers together to stop them trembling.

“You have no call to be shamed. You spoke the truth. I did come to you for seduction and you obliged me. I bear at least as much guilt as you.”

“I am your elder by half a dozen years and a lifetime’s experience,” he said, coming to sit beside me upon the bench. “I should have anticipated your feelings, but instead I found I did not even anticipate my own.”

My pulse thudded hard within my veins. His leg was so near to my own, I could feel the heat of his skin through my skirts. A leaf could not have fit between us, but he did not look at me.

“You were right, of course. I have armoured myself against any soft feeling, and it was a point of pride with me that I have never been susceptible. You interested me, attracted me, from the moment I saw you standing in the great hall, so different from my expectation. I thought to find frost and instead I found fire. For all my experience, Theodora, you are unlike any woman I have known,” he added with a small, wistful smile. “And so I plotted your seduction as I have so many others. I took the measure of you the moment I held your hands in mine to wash them in welcome, and I knew that the greatest weapons in my arsenal against you were exoticism and fear.”

“Fear?” I asked. A cold chill had risen in the hollow of my stomach, an icy mist spread through my bones, carried in the blood that cooled with his every word. I had thought him cynical, but I had not realised the depths of his cruelty.

“You are a writer of romantic horror stories. What better adventure for you than to live one? I employed every machination, aroused every doubt, and used your own curiosity against you. I gave you glimpses of what I am, my blackest heart and my monstrous ways. I let you see just enough of me to whet your appetites for more, and then I assuaged the hunger. That ought to have been the end of it, and perhaps for you, it has been,” he said bitterly.

My heart gave a painful, bruising leap against my ribs. “But for me,” he added, “it was not. Can you imagine my surprise, my dismay, to realise that I have been snared in the jaws of my own trap? I have never thought about a woman once I have had her. It is not in my nature to be tender or to form attachments. And yet, there is something fine about you, something uncorrupted, for all that I have done to you. How is that possible? I asked you to destroy me with your goodness, and by God, you have done so,” he finished, with so black a look as made me tremble more.

But boldness rose within me and I covered his hand with my own. “If you hold any regard for me, why must that be your destruction? A shared attachment can bring joy,” I told him.

He grasped my fingers for a moment, so hard the bones protested, but then he dropped my hand, and I wished again for the pain that I might at least be near to him.

“There can be no joy for us,” he said, his tone harsh with unhappiness. “I must do my duty, as you have so often pointed out. I cannot play King Cophetua to your beggar maid.”

With this last bit of savagery, he rose and walked a few paces upon the path and back again before turning to me. “If only you had read the letter. My pen is more eloquent than my tongue. I made confessions to you there I cannot bring myself to say again in the light of day. You would have a better measure of me now if you had read it.”

“I could not, for it was not there,” I reminded him.

“But I put it beneath the necklace so you would see it.”

“There was no letter,” I said, slowly and distinctly.

Comprehension dawned upon his face. “Of course not,” he murmured. “I apologise. If you will excuse me, I have something I must attend to.”

He rose to leave, but before he quit the garden, he turned back. He said nothing for a moment, but his expression varied wildly between fear and hope and something indefinable. He strode back and collected me to him, raising me from the bench and kissing me without either preamble or permission. But this was no sweet lover’s caress; there was desperation in his lips, and in spite of myself I was moved. I clung to him for a moment as he abandoned my mouth to kiss my temples, my eyelids, my brow. At last he drew back, and when he spoke his voice was rough.

“If only you had read the letter. Things are moving apace now. I do not know what will happen, but you must be safe. You will leave—tomorrow. I will speak with Beecroft and he will take you from here. It is impossible that you should stay.”

“I do not want to leave you.” The words left my mouth before I could guard against them. Hearing them, he groaned and kissed me again.

“Do you think I would send you away if there were any way to keep you? I am master here, but there are things beyond even my control. You will go because I say you will. I have never asked for obedience, but now I demand it.”

“But—”

He gripped my shoulders, his fingers biting into the flesh so hard I would bear the bruises of it for weeks to come. “Do you not understand me? I cannot protect you now.”

Realising the strength of his grip, he released me, his expression sorrowful, imploring, and yet with an air of command I dared not refuse.

“Who will protect you?” I asked him, putting a hand to his face. For an instant, he closed his eyes, giving himself up to my touch. Then he stepped sharply backwards and the moment passed.

“I will not see you again, Theodora. Leave at dawn, and do not think of coming back. You will not be welcome, and you will not be safe.”

And with that last brutal pronouncement, he left me.

I went to my room and began to pack, and some time later there came a knock at my door. I hurried to answer it.

“You look disappointed,” Charles said with an attempt at jollity. “Expecting someone?”

“Of course not,” I said dully, turning back to my packing.

“I happened across that fellow the count and he said you changed your mind, that you wanted to return to Edinburgh straight away. I do not pretend to understand you, Theodora, but I must admit I am relieved. Of course, one hopes the book will not suffer, but I have put my mind to it, and I have recalled an acquaintance of my mother’s who I think may do us an excellent service. The Duke of Aberdour has a wonderful old place up in the Highlands, all pointed towers and crumbling stone, just like this. Well, not precisely like this of course,” he added with a sharp laugh. I heard him as if from a distance, through a veiled mist of misery. I could not quite take in the fact that I must leave this place. That I must leave
him
.

“Well, what do you think?” Charles asked, his question tinged with impatience, as if he had put it to me more than once.

“About what? I am sorry, I was not attending,” I told him as I folded a shawl into the box. I had forgot the one I had worn into the garden. It was still doubtless draped over the tarragon bush. I made a note to retrieve it before I left and reached for the necklace of blue beads and a handkerchief in which to tie it.

“About staying with the Duke of Aberdour, of course,” he said testily. “He is a terrible old flirt, fifty years old and he’s already seen three wives buried. Still, you can manage him well enough, I daresay. The place is wildly atmospheric, and I should think it would suit your purposes. A very congenial place to finish the book,” he told me, rubbing his hands together. There was nothing Charles liked better than a tidy solution.