The Dead Travel Fast (22 page)

I relented a little. “Of course. But why should the Amsels have taken against me? And why do they say I would have done this terrible thing to the count?”

Her eyes slid away from mine and back to the view of the mountains. A single star shimmered low in the sky, and I knew it was Venus, shedding its benevolent light over lovers in the valley below.

“Frau Amsel says that you were driven to attack him when he spurned you after you enticed him to your bed.”

I caught my breath against the wave of pain that washed over me. Whatever became of us, I had thought to have at least the memory of that night to console me in my loneliness. And now Frau Amsel had spoiled it for me, twisting what had been natural and pleasurable into something sordid and indiscreet. I could guess well enough how she had pieced the story together. The matter of the pedlar’s fabric would have raised her suspicions. They could have been confirmed by a quick coin to Tereza, for the girl took away soiled linen and returned it clean. She was privy to all the secrets of the castle, I thought bitterly.

“It is true then?” Cosmina asked softly. She did not face me, perhaps to make it easier, or perhaps because she herself did not wish to see the truth of it writ upon my face.

“No,” I told her, for that shoddy version of the facts would never be true to me.

“But you said you love him,” she protested gently. “When he lay unconscious and bleeding. You said you loved him.”

“Did I? I hardly remember now. But it does not matter. My feelings are my own. I do not speak for him. I can only vow to you that I would never have harmed him.”

She turned to me then, her face half-shadowed and half-illuminated, a living silhouette. “I believe you, my friend.” Her voice was firm, stalwart even. “I will be your champion,” she vowed.

She embraced me again and gestured towards the food. “Eat. You must keep up your strength. I will come to you as soon as I have news of him.”

And with that she left me, turning the key in the lock behind her.

I sat, although nothing tempted my appetite. I thought of what she had told me of the countess’s fears, and I understood them perfectly. Had I too not wrestled with the question of whether something supernatural was afoot in the castle? Had I not swung wildly between the prosaic and the fantastic? I thought how much stronger my emotions would be were a beloved child at risk, and I forgave her then. I forgave her suspicions and her precautions; I forgave her my small prison and my large worries.

I even forgave her my dinner, I thought wryly as I picked over the meat. Frau Graben must have been distracted, for the joint was overcooked and leathery and bloodless. I pushed the food aside and closed my eyes, forcing myself to think calmly and logically. I returned to the beginning, to the death of Aurelia. I imagined the maid, lured to the room with the promise of what? An assignation? A bribe? Something had enticed her there; someone had preyed upon her avarice. Once there, had she known she was in danger? Had she attempted to flee? Or had she no sense of it, even to the moment when she was struck down? Had she been bled by a human hand or fed upon by a vampire’s monstrous need? I imagined her lying upon the cold, stone floor and someone bending to take her life.

And upon this point my imagination failed me. I could not see the figure looming over her to finish the deed. Was it the seemingly gentle Florian? The stout and malicious Frau Amsel?
Was it the count?

The question came unbidden to my mind, but once there, I could not dismiss it. Charles had roused my doubts, and logic prevented me from brushing them aside. I must face the possibility of it squarely. I knew so little of him. I had believed in the goodness in him, buried and blunted as it was. I had been so certain that there was honour in him, and a sort of old-fashioned courage that was so seldom seen in our modern times. He was a throwback to an age of mystics and warrior kings, imperious and implacable. And yet I had credited him with goodness as well, with a tender heart that was capable of being moved. Had he not undertaken to improve the lot of his people once he had been made aware of their need?

And yet I could not silence the small voice that whispered,
He only did so as a means to an end. The work would have cost him a few coins, a small enough price to woo a woman into his bed
.

I pushed the food aside and dropped my head onto my folded arms. I was tormented by doubts and questions, and until I had answers, I would not be free. What if he did not rouse? And if he did waken, I wondered with a horrible, creeping doubt, what was to prevent him from casting the blame upon me? If Charles was correct and the count’s hands were stained with Aurelia’s blood, what would prevent him from affirming Frau Amsel’s tale that I had attempted his life? Perhaps it was a conspiracy amongst them all, I thought wildly. I was a stranger here, and a girl was dead. How much easier for them all if I were to shoulder the burden of blame.

This then was my darkest hour. The blue shadows of the gloaming had faded into the black and unforgiving night, and I sunk into a misery of the sort I had never felt before. It seemed hopeless in those dark hours, and I had no one to comfort me, not even Charles, for he did not come to me and I was alone with my fears. At length I gave way to tears, weeping into my arms, wetting the sleeves of my gown.

So bowed was I by my wretchedness, that I did not realise I was no longer alone until Tycho thrust a wet nose into my hands. I started, then began weeping afresh.

“Tycho, I do not know how you have come here, but I am glad to see you,” I murmured into his fur. He turned his head and licked the tears from my cheek, and as he did so, I began to think more clearly.

“How
are
you come here?” I demanded, and so strange and fantastical were the things that had happened in that castle, I would not have been surprised had he made me a reply. But he merely continued on, licking my cheeks.

I rose and took him by the collar. “Lead on,” I urged.

He turned and went directly to the tapestry stretched along one wall.

“No, I have not been so stupid as that!” I exclaimed, realising I had in fact been very blind indeed.

Tycho nudged at the tapestry and I pushed it aside, finding a doorway set into the stone. A tiny corridor led the way to a twisting stair carved from the rock—to the count’s room, I had no doubt.

“Of course,” I said, as much to Tycho as to myself. “The counts have always used the rooms above and would wish to visit their wives privately. A secret stair for the convenience of the master,” I added with a rueful shake of the head. But this was not the time to ponder the implications of why I had been placed in this room, or the strangeness of my nocturnal visits. A more important development had occurred—Tycho had just revealed to me the path to freedom.

18

With some difficulty, I herded him before me up the tiny stairs and back to his master’s side. I waited behind, ready to scurry back to my bolthole should anyone notice Tycho’s reappearance. I had noted the time, and the rest of the castle household ought to have been at supper. I could not wait until they were all abed; I must take my chances now, although I dared not contemplate my fate should I be found wandering at liberty.

I made my way slowly, one step, one breath, at a time until at last I reached the top of the stairs. There was a tapestry here as well, and I hesitated on the other side. Tycho had slid his lithe body into the room, and it occurred to me that anyone who did not know the secret geography of the castle would assume he had been behind the tapestry the whole time, perhaps snuffling out mice or old bones.

I stood behind the tapestry a long time, listening to my own heartbeats drumming in my ears, but no other sounds penetrated the thick wool. At length I steeled myself to peer around the edge, and I gave a little sigh of relief. The count was tucked into his bed and was alone in the room, save for Dr. Frankopan, dozing quietly on the sofa in front of the fire. I dared not dwell upon the count, for the sight of him, swathed and stitched and lying motionless, had nearly caused me to cry out. The great bed and the perfect stillness of his repose bore too near a resemblance to a corpse laid out for burial; he wanted only a funeral wreath to complete his paleness. But his chest rose and fell with perfect ease, and I forced myself to carry on.

Dr. Frankopan slept as well, his slumbers punctuated by odd fits and starts and little snorts, and I was terrified lest he waken. The journey from the tapestry to the door seemed an eternity, but it could only have been a second or two before I had slipped through and gained the stairs without detection.

My hands sweated and the knob had been slippery in my palm, but I had managed it, and once outside, I hastened down the stairs as quickly and silently as I could. As I reached the bottom, I heard voices—Cosmina and Charles, and I froze, my very marrow stilled within my bones.

In a moment they would reach the corner and see me, exposed and defenceless upon the stairs, and all would be lost. Unless…

In a blind panic, I darted into the garderobe. There was not time enough even to draw the door closed behind me, so I threw myself behind it, counting upon the shadows to conceal me.

I heard them pass, so near I could have touched them, and I dared not even breathe until they were well upon the stair and out of earshot. They chatted seriously to each other, and I made a note of the fact that the countess and the Amsels would still be about, as well as the servants.

I crept from the garderobe to make my way to Frau Amsel’s room, but even as I did so I turned my steps towards another. I could not say what diverted me, but I walked as a lost soul, wandering in the night, will walk towards the faintest glimmer of light. Even then, I did not know what I would find when I reached my destination, but as I crept ever closer, I considered the question of trust, and where mine had been misplaced.

Charles and Cosmina were my friends, I reasoned, and yet when I heard them coming, I had instinctively hidden myself. Had I thought the matter over coolly, dispassionately, I would have reassured myself that neither of them would have betrayed me. But my basest instinct, the part of myself that was scarcely better than animal, desperate to survive, had fled from them.

I had been afraid
. And as I moved through the shadows of the castle, I realised I always had been. I understood then that affection and fear can be entwined as tightly as lovers.

At last I came to the chamber I sought. It was empty and illuminated only by the light of the fire. I moved quickly, for I had little time, and my hands trembled as I searched. Fear and a rising hysteria were almost my undoing as I scoured the room and found nothing. But as I reached under the pillow, feeling blindly, my fingers closed over a piece of paper and something else, something smooth and cool that clicked softly between my fingers, and a third item I could not identify. I withdrew them all, and an eerie, unnatural calm settled over me. I understood, as I had not before, and I cursed myself for a fool.

“Have you found what you were looking for, my dear?” came the voice from the doorway.

I started, but Dr. Frankopan’s expression was kindly.

“I was just waking when I saw you leave the count’s room. I thought to follow you and see what you were about,” he told me.

“Where are the others?” I asked.

“With the count. He will waken soon, I think. But I had to look to you as well. What fresh mischief brings you to this place?”

He came closer and I held out the things I had found.

“These are mine. She had no right to them, and yet here they were, under her pillow.”

He took them from me. “A letter and a rosary?”

“The rosary was my mother’s. I lost it, or thought that I did, when we were at school. Cosmina has kept it all these years.”

He looked briefly at the letter. “It is a love letter,” he said softly. “But it has been torn to pieces.”

“And stitched back together,” I noted. The paper had been destroyed and then carefully mended, held together by black silk stitches that ran like scars between the beautiful words. “It was taken from my room before I even saw it. I think,” my voice broke upon the words, “I think she attempted to kill the count. She may even have killed Aurelia as well. Here, I believe this is proof of it.” I proffered the third object and he took it from me with a pointed reluctance.

He sagged into a chair, his face very white, his spirit defeated. “Oh, dear little Cosmina. What have you done?” he murmured.

He said nothing for a long moment, and neither did I. We were both of us mourning the loss of the girl we had known and reconciling ourselves to the fact that in her place was a monster—a creature who stole and lied and destroyed. I thought of the odd little rages to which she had been prone as a girl. I had thought her willful and obstinate. Now I saw she was something far more dangerous.

Suddenly, Dr. Frankopan roused himself. “You must forgive me, my dear. I should not have doubted you, not for a moment.”

“Of course,” I told him, blinking hard against the sudden tears that sprang to my eyes. Someone else believed me. The relief was almost too much to bear.

“But you are not safe here,” he said, pushing himself out of the chair. “No, you are not safe. Cosmina is a clever girl, and we do not know what tales she may spin to persuade the count and the countess that you have wronged them. We must get you right away, tonight. You will come to my cottage, and I will keep you safe until morning. If we are quick and quiet, no one will even know you have gone. I will bring word to Mr. Beecroft, and he can join you tomorrow. Thence, to Hermannstadt, and the
obergespan
, for the sheriff will know what to do. The time for pretending these things have not happened is past.”

He thrust the objects into his pocket for safekeeping. “Come, child, come. There is no time to lose. They will not keep long to his room. We must flee now, while we have the chance.”

He snatched up a cloak of Cosmina’s for me and we hurried from the room. I followed him blindly, my hand clasped in his, and I felt such a welling of emotion, I could hardly endure it—relief at my liberation, and sorrow at what I had discovered about Cosmina’s duplicity. But mantling it all was an overwhelming feeling of despair that I would not see the count again, for even as I fled my thoughts were entirely of him.

We gained the courtyard quickly and Dr. Frankopan pointed to the moon. “We do not even need a lantern. Gentle Selena lights our way,” he said solemnly.

But as we picked our path carefully down the Devil’s Staircase, I realised the implications of the full moon. No sooner had we left the safety of the castle than I heard the howling of the wolves, the eerie sound carried on the wind.

“Make haste, make haste,” he advised, springing down the steps with the speed of a man half his age. I followed, still clasping his hand, and more than once I would have fallen had he not righted me. At last we reached the village road, and I was not surprised to find the entire hamlet tucked snugly away for the night. Here and there a bit of woodsmoke escaped from a chimney, casting a hazy cloud over the face of the low-hanging moon. Little light spilled from the windows as they were shuttered tightly against the night and all that roamed abroad.

I clutched his hand even more tightly as we made our way along the forest path, for it was very dark, and the trees pressed in against us, breathing upon us in the shadows, it seemed. I heard rustling, but Dr. Frankopan told me it was only the wind; I saw eyes, but Dr. Frankopan told me it was simply the reflection of the moon upon the stones. I wanted to believe him, but when we reached the clearing and saw the cottage, warm light glowing from every window, beckoning us to safety, I nearly wept from relief.

He took me inside and shut the door, helping me out of Cosmina’s cloak. “There, there. You have had a nasty shock. Go and sit by the fire. I will bring you some
pălinkă
. It will warm you through.”

I obeyed, feeling so cold throughout I thought I should never be warm again, as much from misery as the wind.

“Here we are, here we are,” he said, bustling in a few moments later with a tray and glasses. He poured out a generous measure for me and a smaller one for himself.

“Drink it up, child. You will feel warm soon. I daresay you are cold now from the shock of it all.”

“I am,” I told him, taking the
pălinkă
gratefully. I sipped it, but it was bitter and though I tried not to pull a face, little escaped Dr. Frankopan’s attention.

“You do not like our local delicacy?” he chided with a smile. “No matter. It will do the trick, I promise you.”

I took another sip. “I simply cannot take it in. Cosmina. All these years she was not the person I knew, the person I loved.”

He nodded sorrowfully. “It is a difficult thing to have the scales drop from one’s eyes.”

“Yes, that is it precisely. I feel such a fool. She always used to say she was going to marry the count and live in the castle as his countess. I ought never to have believed her when she said that she was relieved when he refused her. She must have been so angry, so shatteringly angry.”

“At him, for scorning her, and at you, for attracting his regard.”

I think I coloured slightly at his last words, but there was frankness between us and I would not demur from the truth. “Yes. Any woman would have been angry, I think. But Cosmina was always possessive of what she cared for.”

“Perhaps that is why she kept your rosary, a reminder of the friend she loved,” he suggested.

I sipped again at the
pălinkă
. It was better, smoother and easier to drink now I was accustomed to the taste of it. “Perhaps. I remember we had a row that day. She was angry because I spent so much time discussing poetry with Fraulein Möller. I thought her silly at the time, but now I believe she was jealous. She never liked me to have other friends, you know—none that were as close as she.”

“And her feelings would be compounded if you formed an attachment with the man who refused to marry her,” he concluded.

“Yes, of course.” I subsided into silence and continued to drink, feeling warmer and a little light in the head.

“Why do you think she would have killed Aurelia?” he asked. “Do you not believe in the
strigoi
?”

“No. It is a faery story, meant to frighten children,” I said, my voice louder than I had intended. “There is something more sinister afoot in that castle—a mortal murderer.”

“You are certain?” he asked, his eyes suddenly shrewd.

“I am,” I told him. “Someone killed Aurelia, someone attempted the count’s life and meant me to hang for it. I believe that someone is Cosmina.”

He said nothing, but merely watched me as I sipped at my drink. I continued on, warming to my theme. “Cosmina bore a grudge against the count and against me. What better revenge than to kill him and make me the scapegoat for her crimes?”

“But what motive would she have had for killing Aurelia?” he asked blandly.

I thought for a moment, but my mind was fogged with shock and fatigue and strong drink. It was difficult to put the pieces together, but I attempted it. “Aurelia carried a possible heir to the Dragulescu estate. If the count was killed, the child might stand to inherit, particularly if it were a son. Aurelia could have made an excellent case for Count Bogdan’s estate to pass to his natural son rather than to the niece of his wife.”

Dr. Frankopan said nothing, but sipped his own drink, letting me prattle on. “And another bird might well have been felled with the same stone. The rumours of a
strigoi
began with the death of Aurelia. Perhaps Cosmina meant to establish a perfect scene for Count Andrei’s death. Everyone speculated that the revenant had returned to destroy his own son. If Aurelia was found foully slain by a vampire, and then Count Andrei suffered a similar fate, folk would merely put it down to the
strigoi
.”

“Now that is a fanciful tale,” Dr. Frankopan said, suppressing a smile.

“But possible. These mountains are thick with legends and ghosts. Everyone was ready to accept that Aurelia was slain by a
strigoi
. Why not Count Andrei as well?”

“I suppose,” he said reluctantly. “It would have been a clever plot.”

“Very,” I agreed. “And she only altered it to put the blame for Count Andrei’s death upon my head after she discovered the letter. That was when she decided to include me in her revenge. At one stroke, she would have been rid of me and of Andrei and ensured her own inheritance to the castle.”

“And you are certain of this?” he asked, watching me closely.

“As certain as I am of my own name. It must be so, and I will see her brought to justice,” I told him, heady with vindication.

He paused, then finished his drink. “That is unfortunate,” he said finally. “If you had entertained the slightest doubt, there might have been hope for you. But not now.”