The Dead Travel Fast (20 page)

“Very well,” I said quietly.

“It is not like you to be so amenable.” He regarded me suspiciously. “And it is not like you to hurry away from something that you find diverting. You are snappish as a dog with an old bone when something captures your attention. Why have you had the sudden change of heart, my dear?”

I was too miserable to summon a lie. “Because I have been told I am unwelcome. The count is sending me away.”

“What?” Charles bolted upright. “Of all the arrogance! Who is he to—” He broke off as the truth of it was borne in upon him and subsided back into his chair. “I see. That is how it is. Well, I ought to have guessed. He is a singularly handsome fellow, and you are certainly comely enough to catch his attention. Lovers’ quarrel, then?”

The words were spoken lightly, but they were laced with pain. And something made me quite savage then. I carried enough of my own burden; I could not shoulder his as well. I flung a book into my travelling case. “Yes. That is precisely the nature of it. I am dismissed, for reasons I cannot understand or support. I do not know what excuses I will make to the others,” I said suddenly, the sharp edge of anger dulled as quickly as it had been whetted.

Charles cleared his throat. “I think it best if we simply say that I have business in Edinburgh, and it concerns you. I will affect an air of mystery and say I cannot disclose the details, but you must fly at once to retrieve an opportunity that must not be missed. I had a letter today, forwarded me from Vienna. It was a note from Mother, but if I wave it around, no one will look too closely and it will be easy enough to convince them of its importance.”

I bent swiftly and kissed his cheek. “I do not deserve a friendship such as yours, Charles, but I am heartily glad I have it.”

He blushed a little. “Yes, well. We are quitting this place, and that is good enough for me. I had the most curious discussion with Dr. Frankopan today, and it has put me right off this village and the castle as well.”

“I suppose he told you the same stories he told me about the
strigoi
?”

“Yes, and ghoulish tales they were as well. Quite chilled me to the marrow, I do not mind telling you. Tale after tale of wives throwing themselves from towers and deals with the Devil and things that are dead but not dead. But then Madame Popa served us a sort of plum brandy that has played havoc with my head. I found myself telling him all sorts of things, confidences and such.” He darted a look at me, and I knew well enough what the subject of those confidences had been. “And we talked of our disappointments in life. Did you know his family disowned him? That is why he lives in a tiny cottage here, in the land God forgot.”

“I thought you liked this place,” I remonstrated gently.

He shrugged irritably. He seemed restless and ill at ease, as if the Carpathians—so seductively sinister to me—had proven too much for him. He reached into his pocket for a sweet and sucked at it, most likely for comfort, I surmised.

“I do like it, or at least I ought,” he told me. “But I am so puzzled by it all. It does put me greatly in mind of the Highlands, you know—all majestic scenery and superstitious peasants. But I have always been able to laugh at the Highlanders. Here, I would not dare to make sport of them. Here, I begin to believe it,” he finished, his voice nearly inaudible.

I reached a hand to cover his. “Frighteningly easy, is it not? I hope now you understand what came over me.”

“Understand? Theodora, a wolf howled from the woods as I was sitting and having a quiet drink with the doctor. A wolf, boldly walking abroad in the middle of the day! Who would credit such a thing?” He gave a shudder. “It is a place where quite anything could happen. And I do not blame you for any foolishness you may have indulged in whilst here,” he added, a trifle sententiously. Whether he referred merely to my overblown imagination or to my liaison with the count, I did not dare to wonder. But something else he said tugged at me.

“How curious that Dr. Frankopan was disowned by his family. He spoke of them to me as if he is still recognised. His brother is a nobleman living in Vienna.”

“And content to let stand the provisions their father made when Dr. Frankopan was disowned,” Charles revealed. “He was given the hunting cottage and a tiny allowance, but apart from that, he was entirely cut off from the family proper. No visits to Vienna, and none from them. Letters are exchanged once per year, at Christmas. And that is the whole of it.”

“That poor man! How lonely he must have been for all of these years.”

“Yes. Apparently, he gave up his family for love of a woman. The Frankopans did not approve of his beloved, and when the doctor wanted to offer her marriage, they were intransigent. They insisted he take a long sea voyage, doubtless hoping the attachment would not last. But before Dr. Frankopan returned, the poor creature died. He never forgave them for sending him away, and they never forgot he chose her above them. He has been here ever since.”

“How tragic for him—and how providential for the people of this valley. They would have had no proper medical care without him,” I pointed out.

“I suppose. Still, a hard consequence for a love that did not last,” Charles returned.

“A hard consequence indeed.”

Charles left me then to pack his own things, and when I had finished, I went to Cosmina’s room to break the unwelcome news to her that I must leave. I rapped lightly upon the door and she called for me to enter.

“Oh! I did not realise you were not alone,” I said rather awkwardly, for the countess and Frau Amsel sat next to the bed, and the three of them looked for all the world like the weird sisters upon the heath, waiting for MacBeth.

“Do come in,” Cosmina begged. “I have been so bored, and Aunt Eugenia was kind enough to read to me. She is feeling stronger today.”

The countess placed a ribbon in the book that lay open upon her lap, and Frau Amsel began to collect her needlework.

“We will leave you now you have Miss Lestrange to keep you company.”

“If you would delay a moment, madame, I must speak with you as well.”

“Oh?” The lightly marked, aristocratic brows rose. She was not accustomed to doing another’s bidding, that much was apparent. But she obliged me, settling herself back into her chair. Frau Amsel unrolled her needlework with an air of malevolent anticipation.

“I am afraid that my friend, Mr. Beecroft, has had a communication forwarded to him from Vienna. He has urgent business in Edinburgh and must return home at once. And I must go with him.”

“No!” Cosmina cried. Her hair, unplaited, spilled loose over her pillows, and her eyes were darkly shadowed and unnaturally bright.

“I am sorry, dearest. I have no choice in the matter. I must go.”

Cosmina began to speak, but the countess interrupted her smoothly. “Cosmina, you must not importune Miss Lestrange. I am certain she feels quite badly enough to be leaving so quickly as it is.”

The countess was perceptive, and the smile she gave me was almost kind. “We will be sorry to see you go, Miss Lestrange. When must you take your leave of us?”

“Tomorrow, madame. By first light. It is a long way to Hermannstadt.”

“That it is. I will make certain Frau Graben prepares a hamper for your journey. The wayside inns can be quite impossible.”

“That is very gracious of you,” I told her, inclining my head. She returned the gesture, and I marvelled at how civilised we were being. But the countess could afford to be generous. I was leaving, after all.

Frau Amsel did not bother to conceal her glee. She smiled broadly and as she followed the countess from the room, she fairly radiated pleasure.

I settled myself into the countess’s vacated chair, bracing myself for the inevitable scene which must follow. Cosmina had always been quiet, but she was capable of passionate rages when she was thwarted. I still remembered a fairly ridiculous scene over a penwiper at school that had resulted in a broken window.

“Are you very angry?” I asked.

She shook her head, and to my distress, a tear fell to her cheeks. “No, only sad. I have so loved having you here. But Aunt Eugenia is right. I must not be selfish. You have a life to lead, and it is far away from me.”

I plucked at the bedcovers, pleating them between my fingers. “I do hate to leave you when you are ill.”

She gave me a smile, a brave and trembling thing. “I will be well soon. It is just a cold, a trifling matter.”

We fell silent then, and I was deeply relieved that she did not mean to make our parting a difficult one.

“Will you write to me? I mean really write to me? Once a month at least,” she urged.

“Once a fortnight, and that is a promise,” I told her. I rose and placed a kiss upon her brow. It was cooler than I had expected, and I was glad of it. “You’ve no fever now. Perhaps you will be out of bed soon.”

“Tomorrow, I hope,” she said seriously. “I should like to see you off. And Mr. Beecroft,” she added, colouring slightly. I had forgot her fondness towards Charles, and I hoped she would not take his absence too much to heart.

“I would like that. You must rest this evening, and I will come to you in the morning even if you are still abed,” I promised.

I took my leave of her then. I had no desire for company that night, my last at the castle, and Frau Graben was kind enough to send up a tray. She had outdone herself, for the tray groaned under a variety of regional delights. There was a dish of vine leaves, stuffed with meat and rice and spices and smothered in gravy, and half a dozen others besides, as well as the usual accompaniments of pickles and breads and cheeses. I ate little, picking over the delicious morsels with only a feeble appetite. I ached to think of leaving this place, of leaving him. It would have been difficult enough to part from him under any ordinary circumstance. With such questions yet unanswered, it was insupportable. I did not know the extent of his feelings for me, or if indeed any such feelings existed. I did not know the truth of what he was, simply a man or something darker and more sinister. And perhaps most chilling of all, I did not know what he feared. Was it the possibility of his own destruction or mine that caused him to send me away?

Such questions teased and tormented me through the course of the evening, and finally I could bear it no longer. I went to the count’s room, determined to break through his resolve at last. I understood the dangers of it; I had already seen that to prod him beyond endurance would cause him to strip the scales from my eyes and teach me unpleasantnesses. But I could not leave without seeing him one last time, and when I reached his bedchamber, I did not even pause to knock, but opened the door and walked straight in.

He was not there, but a fire burned upon the hearth, and the bed had been turned back as if he had expected to retire soon. I mounted the little stair to his workroom, surprised to find it empty. I had thought to find him there, tinkering with the orrery or reading one of his grandfather’s almanacs. The night was windy and the sky full of cloud, unsuitable for astronomical pursuits. If he had gone to the observatory, he would only tarry a moment or two, and I decided to wait in the workroom for him. Before I could settle, I glanced at the window and gaped. I would have screamed, but my voice was stopped in my astonishment, for a great black shape hung at the window, pressing itself against the glass. It swung wildly, thudding hard against the window, and I realised it meant to break in, to gain entry to the count’s room, and it was then that I recovered myself. I screamed, and before the sound of it died in my throat, the shape hurled itself against the window, destroying it in a shower of splintered glass. The form fell heavily upon the shattered glass with an inhuman groan, and it was only then that I saw it was the count, bleeding freely and insensible. I flung myself to the floor, heedless of the glass, and wrenched open his neckcloth that he might breathe more easily. I put my handkerchief to the jagged wound upon his cheek, but the snowy cloth turned scarlet as soon as it touched him. I ought to have gone for help then or fetched water or done any of a hundred useful things. Instead I knelt beside him in the midst of the destruction, willing him to wake, to speak.

After a moment—it may have been a moment, although it felt an eternity—I was pushed gently aside. “Let me see him, let me see him.” It was Dr. Frankopan, with Florian and Charles hard upon his heels. I had not realised the doctor had even called again at the castle, but never in my life had I greeted anyone with greater pleasure.

I moved aside, but only a little. Whatever Dr. Frankopan did to him, I meant to help.

“Good God, what happened?” Charles demanded, but no one made him a reply.

The count stirred and emitted another deep groan when Dr. Frankopan touched his forearm. The doctor nodded. “As I suspected, as I suspected. His shoulder is out of place.” He nodded towards Florian and Charles. “I shall require help to put it back.”

Charles blanched but stepped forward. “Of course.” Florian stepped forward as well, awaiting the doctor’s instructions.

“I do not like to do this here, but the pain is extraordinary and the joint must be replaced before the muscles stiffen. Stretch out his arm, like this,” he gave a series of detailed instructions, then turned to me. “I think you will not like to watch this. What we must do is most unpleasant.”

“I will stay,” I said, stubbornly, although I regretted it almost instantly. Unpleasant was not the word, I decided, for as they twisted and torqued his arm into the socket, he rose up and gave a great, guttural scream, then lapsed into unconsciousness again, pale as new milk, the blood still streaming from his face.

Charles was unsteady on his feet when they had finished, and even Florian, who had doubtless seen and done his share of unpleasant things upon the farm, seemed shaken and ill at ease.

“It is restored,” said the doctor with some satisfaction. “Now, we must remove him to his bedchamber and assess the rest of his injuries before the lacerations can be repaired.” Dr. Frankopan was a man changed, for he was cool and confident and thoroughly in command of the situation, even when the ladies of the castle appeared in the doorway. The countess gave a deep moan of anguish and would have sunk to her knees but for the support of Frau Amsel. Cosmina stood unsteadily, a dressing gown wrapped about her, her hair untidy and her feet thrust into slippers as if she had risen hastily from her sickbed. Frau Graben had even roused herself from her room next to the kitchens, but it was Tereza who commanded the household’s attention. She pushed her way into the room, raising a shaking finger as she stared at the prone form of the count. She spoke in shrill and rapid Roumanian, but the horror and disbelief in her voice required no translation.