Читать книгу The Dead Travel Fast - Deanna Raybourn, Deanna Raybourn - Страница 13

He left me in the great hall to find my way alone, and I returned to my room, followed hard upon by Tereza with a tray of food. I had not realised the hour was so late, but as soon as she lifted the covers from the dishes, the appetising smells pricked my appetite. I ate a dish of steaming soup thick with cabbage and noodles, and sampled a plate of assorted cold things, cheeses and bread and salads, with a few hot, crisp sausages.

When I had finished, I went in search of Cosmina again, but no sooner had I reached the great hall than she appeared, looking pale and a little tired, and full of abject apologies. “Theodora, what must you think of me! I am so sorry to have abandoned you. The countess needed me. She is resting now.”

I waved her aside and reassured her that I had spent the morning pleasantly, careful to mention the count only in passing. But at the mention of his name, her face clouded. “I must speak with you, but not here. The countess needs her medicine from the doctor. We will walk down to the village together. Later we will talk.”

It was all very mysterious, but intriguingly so, and I dutifully retrieved my stout boots and warmest shawl from my room.

“The steps are quite shallow, and the walk is a pretty one,” Cosmina explained when I met her again in the great hall. She carried a little basket and had donned a bright blue cloak that very nearly matched her eyes. “There are still a few wildflowers to be found and there are rocks you may sit and rest upon.” Suddenly, she smiled. “But I forget to whom I am speaking. You still take pleasure in your rambles, do you not? You were always the sturdiest walker in the school.”

“I do indeed,” I said roundly. “I cannot think properly unless I have had fresh air.”

“Then let us be off, for you have not enjoyed Carpathian air, and it is like wine to the senses.”

I almost agreed with her about the excellence of the mountain air until I realised I had not told her about my tour of the garden with the count. But I was not eager to introduce him into our conversation, so I remained silent and followed her from the hall.

We ventured out into the early afternoon, and almost as soon as we left the confines of the castle, a weight seemed to drop away from Cosmina. I had not realised how bowed down she seemed, how anxious, until I saw her pause and take a great, deep breath, raising her face to the sun. After a moment she turned and grasped my hand, and I fancied I saw the glitter of tears in her eyes.

“It is so good to see you, my friend.” I had forgot how demonstrative she could be, and I withdrew my hand, but only after a moment, and gently.

“It is good to see you as well,” I said warmly. “I have missed you.”

“And I you. I ought to have written more,” she said, her expression somewhat abashed. “But there always seemed to be something to do. The countess’s health, the needs of the villagers, my duties at the castle. My aunt has given me copies of all her keys as chatelaine,” she added proudly. “But it means I am often so busy between the castle and the village.” Her voice trailed off. “Now things will be different, I know it.”

“You mean now the old count is dead?” I ventured.

She nodded. “Count Bogdan. I must not speak unkindly of him, for it was he who permitted the countess to bring me here to live. But he was…he is not mourned,” she told me.

I thought of this and of what the count had told me about his father. I thought too of the decaying castle and wondered precisely what sort of man Count Bogdan had been.

She lifted her face to the sun again, closing her eyes and smiling. “I do not want to think of him today. I do not want to talk about unpleasant things yet. You are here and the weather is glorious and all will be well, I know that it will.” She opened her eyes. “It must be,” she added firmly.

True to her word, we did not speak of unpleasant things, only the scenery and the history of the place as we picked our way down the mountain to the valley below. I had been so tired upon my arrival and the night so dark, I had not even realised there was a village tucked at the base of the mountain some little distance from the lodge.

We had almost reached the bottom of the climb when Cosmina ventured off the rough stairs and onto a little grassy patch thick with stalks of odd little hooded flowers that put me greatly in mind of monkshood. Cosmina drew on a pair of gloves and took a small knife from the basket to take careful cuttings from the plants.

“Omagul,” Cosmina said happily, showing me the plant she had found. “The proper name is Aconitum anthora, the healing wolfsbane. It grows only in the mountains here, and it is a true remedy for rheumatism and pain and it is said to strengthen the heartbeat. It is still in flower, but perhaps only a few days more.” She brandished the tall, spiky plant with its rows of capped blooms with her gloved hands. “I have promised to bring some to the countess’s doctor. He uses a number of native plants for his remedies.”

We made our way into the little hamlet. It was scarcely more than a cluster of houses, bright as an artist’s paintbox, gaily decorated with carving and pargeting, and each set apart from its brothers by a small patch of garden bordered by an iron fence and topped by a rose madder roof. A pair of the houses had been set aside for use as a smithy and an inn, their proprietors keeping living quarters at the back for their families. The gate of the inn was closed and over it hung the bleached white skull of a horse.

“To keep away ghosts,” Cosmina explained, passing by without further comment.

Hard by was a tiny church decorated in the Eastern style, a firm reminder that I had come to a land once menaced by the Turk and ruled by Byzantium. It was exotic and strange, and yet the villagers might have been from any country, any age. They were dressed simply in long shirts of coarse woolen and linen, with high boots and wide trousers for the men and full skirts for the women. Their animals looked well enough, sleek and fat, and the people seemed cheerful and pleasant, calling greetings to us or accompanying their work with snatches of song.

But the further we moved into the village, the more signs of neglect I detected. The bright paint was weathered and in need of refreshment, and the road was dirty and rough. Even the little school was shuttered tight, the lock upon the gate rusted into place.

“The village children do not attend school then?” I asked carefully. I did not wish to seem critical, but it chafed that the children should not be educated. There were few things more precious to a Scot than a thorough education.

Cosmina kept her eyes fixed upon the road. “It was closed when Count Bogdan inherited. Perhaps it will be opened again. It is for the count to say.”

To the rest of my queries—about the state of the road, the church that also proved locked and abandoned, the dry and abandoned well, the river meadow that flooded but might make excellent pasturage when drained—to all of these Cosmina made the same reply. “It is for the count to say.” I began to understand the power that he wielded then. He was a feudal lord in a modern world, the villagers reliant upon him as children for the proper management of their crops and livestock, the education of their children, the health of their bodies and souls. It was a weighty responsibility, but also a necessary one, and I began to wonder at the character of a man who could treat his dependents in so cavalier a fashion. Cosmina held great hope that the new count would effect change, and the villagers seemed to hold that hope as well. In any other locality such neglect would have engendered resentment and despondency, perhaps even rebellion. But here was only resignation to what had been and anticipation of what might yet be. The native temperament of the Roumanian was a complex one, I decided, and therefore interesting.

At last we walked the length of the little village and emerged into a narrow track that led into a wood. Closer and closer the trees pressed in upon us until we could scarcely walk abreast. It was shadowed and greenly gloomy in the little glade, and I was not sorry when upon reaching a little turning in the path we came to a clearing. Set within was a pretty house, old-fashioned and solid, with a steeply pitched roof dotted with gables. Ivy climbed the walls and smoke rose from the stone chimney. A little stone path led the way to the door, and I noticed it was bordered not in flowers but herbs, and each plant was marked with a sign neatly lettered in Latin.

“This is the house of Dr. Frankopan, the countess’s doctor, a Hungarian,” Cosmina informed me. She led the way down the path, but before she could raise her hand to knock at the door, it was thrown wide.

“Cosmina!” bellowed the bewhiskered little gentleman who stood upon the threshold. He wore a red coat fitted with bright brass buttons that gleamed almost as brightly as his eyes. “How good it is to see you, my dear. And is this your friend from Scotland? Of course it must be, for we have no strangers here. Except you, Miss Lestrange. The stranger, Miss Lestrange!” he added with a waggish smile, enjoying his little joke.

I returned his greeting, and he hurried us inside, taking our wraps and hanging them upon pegs, all the while keeping up a ceaseless patter.

“Ah, you have found my Aconitum anthora, very good, very good. This will be enough to see me through the winter, I think, so long as I am careful. You must go in, my dears, the fire is laid and Frau Graben was kind enough to send down a cake from the castle. You must share it with me. I hope the path was not too muddy—no, no, you mustn’t worry about your shoes. The carpet is an old one and wants sweeping anyway. Go on through now and take chairs by the fire. I will come along in a moment with cake.”

Cosmina and I took chairs as instructed and the doctor’s absence gave me a little time to look about the room. It was comfortable, lined with books and smelling of tobacco and woodsmoke. There were cosy armchairs and a pretty bird in a cage by the window, and everywhere were draped little bits of colourful needlework, doubtless payment from the villagers for his services. I glanced at Cosmina and she smiled.

“I do hope that you like Dr. Frankopan,” she murmured. “He is a very great friend to the countess, and has been so kind to me. We have worked together in the village, or rather, he has been kind enough to allow me to assist him from time to time. I would have described him to you, but there did not seem to be words,” she finished, and I was forced to agree. She might have said he was elderly and bald as a baby, with bright pink cheeks and an enormous set of white whiskers, but she could never have conveyed the perfect amiability of his manner, the waggish charm. When she had spoken of the countess’s physician, I had expected someone dry and serious, but Dr. Frankopan was like something out of a storybook, with his twinkling eyes and bright red frock coat.

Before I could reply, he hurried in, carrying a tray set with a plump teapot and a cake rich with spices and dried fruits. Cosmina attended to the tea things while the doctor poked up the fire until it blazed merrily upon the hearth.

“There, there, now we have every comfort!” he said, taking his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now, Miss Lestrange, I do not detect the famous Scottish brogue in your speech. Tell me why that should be so.”

“My grandfather was a scholar, sir, and born in England. He had the raising of me, as well as that of my sister, and while he maintained there was no finer city than Edinburgh to achieve an education, he was careful of his vowels to the end.”

“Just so, just so,” he replied, nodding. “And do you consider yourself a Scotswoman or an Englishwoman?” The question was an intimate one, and yet I could not feel the intrusion of it, so genial and open was his manner.

“Both and neither,” I answered truthfully. “I remember no home but Edinburgh, and yet I am a person without a country at present.”

“As I am!” he exclaimed, sitting up excitedly. “I have come to live here in Transylvania, but I was reared between Buda-Pesth and Vienna, one foot in Hungary, the other in Austria, and my heart in the Carpathians,” he finished, sweeping his hand dramatically to his chest. “So, this we have in common. You must tell me more.”

He commenced to ask a series of questions about Scotland and my travels and my perceptions of Transylvania, and so thorough was his inquisition that I was hardly able to manage a sip of my tea or a crumb of the delicious cake. But I enjoyed the conversation immensely, and in turn I learned that the doctor was the son of a noble Hungarian family, the house their hunting lodge. His elder brother was a baron and happy to leave the lodge in the doctor’s hands while he lived in Vienna.

“And Vienna no longer entices you?” I asked before taking a hasty, stolen bite of my cake.

For a moment, his eyes seemed shuttered and his animation faltered, and I wondered if Vienna held a sad memory for him. But as soon as the melancholia touched him, he recovered himself. “Not at all,” he said heartily. “I believe country air is necessary for good health. Country air and brisk walks, wholesome food and good friends. These are the key to excellent health, my dear Miss Lestrange. Besides, Transylvania has other attractions.” He fell silent then, and although the topic of conversation wandered, he never seemed to entirely recover the high spirits of his welcome.

At length we finished our tea and cake and as we rose to leave, he pressed a bottle upon Cosmina. “That is for the countess. Three drops in a glass of wine before retiring. I will call upon her tomorrow. Three drops, no more, no less,” he said firmly to Cosmina.

“I shall remember,” she told him.

He gave her hand an avuncular squeeze. “I know you will. You are a good girl.”

His expression grew pensive again and we made our goodbyes.

“What a charming man,” I said as we gained the little path through the trees.

“Do you think so? I have always been so fond of him. He has lived here for many years. He knew the countess as a girl, can you imagine that?”

“I wonder what she was like as a girl,” I mused, thinking of the austere and remote lady I had met so briefly.

“Beautiful,” Cosmina said promptly. “There is a painting in the castle of her and my mother, painted the year of their debut in Vienna. It hangs in the countess’s bedchamber. I suppose she keeps it to remember Mama. I would have thought it would make her sad, but she says it is good to remember.”

“Does it sadden you?” I had no such painting of my own mother and I wondered if my loss had been the easier to bear because I had no image of her face to mourn.

Cosmina thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. It comforts me. I do not remember her, although sometimes I think she must have smelled of lilies, for she holds a lily in the painting. And it is only because of the painting that I know I have her eyes,” she finished.

“And very lovely eyes they are too,” I said, for Cosmina had fulfilled the promise of beauty she had carried as a girl. It was no surprise to me that the count would wish to marry her; the only surprise was that the betrothal was not announced. Was there some difficulty with the match, some opposition? But from what quarter? His mother was her aunt and guardian. Surely if she approved, others must.

As if intuiting my thoughts, Cosmina raised the subject herself. “I know you must wonder why no one talks of my marriage,” she began.

“It did seem a little strange that I was invited to see you married and yet you asked me not to speak of it,” I said slowly.

She said nothing for a long minute, then stopped upon the path to face me. “There will be no wedding. Andrei came home to settle his father’s affairs and that is all. He has said he will not abide by his mother’s wishes and marry me. It is finished.”

Tears welled and spilled from those beautiful eyes and I felt suddenly, violently angry. How could he hurt so fragile and lovely and loyal a creature as Cosmina?

I put my arms about her. “He cannot do this. If there was a formal betrothal, then surely—”

“There was no formal betrothal,” she admitted. “It was his mother’s wish and mine. Nothing more. It was never fixed. We simply assumed he would wish to please her in this matter.”

“But what reason did he give? Surely there can be no one more suitable than you,” I said hotly.

She gave a shuddering sob against my shoulder. “No. It is not that. There were difficulties because we are cousins, but they are not insurmountable. It has been done before. He refuses because he did not wish to marry me.”

I petted her hair. “Then he is a stupid, wretched man,” I said by way of consolation. “He does not deserve such a wife as you would have made him, and I hope someone disappoints him as painfully as he has disappointed you.”

She shuddered again, then lifted her head, and to my astonishment I saw that she was smiling. “Oh, Theodora. You think I am disappointed? I am relieved.”

Cosmina fell to silence after her revelation, and resumed the walk back to the castle. I trailed after her, my mind working feverishly. I was grateful she had turned away, for I do not think I could have hidden the confusion that had come upon me. I had seldom in my life suffered such a rapid alteration of feeling. I had been angry with the count for his unkindness to Cosmina, and further angered with myself for favouring a man capable of such ungallant behaviour. And then those three words had changed everything. I am relieved. Joy, swift and savage, had coursed through me, and I had been shocked to realise that my first thought had not been for the suffering of my friend; it had been the selfish pleasure of knowing that the count was not attached.

We made our way back to the castle in comparative silence, first because the village was too close upon us to permit intimate conversation, and then because the climb was rather too arduous for us to talk with ease. But once we had gained the castle, Cosmina turned.

“I must see the countess. Come to my room in an hour and we will talk more. I am so changeable these days, I hardly know myself,” she added by way of apology.

She left me then and I went to my room, unravelling the twisted threads of our conversation. Cosmina had been changeable, shifting between confidence and evasion during our walk. It was as if she longed to tell me everything, and yet feared to do so as well.

I washed my hands from the dusty walk and changed my boots for lighter shoes and neatened my hair. These ministrations took only quarter of an hour, and so I occupied myself with writing a letter to Anna, saying only that I had arrived safely. Any strangeness or misgivings I omitted, and I was struck by the dishonesty of my words. I told her the truth, but I concealed much besides, and I did not like it. But how could I possibly explain to Anna what I did not yet understand? And how could I describe the count when there were no words yet invented for such a man?

I ended my hasty scribble with fond notes for my nieces and nephews and took my letter in hand when I went in search of Cosmina’s room. She had explained how to find it, and I had little difficulty. It was the ground floor chamber of the tower opposite my own, perhaps a little smaller than mine and furnished in a similar style, with heavy carved wooden pieces and mouldering hangings of pale blue and silver. I saw at once that the room was arranged to suit her favourite hobby and I gave a little cry of delighted recognition upon seeing the small frames upon the walls.

“Your silhouettes! I had quite forgot,” I told her, moving at once to study them. She had been proficient with her scissors even as a schoolgirl, and her talents had been often in demand. Girls exchanged silhouettes with their favourites, but only if Cosmina consented to cut them. For girls she thought fondly of, she demanded little—a pocketful of candy or a length of pretty lace. But there were few enough girls she liked, and once she had made up her mind not to befriend someone, her resentment was implacable. It was one of the qualities that had attracted me to her from the first; no matter how wealthy or fashionable a girl, Cosmina could not be persuaded to friendship unless she genuinely liked her. I had taken it as a badge of honour that she had befriended me, and so we had sat apart from most of our schoolmates, I with my scribbles and Cosmina with her scissors, despising their silly ways and their irritating chatter. We had thought ourselves above such nonsense, and with the wisdom that comes with a few years and a better understanding, I wondered if we had not been frightful bores.

“Why, here is mine!” I cried, peering at the sober black image hung near the bed. “How petulant I look—surely my mouth is not so sulky as that.”

Cosmina stepped close and looked from the silhouette to my face. “You have grown into yourself,” she said kindly, and I followed her when she gestured towards a pair of comfortable chairs. One was a small thing, upholstered in blue and silver to match the hangings, but the other was covered in a violently clashing shade of green, a discordant note in the harmony of the room.

Cosmina gave me a shy smile. “I had only a single chair here, but when I learned you were coming I asked Florian to find me another chair so that we might sit together in privacy.”

I was oddly touched by this. My life, as reclusive and quiet as it was, must be a whirlwind compared to the hermetic existence Cosmina lived. The castle with its ruined grandeur and magnificent setting offered less diversion than the small house in Picardy Place, I reflected, and I was suddenly glad I had come. In whom could she confide her truest feelings? Certainly not the countess, for if Cosmina had only meant to carry out the betrothal to please her aunt, the countess could not like any criticism of her beloved son.

I glanced above the mantel and saw a cluster of silhouettes—castle folk, for there were images of the countess and Frau Amsel and Florian, and I saw the servants there as well, Tereza and the pretty Aurelia. A little distance apart, aloof from them all, the count, rendered in black and white and no less arresting than the man himself. I longed to study the silhouette, but I could not permit myself the indulgence, not with Cosmina sitting so near. I tore my eyes from the image and fixed them upon my friend.

“If you do not wish to speak of it, I will honour your wishes,” I began.

She shook her head. “It is not that. I know I can confide in you. But I am so long out of the habit of revealing myself. I think I have only ever really been myself when I was with you at school. There I was Cosmina, nothing more. Here I am poor relation and nursemaid.”

There was a note of bitterness in her voice and she looked abashed. “Oh, do not think me ungrateful. I know what would have become of me without the countess’s kindness. I would have ended in an orphanage and then put out to service. There was no one in the world to care for me but her, and she has been so good to me. She always wanted me for a wife to Andrei, and I thought I must do this thing to repay her for her kindnesses to me, her generosity. I would do anything to settle a score, do you understand?” Her eyes were feverish with intensity and I hurried to assure her. I knew what it meant to be understood, to have a friend and companion to see one’s truest self. I had had that with Anna and Cosmina, but none other.

“Of course. It must rest heavily upon your conscience that she has had the rearing of you. You wish to give to her in return the one thing she asked of you.”

“That is it precisely,” she said in some relief. “How glad I am you have come! It is bliss to be understood. Yes, I wanted to marry Andrei to make her happy. She and my mother are Dragulescus by birth, did you know that? They were of a lesser branch of the family tree, from a younger son who went to Vienna to make his fortune. They had money, but no title, and it burned within them to return to these mountains, to their home. When the countess had a chance to marry Count Bogdan and restore her family’s heritage, she did so, even though she did not love him. I had heard the story so many times, I knew what she expected of me. I was to marry Andrei even if I did not love him. It would be the final link in the chain to reconnect the two branches of the family, and I was prepared to play my part. I studied hard to become accomplished. I learned languages and I learned to dance, to paint, to sing. And all the while I thought I am doing this for him. And it terrified me. I lay awake at night, wondering how I might be delivered, praying for God to show me a way to live here without that sacrifice.” She gave a little laugh. “It never occurred to me that Andrei himself might serve up my deliverance.”

“When did you discover his feelings?”

“When he returned home, shortly before your arrival. The countess expected he would come after his father’s death for there was much to be settled with the estate. She hoped he would choose to make his home here. She loves him so and they have seen each other so little since Count Bogdan became the lord and master. He seldom permitted the countess to travel to Paris to visit Andrei, and Andrei refused to come here after his grandfather’s death. It grieved the countess, and she has been so unwell. I had hoped Andrei would remain here for her sake, but it is not to be. He announced almost as soon as he arrived that he meant only to stay for a month or two and then return to Paris. He will take the countess if she wishes to go, but I think she will not leave her mountain. She has lost the habit of city life and would mourn this place.”

“And you?” I prodded gently.

She drew in a deep breath, but she shed no fresh tears. The loss was not a painful one. “They spoke of it in the library one day. They did not realise I was in the gallery above, but I heard them. She demanded an answer as to his intentions, and he spoke plainly. He told her he would never marry me, that he thought of me as a sister, and could never think otherwise. She argued with him, but he would not be moved. He made himself perfectly clear, and there is no hope that he will be changed. And when they left the room, I sat down upon the floor and wept.”

“From relief, you said,” I put in, thinking of her startling revelation on the forest path.

“I have never wanted to marry, Theodora. I am not romantic, nor do I wish for children. I want only peace and quiet, my books and my music and this place. If I were religious, I should have made a good nun, I think,” she added with a small smile. “I am not like you. You have always thirsted for adventure, for independence and exoticism, but I am cut of less sturdy cloth. I am a wren, and I have made my nest here, and I am content to be alone. Perhaps I might be persuaded otherwise for a different man, but not for Andrei. I can think of no man less suited to securing my happiness.”

I chose my next words carefully. “Is there some flaw in him that makes him unsuitable?”

“I loved him once,” she said simply. “I loved him when I came here, as an unwanted child will love anyone who is kindly, for Andrei was kind in those days. I saw him seldom. He was often far from home, but when I did see him, he was all I could admire. He taught me to ride and to shoot an arrow true enough to spear a rabbit and he gave me adventure stories to read. But then he would leave again and I was forgot, cast aside as he would put off his country tweeds or his Roumanian tongue. I was nothing to him but a pretty nuisance,” she added with a rueful smile. “But as I grew older, I realised he was not as I imagined. I had thought him noble and virtuous, in spite of his neglect of me. It was only years later that I began to hear snippets of his life abroad, the seductions and scandals. I saw the countess break her heart over him a hundred times when news would come from abroad. There were duels and gambling debts and unsavoury associations. He has formed attachments to the lowest sort of people, permitted friendships with the scandalous and the insincere.” She leaned closer, pitching her voice low, even though we were quite alone. “It was even said that he was cast from the court at Fontainebleau by the emperor himself for attempting to seduce the Empress Eugenie. He indulges in wickedness the like of which you and I cannot imagine. He dabbles in the dark arts and illicit acts. He is insincere and untrustworthy, the weakest vessel in which to sail one’s hopes. He would dash them upon the rocks for his own amusement and call it fair. He is cruel and twisted and there is no good yet in him, save that he loves his mother and treats her with kindness. Be not mistaken, my dear, he is a monster. And would any woman not rejoice to be delivered from such hands?”

I remained silent during this litany of his evils, thinking back to his peculiar treatment of me since my arrival, his familiarity, his forwardness. It was not the attitude of a gentleman to a guest in his home, and viewed in the light of Cosmina’s revelations, it sickened me that I had been so easily moved by his sophisticated little stratagems.

At length I was aware of Cosmina, watching me and waiting for me to make her a reply. “You are well and truly delivered,” I told her. “And I am glad of it for your sake. One hopes he will discharge his duties by his people as their count. And when he is gone to Paris again, we will have many a quiet night to enjoy the peace of his departure.”

The pretty face was wreathed in smiles. “Do you promise? You will stay, even though I am not to be married? I had not hoped my company enough would be sufficient to keep you.”

“Of course I will stay,” I promised. “I am quite charmed by the castle and the village, and I mean to write my novel.”

“You will have all the peace and solitude you could want,” she vowed. “I will leave you to your work, and when you wish society, you have only to find me and I will be your amusement.”

We concluded the visit by making plans for the rest of the autumn and into the winter when the snows would blanket the mountains.

“Who knows? Perhaps the snows will be too thick and we will keep you here until spring,” she added mischievously.

“Perhaps, although I think my sister might well come and take me back to England with her should I stay gone for so long.” I brandished the letter I had written. “I have been here a day and already I must write her to say I am arrived.”

Cosmina put out a hand. “I will see it is delivered for you. We may not have many of the modern comforts here, but we do have the post,” she told me with a little giggle. I wondered then how long it had been since she had truly laughed, and I was suddenly glad I had come.

She sobered. “And do not worry about Andrei. He behaves badly, but I promise you, I will not permit him to harm you, my friend.”

She looked stalwart as any soldier, and I smiled to think of her, fierce in my defense should I have need of her.

“You need have no worry on my account, Cosmina. I rather like to catch people behaving badly. It gives me something to laugh at and fodder for my stories.”

She slanted me a curious look. “Then there will be much here in Transylvania to inspire you.”