The Dead Travel Fast. Deanna Raybourn
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at our mountain fastness, blazed with orange and gold and every shade of flame, bursting with one last explosion of life before settling in to the quiet slumber of winter. I sniffed the air, and found it fresh and crisp, far cleaner than any I had smelled before. There was not the soot of Edinburgh here, nor the grime of the cities of the Continent. It was nothing but the purest breath of the clouds, and I drew in great lungfuls of it, letting it toss my hair in the breeze before I drew back and surveyed the room.
I found the bellpull by the fireplace and gave it a sharp tug. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later a scratch at the door heralded the arrival of a pair of maids, one bearing cans of hot water, the other a tray of food—an inefficient system, for one would surely grow cold by the time I had attended to the other—but the plump, pink-cheeked maids were friendly enough. One was the girl, Tereza, from the previous night, and the other looked to be her sister, with their glossy dark braids wound tightly about their heads and identical wide black eyes. The taller of the two was enchantingly pretty, with a ripe, Junoesque figure. Tereza was very nearly fat, but with a friendlier smile illuminating her plain face. It was she who carried the water and who attempted to make herself understood.
“Tereza,” she said, thumping her ample chest.
“Tereza,” I repeated dutifully. I smiled to show that I remembered her.
She pointed to the other girl. “Aurelia.”
I repeated the name and she smiled.
“Buña dimineaţa,” she said slowly.
I thought about the words and hazarded a guess. “Good morning?”
She turned the words over on her tongue. “Good morning. Good morning,” she said, changing the inflection. She nodded at her sister. “Good morning, Aurelia.”
Her sister would have none of it. She frowned and clucked her tongue as she removed the covers from my breakfast. She rattled off a series of words I did not understand, pointing at each dish as she did so. There was a bowl of porridge—not oat, I realised, but corn—bread rolls, new butter, a pot of thick Turkish coffee and a pot of scarlet cherry jam. Not so different from the breakfasts I had been accustomed to in Scotland, I decided, and I inclined my head in thanks to her. She sketched a bare curtsey and left. Tereza lingered a moment, clearly interested in conversation.
“Tereza,” she said again, pointing to herself.
“Miss Lestrange,” I returned.
She pondered that for a moment, then gave it a try. “Mees Lestroinge.” She garbled the pronunciation, but at least it was a beginning.
“Thank you, Tereza,” I said slowly.
She nodded and dropped a better curtsey than her sister had. As she turned to leave, she spied the open window and began to speak quickly in her native tongue, warning and scolding, if her tone was anything to judge. She hurried to the window and yanked it closed, making it fast against the beautiful morning. From her pocket she drew a small bunch of basil that had been tied neatly with a bit of ribbon. This she fixed to the handle, wagging her finger as she instructed me. I could only assume I was being told not to remove it, and once the basil was in place, she drew the draperies firmly closed, throwing the room into gloom.
I protested, but she held up a hand, muttering to herself, and I heard for the first time the word I would come to hear many times during my sojourn in Transylvania. Strigoi. She bustled about, lighting candles and building up the fire on the hearth to light the room. It was marginally more cheerful when she had done so, but I could not believe I was expected to live in this chamber with neither light nor air.
She lit the last candle and moved to me then, her tone insistent as she spoke. After a moment she raised her hand and placed it on my brow, making the swift sign of Orthodoxy, crossing from right to left. Then she kissed me briskly on both cheeks and motioned towards my breakfast, gesturing me to eat before the food grew cold.
She left me then and I sat down to my porridge and rolls, marvelling at the strangeness of the local folk.
After my tepid breakfast and even colder wash, I dressed myself carefully in a day gown of deep black and left my room to search out Cosmina. I had little idea where she might be at this time of day, but it seemed certain she would be about. I hoped to have a thorough discussion with her to settle the many little questions that had arisen since my arrival. Most importantly, I was determined to discover what mystery surrounded her betrothal.
I retraced my steps from the night before, keeping a careful eye upon the various landmarks of the castle—here a suit of armour, there a peculiar twisting stair—in order to find my way. I made but two wrong turnings before I reached the great hall, and I saw that it was quite empty, the hearth cold and black in the long gloom of the room.
And then I was not alone, for in the space of a heartbeat he appeared, the great grey dog at his heels, as suddenly as if I had conjured him myself.
“Miss Lestrange,” he greeted. He was freshly shaven and dressed impeccably in severe black clothing that was doubtless all the more costly for its simplicity. Only the whiteness of his shirt struck a jarring note in the shadowy hall.
My heart had begun to race at the sight of him, and I took a calming breath.
“Buña dimineaţa, sir.” I noticed then the cleft in his chin, and I thought of the proverb I had often heard at home: Dimple in the chin, the Devil within.
His face lit with pleasure. “Ah, you are learning the language already. I hope you have passed a pleasant night.”
“Very,” I told him truthfully. “It must be the air here. I slept quite deeply indeed.”
“And your breakfast was to your liking?” he inquired.
“Very much so, thank you.”
“And the servants, they are attentive to your desires?” It struck me then that his voice was one of the most unusual I had ever heard, not so much for the quality of the sound itself, which was low and pleasing, but for the rhythm of his speech. His accent was slight, but the liquidity of a few of his consonants, the slow pace of his words, combined to striking effect. The simplest question could sound like a philosopher’s profundity from his lips.
“Quite. Although—”
“Yes?” His eyes sharpened.
“The maid seemed a little agitated this morning when she discovered my open window.”
“Surely you did not sleep with it open,” he said quickly.
“No, it would have been too cold for that, I think. But it was such a lovely morning—”
He gave a little sigh and the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “Of course. The maid doubtless thought you had slept with the window open, and such is a dangerous practise here in the mountains. There are bats—vespertilio—which carry foul diseases, and other creatures which might make their way into your room at night.”
I grimaced. “I am afraid I do not much care for bats. Of course I shall keep my window firmly closed in future. But when Tereza closed it, she hung basil from the latch.”
“To sweeten the air of the room,” he said hastily. “Such is the custom here.”
The word I had heard her speak trembled on my lips, but I did not repeat it. Perhaps I was afraid to know just yet what that word strigoi meant and why it seemed to strike fear into Tereza’s heart.
“I thought to find Cosmina,” I began.
“My mother is unwell and Cosmina attends her,” the count replied. “I am afraid you must content yourself with me.”
Just then the great dog moved forward and began to nuzzle my hand, and I saw that his eyes were yellow, like those of a wolf.
“Miss Lestrange, you must not be frightened of my Tycho! How pale you look. Are you afraid of dogs?”
“Only large ones,” I admitted, trying not to pull free of the