The Dead Travel Fast. Deanna Raybourn
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He is gentle as a lamb, at least to those whom I like,” he promised. The count encouraged me to pet the dog, and I lifted a wary hand to his head.
“Underneath the neck, just there on the chest, between his forelegs,” he instructed. “Over the head is challenging, and he will not like it. Under the chin is friendly, only mind the throat.”
I did not dare ask what would happen if I did not mind the throat. I put my hand between the dog’s forelegs, feeling the massive heart beating under my fingers. I patted him gently, and he leaned hard with his great head against my leg, nearly pushing me over.
“Oh!” I cried.
“Do not be startled,” the count said quietly. “It is a measure of affection. Tycho has decided to like you.”
“How kind of him,” I murmured. “A curious name, Tycho.”
“After the astronomer, Tycho Brahe. It was an interest of my grandfather’s he was good enough to share with me.” Before I could remark upon this, he hurried on. “Have you any pets, Miss Lestrange?”
“No, my grandfather had the raising of me and he did not much care for animals. He thought they would spoil his books.”
The count made a noise of derision. “And are books more important than the companionship of such creatures? Were it not for my dogs and horses I should have been quite alone as a child.” It was an observation; he said the words without pity for himself.
“I too found solace. Books remain my favourite companions.”
The strongly marked brows shifted. “Then I have something to show you. Come, Miss Lestrange.”
He led the way from the great hall, through a corridor that twisted and turned, through another lesser hall, a second corridor, and through a set of imposing double doors. The room we emerged into was tremendous in size, encompassing two floors, with a wide gallery running the perimeter of the place. Bookshelves lined both floors to the ceiling, and there were several smaller, travelling bookcases scattered about the room, all stuffed with books.
Unlike the rest of the castle, this room was floored in dark, polished wood, giving it a cosier feel, if such a thing was possible in so imposing a place. The furniture was carved and heavy and upholstered in moss green, a native pattern stitched upon it in faded gold. There were a few globes, including a rather fine celestial model, and several map tables fitted with wide, low drawers for atlases. In the centre of the room a great two-sided desk stood upon lion’s paws on a vast Turkey rug. Taken as a whole, the room was vast and impressive, but upon closer inspection it was possible to see the work of insects—moth upon the furniture and rugs and bookworm in the volumes themselves. It was a room that had been beautiful once, but beyond a cursory flick of a duster, it did not seem as if anyone had cared for it for quite a long time. A fire burning on the wide hearth did something to banish the chill, and the dog settled in front of it, claiming the place.
The count stood back, awaiting my reaction.
“A very impressive room,” I told him.
He seemed pleased. “It is traditionally used by the counts to conduct their business—the collecting of rents, the meting out of justice. And it is also a place of leisure. No doubt you think it odd to find such an extensive collection in such a place, but the grip of winter holds us close upon this mountain. There is little to do but hunt, and even that is sometimes not possible. It is then that we too turn to books.”
He moved to one of the cases and drew out a few folios. I smiled as I recognised Whitethorne’s Illustrated Folklore and Legend of the Scottish Highlands as well as Sir Ruthven Campbell’s Great Walks of the British Isles.
“You see, even here we know something of your country,” the count remarked, his eyes bright.
I put out a hand to touch the enormous volumes. The colour plates of the Whitethorne folio were exquisite, each more beautiful than the last. “Breathtaking,” I murmured.
“Indeed,” he said, and I realised how close he had come. He stood right at my shoulder, his arm grazing mine as he reached out to turn another page. There was a whisper of warm breath across my neck, just where the skin was bared between the coil of my hair and the collar of my gown. “You must come and look at them whenever you like. They are too heavy to take to your room, but the library is at your disposal.”
His arm pressed mine so slightly I might have imagined the touch. I stepped back and pretended to study an ancillary sphere.
“That is very generous of you, sir.”
He closed the folio but did not move closer to me. He merely folded his arms over his chest and stood watching me, a small smile playing over his lips.
“It costs me nothing to share, therefore it is not generous,” he corrected. “When someone offers what he can ill afford to give, only then may he be judged generous.”
I looked up from my perusal of the sphere. “Then I will say instead it is kind of you.”
“You seem determined to think well of me, Miss Lestrange. But Cosmina tells me you are an authoress. What sort of host would I be if I did not provide you with a comfortable place to work should you choose?”
He smiled then, a decidedly feline smile, predatory and slow. I did not know how to reply to him. I had no experience of such people. Sophistry was not a skill I possessed. Cosmina had told me the count had lived for many years in Paris; doubtless his companions were well-versed in polished conversation, in the parry and thrust of social intercourse. I was cast of different metal. But I thought again of my book and the use I might make of him there. He was alluring and noble and decidedly mysterious, all the qualities I required for a memorable hero. I made up my mind to engage him as often as possible in conversation, to study him as a lepidopterist might study an excellent specimen of something rare and unusual.
“You surprise me,” he said suddenly.
“In what manner?”
“When Cosmina told me she was expecting her friend, the writer from Edinburgh, I imagined a quite terrifying young woman, six feet tall with red hair and rough hands and an alarming vocabulary. And instead I find you.”
He finished this remark with a look of such genuine approbation as quite stopped my breath.
“I must indeed have been a surprise,” I said, attempting a light tone. “I like to believe I am clever, but I am no bluestocking.”
“And so small as to scarcely reach my shoulder,” he said softly, leaning a bit closer. He shifted his gaze to my hair. “I had not thought Scotchwomen so dark. Your hair is almost black as mine, and your eyes,” he trailed off, pausing a moment, his lips parted as he drew a great deep breath, smelling me as an animal might.
“Rosewater,” he murmured. “Very lovely.”
I stepped backwards sharply, ashamed at my part in this latest impropriety. “I must beg your leave, sir. I ought to find Cosmina.”
Amusement twitched at the corners of his mouth. “She is with the countess. My mother has spent a restless night and it soothes her to have Cosmina read to her.”
“I am sorry to hear of the countess’s indisposition.”
“So the responsibility of entertaining you falls to me,” he added with another of his enigmatic smiles.
“I would not be a burden to you. I am sure your duties must be quite demanding. If you will excuse me,” I began as I moved to step past him.
“I cannot,” he countered smoothly. And then a curious thing occurred. He seemed to block me with his own body, and yet he did not stir. It was simply that I knew I could not move past him and so remained where I was as he continued to speak. “It is my duty and my pleasure to introduce you to my home.”
“Really, sir, that is not necessary. I might take a book to my room or write letters.” But even as I spoke, I knew it was not to be. There was a peculiar force to