Elizabeth, she stretched out her arms and caught the child up, kissing it on the head. But the child seemed restless and wriggled from her embrace. Standing, it turned to look at the forest that bordered the pasture. Perhaps something caught its attention, a squirrel in the branches, a bird taking flight, but it started walking, completely on its own, wobbly but determined.
“Look at this!” Elizabeth cried proudly.
Fearful it would wander off and be spotted, I stood and kept pace with it across the grass. It stumbled but kept going, more and more quickly. What a little bundle of impulse it was.
“Shall we turn around now?” I said when it neared the trees. I stepped in front of it, barring its way. The child’s usual look of blank passivity was suddenly replaced by one of outrage. I’d seen Ernest and William in a temper when you crossed their wills, but they were still themselves. What startled me now was the utter transformation of this strange child’s face. In its eyes something old and intelligent kindled, and a low growl rattled in its throat. Its brow creased, and its lips pulled back to reveal a quick glimpse of teeth, one of which seemed oddly shaped.
“Come back, Konrad,” said Elizabeth, approaching from behind with her hand outstretched.
At once the child’s face resumed its usual expression.
“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked, looking at me strangely.
“Nothing,” I said. Had I imagined it?
But that flash of teeth, and the split-second image of fury and intent on its face, unsettled me.
That night Father invited Professor Neumeyer to dine with us.
“We’re proceeding very slowly on the burial mound,” he said, pausing to take a drink of wine. “I’m allowing my colleagues to use only small spades so that we don’t risk damaging the remains. We’ve excavated some four feet, and nothing yet. Whatever was buried, they buried it deep.”
“And the curious markings on the walls?” Father asked. “Any progress deciphering them?”
“Ah, yes, indeed,” he said, and I forced myself to look away, for I feared my gaze was too intense. I avoided looking at Elizabeth and Henry, too, and concentrated instead on my roast beef.
“I still haven’t heard from my friend in France,” the professor continued, “but today my colleague Gerard, who specializes in languages, thinks he managed to puzzle out some patterns, using other primitive writings as a template.”
“So he’s been able to translate some of it?” Elizabeth asked with an excellent imitation of detached interest.
“It’s educated guesswork, mind you,” the professor said. “But it seems to invoke some kind of ceremony involving the dead.”
I swallowed dutifully, and brought another forkful to my mouth.
“A primitive burial rite?” Father asked.
The professor shook his head. “Resurrection.”
“Ah,” said Father, and he turned and looked directly at me.
I held his gaze as long as I thought natural. “Fascinating,” I said, and lifted my glass and drank. My confidence returned.
He can suspect nothing, I thought.
What we are doing is beyond belief.
After dinner I put on a coat and walked out along the dock. One of our rowboats was tied up alongside, and I stepped into it and stretched out to watch the sunset fade and the first stars appear. It had always been a favorite thing of ours, Konrad and me.
My mind sped me away from the chateau and up into the sky’s vault. I used to imagine greatness for myself, but now I no longer needed to imagine it. With the spirit butterflies upon me, it was within my grasp. There was no knowledge that would remain hidden from me. All I’d ever desired would be mine. I would have Konrad. I would have Elizabeth. And more.
Planks creaked, and I turned to see Elizabeth walking out along the dock, reading something. It was quite dark by now, and she went right past without noticing me, so engrossed was she in the piece of paper. As she made her way slowly to the dock’s end, she read aloud. Her voice was low, almost hesitant, as if afraid of revealing too much:
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
“Very pretty,” I remarked, sitting up in the boat.
She gave a small gasp as she turned, and guiltily began folding up the paper.
“Why do you put it away?” I said, stepping onto the dock. “Read on!”
“I-” She faltered, and then her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing, lurking out here?”
“I didn’t realize Henry was writing you little rhymes now.”
“Don’t be absurd. Henry and I just critique each other’s work.”
“No. It was written for you. About you.”
I knew this with absolute certainty. Those few simple lines had captured her. But as jealous anger began to pump through my veins, I wondered how Henry could know her so well. Yes, he’d been her childhood friend for nearly a decade, but I’d thought only I comprehended her dark and light. And all along there was wispy Henry Clerval, observing and loving her from afar with his ink-stained thoughts.
“It would be presumptuous to think it was written about me,” Elizabeth said primly.
“Oh, please. He’s completely smitten. He’s wooing you. Let me read the rest!”
She clasped the parchment protectively within both hands.
“That good, is it?” I asked sarcastically.
“It’s extremely accomplished.”
“Meaning ‘romantic.’” Damn Henry! His skill with a pen was immense. Just this past summer I’d asked him to write some words for me. How stupid of me not to realize he’d eventually start using them himself. And I knew how much Elizabeth valued poetics. I’d racked my mind earlier, urging its new sharpness to concoct some romantic phrases, but nothing had come. Matters of the heart, it seemed, would always elude me.
“I never thought Henry such a scoundrel.”
She laughed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Well, he can hardly be blamed,” I said. “After all the encouragement you’ve given him.”
“When have I encouraged him?” she demanded angrily.
“Oh, not in this world maybe, but in the other, when you danced with him. You’re a veritable temptress.”
“If you were closer, I’d slap you,” she said.
“Let me help,” I replied, and stepped closer. She promptly slapped me, which surprised me only a little.
We glared at each other in the near dark, and then she looked away.
“I’m sorry I slapped you,” she said.
“That’s all right. I quite enjoyed it.”
“I know how I behaved that night. That’s why I needed to go back alone, to make sure I hadn’t hurt Konrad.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Of course, it seems it’s his affections that have strayed.”
“No, no. I’m sure that’s not the case,” I said halfheartedly.
“So why shouldn’t I let my affections stray?” she said with a flare of defiance.
To this I made no reply.
She turned away with a sad shake of her head. “The truth is, when I read Henry’s poem, it’s not Henry I think of.”
“Poor Henry,” I murmured. Not even his beautiful words could help him. “He seems emboldened, though. He genuinely thinks he has a chance at winning you. If you let him write you poetry, you’ll only hurt him.”
“I suppose I miss being admired,” she said.
“ I admire you,” I told her impetuously. “And I wish I could write you romantic things.”
