IT TOOK ten minutes of thrashing through a dew-soaked thicket of young beech trees before their way broke into a band of taller oaks, beneath whose broad canopies the ground was more bare and easy to cross. More than once Svenson caught Eloise's arm as she stumbled. After each stumble she thanked him quietly and he released her, stepping ahead and doing his best to clear the branches from her path. Aside from this they did not speak, though once the Doctor risked an observation on the majesty of the mighty oak in general and, with a nod to a darting red squirrel, how each tree functioned within the forest as a sort of miniature city, supporting inhabitants of all stations, from grubs to squirrels, from songbirds to even hawks in its heights. It would have been possible for him to continue—the relation of oak to oak being certainly comparable to the various tiny duchies that together formed a sort of German nation—yet at her silence he did not, allowing the last sentence to dissipate flatly in the empty woods.
Beyond the oaks they met a path, wide enough for a horse and wagon, but so covered with leaves that it was clear traffic was rare.
“You recognize nothing?” he asked.
She shook her head, and then gestured to their left. “There is perhaps a better chance if we continue west.”
“As you wish,” said Svenson, and they began to walk.
They walked in an unbearable silence. Doctor Svenson tried to distract himself with the birdsong and the rustles of invisible wind. When he could stand it no more, yet upon opening his mouth found nothing to say, he indicated their leaf-strewn path.
“Our way is as thickly padded as a Turkish carpet—I find it impossible to tell if the Contessa has preceded us.”
Eloise turned to face him quickly. “Do you think she has?”
“She has gone
“But why here?”
“We are walking west. Is not west more toward the city?”
“If she sought the city, she would have remained on the train— you said so yourself.”
“I did.” Such stupidity was exactly what came of making conversation to no purpose. “Still, the park is large. We can only hope.”
“Hope?”
“To catch her, of course. To stop her.”
“Of course,” nodded Eloise, with a sigh.
“You would prefer her free?” asked Svenson, somewhat tartly.
“I would prefer her vanished from my life.”
Doctor Svenson could not stop himself. “And what life is that? Your master is dead, your mistress in turmoil, your enemies everywhere. And yet what life was it
“One might say the same,” she answered, her voice swift and low, “to a man whose Prince is dead, whose Prince was a fool, whose wasted efforts on an idiot's behalf have left only bitterness and shame.”
Svenson barked with disgust, looking to the trees for any retort, but nothing came. Her words were exact as a scalpel.
“You are of course correct—” he began, but stopped at her exasperated sigh.
“I am an idiot whose life has been saved countless times by your precise foolishness. I have no right to say one word.”
Before he could disagree, Eloise stopped walking. He stopped with her. She turned to look behind them.
“What is it?” he asked.
Eloise pointed off the path. Through the new green trees Svenson saw a grey stone wall, perhaps the height of his shoulder.
“We have passed something,” said Eloise. “Perhaps it is a house.”
ON THE far side of the wall they found the ruins of what might have been an abbey, the stones draped with vines, the windows empty holes through which he could see trees that had grown up inside, nurtured on the decayed beams of the ceiling. Svenson recognized several fruit trees, gnarled and unkempt, the remnants of some abbot's orchard or lady's garden, and then as they neared pointed out an even thinner line of wide step-stones that led beyond the ruin.
“Do you know what this place is?” Svenson asked.
Eloise shook her head. She had stopped, staring ahead into the trees. Svenson nodded to the new flagstone path.
“Shall we not see where it goes?”
“It is a ruin,” she said.
“I find ruins stirring,” he replied. “Each holds its own secret tale. And besides, these stones seem quite well kept.”
He stepped forward and she followed without answer. Ruins of any kind, but most particularly those overcome by nature, spoke to Svenson's heart deeply—and he glanced at Eloise with an encouraging smile. She did her best to smile in return, and he reached to take her hand, which she allowed with a defeated look that left him wishing he could, without even sharper embarrassment, let it go again.
The path of stones wound to a wooden gate, set with an iron latch.
The square flagstone below the gate showed a fading wet mark… a small footprint… a woman's boot… or a man's that had evaporated to a smaller size. Svenson slipped the pistol into his hand. He motioned that Eloise should keep behind him and reached for the iron latch.
BEYOND THE gate, the flagstone walk threaded a pair of well-tended flower beds (pruned rosebushes to the left and new budding tulips— red and yellow—to the right) and ended at a low stone house with a thatched roof whose edges hung far enough to cast the walls of the house, its two rounded windows, and its wooden door into shadow. The green turf that lined the walkway was wet with dew, the stones ahead marked with more footprints. The air was silent save for the birds.
“Do you know this place?” he whispered.
Again Eloise shook her head. Svenson crept to the nearest print, crouching down to study it. This was unquestionably left by a woman's boot, for even a young man's would not show such a pointed toe. He pointed toward the rosebushes, where a small spade had been set against a stake. Eloise pulled it from the ground and somewhat uncertainly shifted it in her hands to find the proper grip for swinging.
They had been standing in the garden too long, and with a nod to Eloise the Doctor advanced quickly to the doorway, darting to one side and indicating that she should stand opposite—which at least hid them from the windows. She hefted the shovel gamely, but he saw she was entirely without confidence. For all he knew, her wound had reopened and was bleeding. He must capture the Contessa by himself. The less any situation asked of Eloise, the better.
He reached for the iron latch. The door swung wide without a squeak onto a room exuding both intimate care (the hearth dotted with porcelain keepsakes, the furniture waxed and gleaming, and the plaster walls covered with framed engravings) and abandonment, for the flowers on the table had died and the flagstones beneath Svenson's feet showed streaks of dust the wind had blown beneath the door. The Doctor entered carefully and crossed to the hearth. The grate was empty and cold.
He turned to Eloise, standing stiffly in the door with her shovel, and motioned her inside. The Doctor led the way into a humble kitchen. No one was there, nor were there signs of recent occupation, but his eye caught a shapeless pile covered with cloth, stuffed behind the butcher's block. He pulled back the cloth. Heaped beneath, without the sensitive regard their maker might have demanded, lay the
He looked up to see Eloise's gaze fixed on the topmost painting— one Svenson had not seen before, showing the haloed face of the angel. The awful man's brushwork really was exquisite—the flesh of the ecstatic woman seemed as real as that of Eloise across the room, and the blue surface of the menacing angel shone like glass itself. The angel's mouth was open, almost in mid-bite, or perhaps this was only the hissing exhortation of its
