John shrugged. “I’m a Scotsman, not French. Probably an expression for when the Loire claims a child. It happens from time to time—children play by the river, run about while their mothers do the washing . . .” He turned away and started to walk up toward the city gate. “Enough of the ghost stories. Blois is a royal residence, remember? Sadness is prohibited under penalty of death.”
As they followed John, they heard the mother cry out once more, a high-pitched, shrill scream like from a dying animal.
Not much later, Greta and John sat in a tavern with an earthen bowl between them, the brown, viscous contents of which John hungrily devoured. Under the table, Little Satan waited for the occasional spoonful. The meal had an unpronounceable name, but its main ingredients appeared to be tough ram, offal, pearl barley, and turnips, all simmered over the fire for several hours. Not even the many herbs—Greta thought she tasted a little mint—could overpower the dish’s musty smell.
John had been so excited about this meal, but she struggled to like it. She stirred her spoon around the bowl, not feeling any appetite, and nibbled on some hard barley bread. She didn’t say much, which wasn’t John’s fault—the young merchant tried very hard to please her, and not entirely unsuccessfully. He was charming, talkative without being obtrusive, and, despite his crooked nose and the freckles, rather handsome. If Greta was entirely honest with herself, she had grown fond of the young swashbuckler, even if she’d never tell him that. John thought much too highly of himself as it was.
The tavern was located amid a maze of small, steep lanes near a church on one of the hills Blois had been built upon. John had pointed out the carvings on the front of the house as they’d entered, including the figures of jugglers and musicians. The tavern was called Le Coq Rouge and appeared to be popular among the locals; there was much laughter and even music. But Greta couldn’t get in the mood, because every time the flute player started a new song, she was reminded of the song from the reeds the previous night.
Susie, dear Susie, what’s rustling in the straw?
And there was something else she couldn’t stop thinking about.
“This dead boy,” she said, cutting off John as he once more praised the smelly stew. “I can’t stop thinking about the mother’s words. ‘The ogre eats our children.’ You know what it means, right? I could see it in your face.”
“Touché.” John sighed and put down his spoon. “I didn’t want to frighten you with old tales. I thought it wouldn’t be a good start for a merry evening together. But, very well, if you really want to know: the ogre is an ancient mythical creature. They say he eats little children. He makes jewelry from their bones and wears their skulls around his neck. Parents in the Loire Valley use his tale to frighten their children.” He raised a finger and made his voice sound low and menacing. “If you’re not good and don’t eat up your salty stew, the ogre will come and swallow you whole.”
“That’s not a joking matter,” said Greta. “Do . . .” She hesitated. “Do children often die in this area?”
“How do you mean?” John looked confused. “Well, no more than elsewhere, I guess. But now that you mention it . . .”
Greta felt the hair on her neck stand on end. “Yes?”
“I remember hearing some horror stories—a little farther southwest, though. Toward Brittany. I heard merchants talking about missing children being found with their throats slit open. They said that there wasn’t a drop of blood left in their bodies, as if someone had sucked them out like an oyster.” John shook his head. “That’s nonsense, of course. Most likely, those children fell victim to some scoundrels. The woods are full of bad fellows, madmen and lepers. Or they were taken by slave traders. It happens—the Atlantic Ocean isn’t far.”
“How long has that been going on?” asked Greta.
“How should I know? I’ve been going up and down the Loire for years. You hear all sorts of things.” John frowned. “Why are you so interested?”
“You’re probably right—not a good topic of conversation for our evening together. Especially not with oversalted, tough ram stew.” Greta tried to smile, but it came out a little crooked. “Please don’t be offended if I’m not raving about your meal, in spite of your enthusiasm.”
John laughed. “The look on your face when the bowl hit the table said enough. Scottish cuisine is perhaps a little peculiar. But you can make it up to me by not talking about such awful matters anymore.”
“Agreed.” Greta nodded. But her mind continued to churn. Could those gruesome incidents be connected with Tonio? She thought about the missing children at Metz, the dead girl under the bridge, and the monster drinking her blood. But the murders John told her about seemed to have happened a while ago. If Tonio had been following them to France all this time, it couldn’t have been him. She decided not to mention anything to Johann for now. Maybe Karl was right and she was seeing ghosts where there were none. Karl was the only sensible one among them.
He and John.
She pushed the bowl of cold stew aside. “I’m full. If you don’t mind, I could really do with some fresh air.”
“Not at all. I don’t like the dessert here, anyhow. Beer sweetened with honey.” John grinned and picked a piece of meat out from between his teeth. “I don’t think you’d like it. And I admit that the stew has been better. They didn’t put enough kidney in, and the ram was probably older than the lambs of Abraham.” He stood up. “Let’s go outside. I want to show you a place that you’ll never forget. It’ll take your mind off things.”
He took her by the hand and led her outside, the dog trailing quietly. Greta was surprised how willingly she followed John.
