the darkness behind me. I bolted the door and nearly collapsed with relief at the sight of the warm, cosy chamber. Frau Graben must have lit the fire, for the hearth glowed its welcome. I carefully relit the candle and fixed it into a holder next to the bed, letting it illuminate the darkest corner of the room.
It was but the work of a minute to wash myself and don the nightdress folded neatly on the bed. I had only the one, and I noticed a rent near the hem had been mended with small, tidy stitches. It had been washed as well and smelled of basil, and as I lifted it, a few sprigs of the herb fell from its folds. I placed them carefully under my pillow but did not retire at once to sleep. I was far too overwrought by the dark deeds of that night to sleep easily. I sat up for a long while thinking about the count. The night sky was bright with moonlight and thick with cloud, a wretched night to practise the astronomer’s arts. He would not be on the observatory walk this night, I mused. Perhaps he was sitting before the fire, sunk deep into opium dreams. I could not blame him if he were. I should have craved oblivion too if I carried the burden of his memories. I longed to go to him, to offer him whatever feeble comforts I could. But I was painfully aware of how badly I had already behaved with him, and although I regretted nothing, I picked my way carefully on the stony path to sin.
At length I settled with my writing things to send a letter to Anna. It was another letter of omission, for there was so much I could not speak of. How could I explain to her the horrors I had seen here, the monsters that I had been told walked abroad? Even as I wrote, the pleasant, homely sounds of pen scratching upon paper and fire falling to ash were underscored by the howling of wolves in the depths of the black forest beneath my window. How could I explain to my sweet, prosaic sister that evil stalked this place in the shape of undead men? And how could I confess to her the feelings I harboured for the count? Anna was a loyal creature, selfless and devoted. She would never understand the emotion that gnawed at me. It was not love, I could not give it so pretty a name. It was something far more elemental, a hunger I could neither name nor understand. I craved him, as Tantalus had craved water, and the more time I spent with him, the greater my thirst.
I could well imagine Anna’s reply if I did unburden myself to her. She would counsel flight, swift and immediate. She would advise me to leave this place and never come back, to banish the man from my thoughts and bolt the door against my longing. She would scold me for permitting a few stolen kisses to overcome my scruples and my resolve. She would not judge me for my feelings, for hers was a romantic soul and she knew the strange and unassailable power of the human heart. But she would fault me for not resisting the pull of this man, and I could not find the words that would make her understand.
Our grandfather had taken us once-long before he became reluctant to leave his house-to call upon an eccentric friend of his who practised mesmerism. The gentleman cast his influence over the maidservant who brought our tea, causing her to warble like a nightingale and reveal her inmost secrets. It had been a cruel trick, I thought, and the girl ended scarlet-faced in embarrassment, clutching the coin her master gave her in recompense. And now I was that girl, powerless over some insidious power I could neither resist or refuse. I would do whatever he asked of me, I reflected coolly, and my detachment surprised me. I was not angry that it should be so, or fearful of what would become of me. With his power over me came the certainty that however I acted, whatever passed between us was fated to be and I was content to have it so.
I could not explain my willingness to succumb to his influence. It did not settle with my character or my intellect, and I wondered that I did not oppose it more. Had the setting, beautiful and sinister, overcome my scruples? Was the dark magic of the Carpathians exerting its invidious influence? Was it simply that, denied proper companionship for so long, I wanted to belong to another? Or were the romantic trappings of the situation merely masking my own baser desires? I had not thought myself a carnal creature, but I imagined scandalous things when I was in the count’s company and worse when I was not. I had touched his hands, the broad palms and the long, elegant fingers, hands meant to stroke and caress. I had kissed his mouth, the firm lips that tasted of fruit and smoke. I had felt the length of him pressed against me, muscle and sinew, hard where I was soft, and I thought of the flesh beneath. He was a testament to the tailor’s art, his clothes beautifully made and perfectly fitted to his form. I had seen the fabric ride the hard thigh and muscled calf to the long, straight expanse of his back and the breadth of his shoulders, the places I longed to cling to. I thought of the firmly marked brows and the small cleft in his chin, as if nature herself had best marked where to kiss him.
And yet none of these parts could account for the attraction of the man himself. For all his physical charms and his elegant ways, it was his mind that captivated me most. He was a creature of mystery, with fathomless secrets, as enigmatic as a Grecian sphinx, a conundrum no mere mortal could hope to solve. He was so strange a combination of superstition and sophistry, of courtliness and cunning, I could not make him out, and the riddle of him teased at me, pricking my curiosity to obsession. I could tarry here a thousand years and still never know the truth of him, I thought in exultation. It was maddening, for he had begun to intrude upon my thoughts to an alarming degree. But to sit and think about him, to untangle the Gordian knot of his character, was a glorious diversion. He was providing me with inspiration for my work and for my own imagination, and it occurred to me that this man could well provide me the greatest adventure I would ever know.
But how could I confess such truths to Anna when I could scarcely own them myself? How could I possibly explain to her all that I had seen? I knew her well. Anna would counsel me to fly at once, leaving behind the horrors I had beheld. She would not, could not, comprehend the power of the count’s allure. And there were no words to make her understand.
Frustrated, I gave her a tepid and bloodless account of my stay at the castle, speaking of nothing important and concealing all that was. I gave my love to my nieces and nephews and I asked after William’s parishioners. I wrote about Anna’s garden, sympathising with her complaints about the wind that had stripped her prize rosebush. And I mentioned the dreary weather, omitting the wolves and the strange deeds we had done in the crypt. It was a lie, that letter, and I did not like to send it. But I knew Anna would worry if I did not, and so I wrote on, telling her a little about my book and that I meant, for the first time, to see my work published under my own name. I felt reckless in this place, a new boldness had crept into my work and my feelings, or perhaps it has always been there and merely wanted the spur of independence to urge it on. Whatever the cause, I felt myself-the passive girl Anna had known and loved-slipping further away the longer I tarried in Transylvania, and I wondered as I signed it with a flourish if I had said too much. There was nothing to alarm her until the last, when I spoke forthrightly of my ambitions, and the tone was so unaccustomed, I worried it would distress her. But I could no more unpen the words than I could have held back the tides. I knew Anna cherished hopes that my sojourn abroad would teach me tractability and that I would come home to marry Charles and settle to comfortable domesticity. I hated that my plans must divide us, but it seemed better she understand me now than later. With a wistful sense of having burnt my boats, I sealed the letter and put it aside for the post.
It was very late then, and my bones ached with fatigue as I brushed out my hair and plaited it firmly, tying the ends with little silken bows as I had done for Cosmina. I blew out the candle and slipped into bed, falling almost instantly into a deep, restless sleep.
Not surprisingly, I dreamt of the count. We were in the garden, but a different garden, for this one was beautiful and well tended, with soft grassy lawns and great knots of flowering plants and fruit trees, their branches heavy with lush fruit that bowed them nearly to the ground. We trod a narrow path in this garden, admiring the beauties of it. And then he reached for me, gently at first. But then he became urgent in his attentions, demanding even, and I wound myself about him as he buried his hands in my hair, his mouth hot against my neck. And although I had never yet spoken it aloud, I murmured his name, trailing a whisper over his skin.
Suddenly, with that drifting awareness that only the dreamer has, I was awake and yet not so. The man in my arms stilled and withdrew from me. I made a small sound of protest, but he put a finger to my lips, a finger cold as the grave. I slid back into slumber and if I dreamt again, I did not remember it when I wakened.
I awoke the next morning with a heavy head, my limbs leaden. I stretched slowly to waken myself, and as I did, I realised the careful, tidy plaits in my hair were undone. My hair was loose about my shoulders, the ribbons scattered over my pillow. I stared at them as if they were phantoms, scraps of unreality. I put out a finger to touch one, half expecting it to dissolve into the thin grey air. But it was real enough and cold, cold as only silk can be when not warmed by contact with the flesh. I took it up and saw that it had been carefully unpicked. The knots had been undone from both of the ribbons, the hair unwoven.
11
