“Thank you, Father.” Curse it, I wasn’t going to cry. I was going to be strong, to set an example.
“Perhaps you’d be wise to curtail your trips into the forest over the winter.” Father’s tone was mild. He was not the kind of man who forbade things. The most he did was offer gentle 32
suggestions. “I know you and that frog love your adventures, but now you are a little older, you should perhaps observe other folk’s rules awhile, at least until I’m home again. In this community my method of bringing up my daughters is considered eccentric. They already believe I allow you too much responsibility. Best not give them any more fuel for comment while I’m gone; I’d hate for you to be hurt by foolish tongues.
Your aunt Bogdana is a sound source of advice on matters of propriety.”
“I’ll try, Father.” He knew, and I knew, that I was no more capable of staying out of the forest than I was of holding back my opinions when I thought I was right.
“Shh,” I whispered to the frog, and then it was time to say goodbye. I managed to kiss Father on both cheeks without letting my tears spill. Then I stepped back to allow each of my sisters her moment of farewell. I stroked Gogu’s cool, damp skin with a finger as I lifted him from my shoulder to slip him into my pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Cezar watching me. “It’s nearly winter,” I murmured. “Too cold for picnics.”
After we’d watched Father and Gabriel ride away, I think all five of us wanted to go back to bed and catch up on lost sleep—or just sit quietly, considering how life could change overnight, and how hard it could be to deal with. But Uncle Nicolae and Cezar had made the effort to ride through the forest to bid Father farewell, so we had to invite them in for refreshments. We used the kitchen, which was big, warm, and 33
welcoming, if informal. The floor was tiled in red and the walls were bright with woolen hangings of our housekeeper’s own weaving, showing patterns of stripes and trees and little flowers in rows. The fire in the stove was glowing, for Florica had already made two batches of pastries this morning. I loved this room, with its savory scents and its vivid colors. Piscul Dracului was a huge, drafty labyrinth of crooked stairs and oddly shaped chambers, perilous parapets and echoing galleries. I loved that, too—its strangeness, its surprises—but Florica’s kitchen was the true heart of the place. As a child I had felt safe here. While Florica had never quite been a mother to us, she had done a good job over the years as confidante and friend. Generously built, with gray hair worn in a neat bun, our housekeeper treated us with a mixture of the respect due from servant to young mistresses and the benign discipline of a mother cat bringing up a brood of unruly kittens.
Our guests sat down at the big table, whose wood was gleaming white from Florica’s daily scrubbing. Petru had escaped, muttering something about sheep. Like many of the valley men, he never had much to say in company.
“Shall I take the last batch of pastries out of the oven, Florica?” asked Tati, stifling a yawn. At Florica’s nod, she lifted the tray out of the blue-tiled stove, her hands protected by a thick padded cloth, her cheeks flushed from the heat. She was wearing her dark hair in braids pinned up on top of her head, and even in her working gown and apron she looked lovely. The pastries smelled nutty and wholesome. Gogu stuck his nose out of the pocket again, sniffing.
“You look well prepared for winter, Florica,” commented 34
Uncle Nicolae. There were strings of garlic in their dozens hanging from the rafters, along with bunches of herbs and gar-lands of little onions; the Night People would not be visiting Piscul Dracului this season if Florica could help it. “We’ve a good supply of cheeses and salted meats set aside this year. You girls must let us know if you run short of supplies for the table.”
Both houses had storage caves in which such foodstuffs could be kept for months in cold weather: it was one advantage of living in the mountains, where winter gripped long and hard.
“Thank you, Uncle,” Tati said. “Would you care for a pastry? Cezar?”
“Jena,” said Florica, “that frog’s eating my best plum preserve.”
Gogu had escaped the pocket and was approaching the nearest jam dish in very small hops, as if he thought this would go unnoticed. I picked him up as unobtrusively as I could and stuffed him back in the pocket.
“You still have the frog,” commented Cezar, frowning.
I could see he was about to launch into one of his speeches about how unsuitable a frog was as a young lady’s pet: an argument I had no answer for, because I could not explain exactly what Gogu was, only that
“Where’s Paula?” I asked. The others were all here. Stela had retreated to the warm nook by the stove and looked more asleep than awake.
“Writing,” Tati said. “She has some work to do for Father Sandu. She went straight back upstairs as soon as Father left.
Iulia, will you go and fetch her, please?”
35
Our coffee glasses were of Venetian make, and very fine; I had seen both Uncle Nicolae and Cezar looking them over with the appreciation of born merchants. They were a set of eight, each glass a different color, with holders of silver wirework wrought in an exquisite pattern of stems and butterflies. As for the coffee itself, it was Turkish. The Turks were overlords of Transylvania, and not everyone viewed them kindly, for their presence among us had been attended by conflict, though the princes they set up to rule us were no better or worse than others in the past. Father had said Turkish culture was full of re-finements, and that the Turks made excellent trading partners, as long as one knew the right way to talk to them. We had seen the lovely items he brought back after he bartered with their merchants: silk carpets from Persia, which seemed alive with intricate patterns of scrolls and flowers; musical instruments of flawless finish; and cunning boxes with hinged lids and hidden compartments, decorated with brass inlay. We did not take coffee very often—Father was of the opinion that one could have too much of a good thing. It had seemed to all of us that this morning’s farewell more than justified a treat.
Gogu wasn’t really supposed to have coffee; it made him jumpy. All the same, Iulia had put a little green saucer by my glass. I began to pour the thick, dark brew from the coffeepot into the glasses, hoping I was not so tired I would spill it on someone’s lap. Tears pricked behind my eyes. I’d have given up a lifetime of treats to have Father back here now, well and happy, sitting at the table telling a story of some faraway, exotic place he’d visited and the intriguing folk he’d encountered there. I’d have given up coffee and pastries in a flash to see his smile.
36
As soon as the others returned and sat down, Cezar began an inquisition. “I understand you’ve been busy writing, Paula.”
