not explained how Dr?agu?ta’s gift had turned our cousin’s life gradually to the dark.
“I can’t believe Cezar hit you,” Paula said in a small voice.
“Jena, if he insists on talking to us one by one . . .”
“Don’t worry,” I said with false confidence. “I won’t let that happen.” But my stomach was heavy with dread, and my bruise throbbed as I remembered the look in Cezar’s eyes. It was the look of a man who believes the whole world is against him—of a man who will do anything to change the ill hand he thinks fate has dealt him. And although part of me shrank from seeing Costi again, for the memory of his set face and wounded eyes filled me with guilt, another part of me was wishing, wishing above anything, that he would come.
*
*
*
345
Being cooped up indoors was driving me crazy. Toward the end of the afternoon, I seized a moment when there were no guards around and slipped out, bucket in hand, to give the chickens their mash. The light was fading and the shadowy courtyard was deserted, save for a solitary figure standing stock-still, right in the center. It was an old woman dressed in black, with a basket over her arm. The basket was empty. I felt a prickling sensation all over my skin. A moment later I heard a horse’s hooves approaching along the path that skirted the woods.
Cezar was back.
“Go,” I muttered, setting down my bucket and hurrying over to the old woman. “Go quickly!”
The crone made no attempt to move away. She had shed the tiny uncanny form that I was accustomed to, but I had known her instantly. She looked just as she had long ago, when three children had ventured to a forbidden place to play at kings and queens. The old woman grinned at me, and her little pointed teeth confirmed her identity.
“Go!” I urged her again. “Cezar’s coming!” Images of the hunt were in my mind: those men with their iron implements, their tight jaws, and their eyes half angry, half terrified.
“I know,” said Dr?agu?ta calmly.
And it was too late. He was there, riding into the courtyard. He dismounted by my side, glaring at the unexpected visitor. “Be off with you!” he said. “If you’re expecting handouts, you’ve come to the wrong place. We’ve nothing for beggars at Piscul Dracului.”
“Not at all, young man,” said the crone, gazing up into his 346
scowling face. “It’s my turn to bestow largesse. I have something for you.”
Cezar opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again as Costi stepped out from the shadows by the hen coop to walk across to us. His dark curls had been cropped short and he was freshly shaven. He wore a plain white shirt, a waistcoat embroidered with ivy twists, and dark green trousers with riding boots. He looked just as wonderful as he had in my dreams. The green eyes were cool and the mobile mouth unsmiling as he came up to me. Over his arm was my cloak.
“I think this is yours,” he said politely, holding the garment out to me.
Cezar froze, staring at him. I took the cloak but said nothing—for the moment, I had no words. I had known that Costi would come back, but not like this, not suddenly, without any warning, and with the witch of the wood beside him.
“Jena,” said Cezar in a strangled whisper, “who are these people? What are they doing here?” His eyes went from Costi to Dr?agu?ta and back again; he looked as if he were caught in a terrifying dream.
“I’m your brother, Cezar,” Costi said. His voice was unsteady; I saw in his face that he was half expecting the same rebuff I had given him last night, and dreading it. There was anger there, certainly, but it was not as strong as the love and the desperate hope in his eyes. “Maybe you’ve forgotten me. It’s a long time since that day by T?aul Ielelor when we gave up our most treasured possessions.”
I found my voice. “It’s true,” I said. “He didn’t die. He was 347
bewitched into another form until he came back to himself not long ago. Dr?agu?ta didn’t drown him, she saved him. She made him into a frog. He’s been here all these years, Cezar. He was Gogu.”
“The frog,” Cezar said blankly. “No. No, it can’t be. It’s nonsense. Are you saying . . . Are you telling me—? I don’t believe you. You’re not my brother, you can’t be. Costi died. I saw it.” He was looking at the witch now, and I saw him open his mouth again to call out, to summon the guards and have her seized.
“No—” I began, but Dr?agu?ta gave the tiniest shake of her head. I fell silent. In her eyes I saw that the guards would not hear my cousin shout, that nobody would come until her business here was done. It was as if Piscul Dracului and all the woods around it were frozen while the four of us played the game to its conclusion in the quiet courtyard.
“This is your doing, Jena!” Cezar blustered. “You encouraged this—this
“Cezar.” Costi’s voice had gone ominously quiet. “How did Jena get that bruise? Did you strike her?”
“A misunderstanding,” Cezar muttered. “Anyway, that’s none of your business. You can’t just walk in here and tell me you’re Costi—it’s ridiculous. Who would believe you? You can’t prove a thing. You don’t have a scrap of evidence.”
348
“There’s this,” Costi said, and he drew out a chain he had around his neck. On it hung the silver ring of Varful cu Negur?a, the ring given only to each generation’s eldest son.
“You could have found that in the forest—”
“Cezar,” said Costi simply, “you are my brother. You did wrong that day, long ago. But we were all very young, perhaps too young to understand what our choices would mean. It has been a long time of learning. We can mend things now; we can work together to set this right. That is what Father would wish, for he always put the good of
