hand and the inlaid hilt with which it plays. Dracula wears a ring on his little finger; the abbot well knows, without looking closer, the ferociously curling symbol on it.
“Come.” To the abbot’s relief, Dracula has apparently tired of this debate, and he stands up suddenly, vigorously. “I want to see your scribes. I will have a special job for them soon.”
They go together into the tiny scriptorium, where three of the monks sit copying manuscripts, according to the old way, and one carves letters to print a page of the life of Saint Anthony. The press itself stands in one corner. It is the first printing press in Wallachia, and Dracula runs a proud hand over it, a heavy, square hand. The oldest of the scriptorium monks stands at a table near the press, chiseling a block of wood. Dracula leans over it. “And what will this be, Father?”
“Saint Mikhail slaying the dragon, Excellency,” the old monk murmurs. The eyes he raises are cloudy, occluded by sagging white brows.
“Rather have the Dragon slaying the infidel,” Dracula says, chuckling.
The monk nods, but the abbot shudders inwardly, again.
“I have a special commission for you,” Dracula tells him. “I shall leave a sketch for it with the lord abbot.”
In the sunshine of the courtyard, he pauses. “I will stay for the service, and take communion with you.” He turns a smile on the abbot. “Do you have a bed for me in one of the cells tonight?”
“As always, my lord. This house of God is your home.”
“And now let us go up in my tower.” The abbot knows well this practice of his patron; Dracula always likes to survey the lake and surrounding shores from the highest point in the church, as if to check for enemies. He has good reason, thinks the abbot. The Ottomans seek his head from year to year, the king of Hungary bears him no small malice, his own boyars hate and fear him. Is there anyone who is not his enemy, apart from the residents of this island? The abbot follows him slowly up the winding stair, bracing himself for the ringing of the bells, which will soon begin, and which sounds very loud up here.
The dome of the tower has long openings on every side. When the abbot reaches the top, Dracula is already standing at his favorite post, staring across the water, his hands clasped behind him in a characteristic gesture of thought, of planning. The abbot has seen him stand this way in front of his warriors, directing the strategy for the next day’s raid. He looks not at all like a man in constant peril-a leader whose death could occur at any hour, who should be pondering every moment the question of his salvation. He looks instead, the abbot thinks, as if all the world is before him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Kostova graduated from Yale and holds an MFA from the University of Michigan, where she won the Hopwood Award for the Novel-in-Progress.
