She remembered Glenn saying he intended to have breakfast. Perhaps he was still inside. She quickened her pace. Yes, she was hungry.
She stepped in and saw Iuliu sitting in the dining alcove to her right. He had sliced a large wedge from a wheel of cheese and was sipping some goat's milk. He seemed to eat at least six times a day.
He was alone.
"Domnisoara Cuza!" he called. "Would you like some cheese?"
Magda nodded and sat down. She now wasn't as hungry as she had thought, but she did need some food to keep going. Besides, there were a few questions she wanted to ask Iuliu.
"Your new guest," she said casually, taking a slice of white cheese off the flat of the knife blade, "he must have taken breakfast to his room."
Iuliu's brow furrowed. "Breakfast? He didn't have any breakfast here. But many travelers bring their own food with them."
Magda frowned. Why had he said he was going to see Lidia about breakfast? An excuse to get away?
"Tell me, Iuliu—you seemed to have calmed down since last night. What upset you so about this Glenn when he arrived?"
"It was nothing."
"Iuliu, you were trembling! I'd like to know why—especially since my room is across the hall from his. I deserve to know if you think he's dangerous."
The innkeeper concentrated hard on slicing the cheese. "You will think me a fool."
"No, I won't."
"Very well." He put the knife down and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "When I was a boy my father ran the inn and, like me, paid the workers in the keep. There came a time when some of the gold that had been delivered was missing—stolen, my father said—and he could not pay the keep workers their full amount. The same thing happened after the next delivery; some of the money disappeared. Then one night a stranger came and began beating my father, punching him, hurling him about the room as if he were made of straw, telling him to find the money. 'Find the money! Find the money!' " He puffed out his already ample cheeks. "My father, I am ashamed to say, found the money. He had taken some and hidden it. The stranger was furious. Never have I seen such wrath in a man. He began beating and kicking my father again, leaving him with two broken arms."
"But what does this have to do—"
"You must understand," Iuliu said, leaning forward and lowering his voice even further, "that my father was an honest man and that the turn of the century was a terrible time for this region. He only kept a little of the gold as a means of being certain that we would eat during the coming winter. He would have paid it back when times were better. It was the only dishonest thing he had done in an otherwise good and upright—"
"Iuliu!" Magda said, finally halting the flow of words. "What has this to do with the man upstairs?"
"They look the same, Domnisoara. I was only ten years old at the time, but I saw the man who beat my father. I will never forget him. He had red hair and looked so very much like this man. But," he laughed softly, "the man who beat my father was perhaps in his early thirties, just like this man, and that was forty years ago. They couldn't be the same. But in the candlelight last night, I—I thought he had come to beat me, too."
Magda raised her eyebrows questioningly, and he hurried to explain.
"Not that there's any gold missing now, of course. It's just that the workers have not been allowed to enter the keep to do their work and I've been paying them anyway. Never let it be said that I kept any of the gold for myself. Never!"
"Of course not, Iuliu." She rose, taking another slice of cheese with her. "I think I'll go upstairs and rest awhile."
He smiled and nodded. "Supper will be at six."
Magda climbed the stairs quickly, but found herself slowing as she passed Glenn's door, her eyes drawing her head to the right and lingering there. She wondered what he was doing in there, or if he was there at all.
Her room was stuffy, so she left the door open to allow the breeze from the window to pass through. The porcelain water pitcher on her dresser had been filled. She poured some of the cool water into the bowl beside it and splashed her face. She was exhausted but knew sleep was impossible ... too many thoughts swirling in her head to allow her to rest just yet.
A high pitched chorus of cheeps drew her to the window. Amid the budding branches of the tree that grew next to the north wall of the inn was a bird's nest. She could see four tiny chicks, their heads all eyes and gaping mouth, straining their scrawny necks upward for a piece of whatever the mother bird was feeding them. Magda knew nothing about birds. This one was gray with black markings along its wings. Had she been home in Bucharest she might have looked it up. But with all that had been happening, she found she couldn't care less.
Tense, restless, she wandered about the tiny room. She checked the flashlight she had brought with her. It still worked. Good. She would need it tonight. On her way back from the keep, she had reached a decision.
Her eyes fell on the mandolin propped in the corner by the window. She picked it up, seated herself on the bed and began to play. Tentatively at first, adjusting the tuning as she plucked out a simple melody, then with greater ease and fluidity as she relaxed into the instrument, segueing from one folk tune to another. As with many a proficient amateur, she achieved a form of transport with her instrument, fixing her eyes on a point in space, her hands playing by touch, humming inwardly as she jumped from song to song. Tensions eased away, replaced by an inner tranquility. She played on, unaware of time.
A hint of movement at her open door jarred her back to reality. It was Glenn.
"You're very good," he said from the doorway.
She was glad it was he, glad he was smiling at her, and glad he had found pleasure in her playing.
She smiled shyly. "Not so good. I've gotten careless."
"Maybe. But the range of your repertoire is wonderful. I know of only one other person who can play so many songs with such accuracy."
"Who?"
"Me."
There it was again: smugness. Or was he just teasing her? Magda decided to call his bluff. She held out the mandolin.
"Prove it."
Grinning, Glenn stepped into the room, pulled the three-legged stool over to the bed, seated himself, and reached for the mandolin. After making a show of "properly" tuning the instrument, he began to play. Magda listened in awe. For such a big man with such large hands, his touch on the mandolin was astonishingly delicate. He was obviously showing off, playing many of the same tunes but in a more intricate style.
She studied him. She liked the way his blue shirt stretched across the width of his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled back to the elbows, and she watched the play of the muscles and tendons under the skin of his forearms as he worked the mandolin. There were scars on those arms, crisscrossing the wrists and trailing up to the point where the shirt hid the rest of him. She wanted to ask him about those scars but decided it was too personal a question.
However, she could certainly question him about how he played some of the songs.
"You played the last one wrong," she told him.
"Which one?"
"I call it 'The Bricklayer's Lady.' I know the lyrics vary from place to place, but the melody is always the same."
"Not always," Glenn said. "This was how it was originally played."
"How can you be so sure?" That irritating smugness again.
"Because the village tauter who taught me was ancient when we met, and she's now been dead many years."
"What village?" Magda felt indignation touch her. This was her area of expertise. Who was he to correct her?
"Kranich—near Suceava."
"Oh ... Moldavian. That might explain the difference." She glanced up and caught him staring at her.