“Cold,” Tati said. “Terribly cold.”
There was a silence, and I thought she had fallen asleep.
Then her voice came, a whisper in the shadowy chamber. “I thought the young man looked sad. Sad and . . . interesting.”
“If you asked Florica,” I said, “she’d tell you that the only thing Night People find ‘interesting’ is sinking their teeth into your neck.”
But my sister was asleep. As the light brightened and birds began a chirping chorus outside, I lay awake, thinking about the winter to come and whether I had been foolish to assure Father that we could cope. After a while, Gogu hopped out of his 28
bath and came to nestle on the pillow by my face, making a big wet patch on the linen. I’m here. Your friend is here. I was still awake when the sun pierced the horizon, somewhere beyond the forest, and down in the kitchen Florica began clattering pots and pans in preparation for breakfast.
29
Chapter Two
We stood in the courtyard. Two horses were saddled and bridled—ready for the ride down to Bra¸sov, where Father would transfer to a cart. Gabriel was traveling with him and would stay by his side through the winter, to watch over him.
With our man of all work, Dorin, away at his sister’s wedding celebrations in ¸Tara Româneasc˘a and not due back for some time, Piscul Dracului would be a house of women, save for the stalwart Petru.
Uncle Nicolae and his son, Cezar, had come down from Vârful cu Negur˘a to see Father off. Both wore sheepskin caps, heavy wool-lined gloves, and long fur-trimmed cloaks over their working clothes. Uncle Nicolae was smiling, his bearded face radiating genial confidence. Maybe he was putting it on for Father’s benefit, but I found it reassuring. Uncle Nicolae had always been kind to us girls, ready with jokes and compli-ments, his pockets housing small treats that could be produced 30
anytime one of us was upset or overtaken by shyness. Now that Tati and I were young ladies, he addressed us by our full names, with affectionate courtesy.
“Tatiana, Jenica, you know our home is always open to you and your sisters. Please come to me or Bogdana, or to Cezar, if anything at all is troubling you. We want to help in any way we can.”
“I’ll be overseeing your part of the business, Uncle Teodor,”
said Cezar to our father, who had gone suddenly quiet now that his departure was imminent. At eighteen, Cezar was as tall as his father and a great deal broader, with a short, well-kept dark beard and forceful eyebrows. Our cousin was not a particularly easy person to like, and growing from a boy into a man did not seem to have improved him. I had tried to be a friend to him, thinking I owed him that. When we were little, he had saved my life.
“Of course, I will supervise Cezar’s work closely,” put in Uncle Nicolae, seeing Father’s expression of doubt. “This will be good experience for him.”
“I’ll be looking after the accounts,” I reminded them. “I don’t need any help with that, it’s all in order. In fact, I can handle everything at this end.”
“It’s a lot of work for a girl—” Cezar began.
“I wish to speak with each of my daughters on her own for a moment,” Father said quietly. “You first, Jena. Nicolae?”
Uncle Nicolae gave a nod and drew Cezar aside. My sisters were standing on the steps before the main entry to the castle, with Florica and Petru behind them. Though the girls looked 31
half-asleep, I could see that every one of them was struggling not to cry. A chill wind blew down from the forest: a messenger of winter. Under the tall pines, all was quiet.
“Now, Jena,” Father said, out of the others’ hearing, “I suppose in a way Cezar is right—this is a great deal of responsibility, and you are only fifteen. Are you quite sure you understand what I explained to you about the funds, and about dealing with that shipment from Salem bin Afazi when it comes? I’ve left sufficient silver for your domestic expenses until well into spring, but if anything untoward should happen—”
“Please don’t worry about us, Father,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. Within his layers of winter clothing, he looked pale and wretched. “I’ve remembered about keeping business money separate from household, and I know the record-keeping part of things backward. The girls will help with the shipment and Ivan can bring some men up from the village if we need any heavy lifting.” Ivan, grandson of Florica and Petru, had his own smallholding not far away. “We’ll be fine.”
“Tati doesn’t have the same head for business that you do, Jena. Let her be a mother to the younger ones—she’s always done that job well, ever since I lost Bianca. And so have you, of course. You are good daughters.” We knew that Father would never marry again; his love for Mother was in his voice every time he spoke her name.
“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.
You can’t mean that. What about our picnics? What about pondweed pancakes?
“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.