“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 pet was a woefully inadequate description for my dearest friend and advisor. It seemed a good time to change the subject.
“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.”
His tone was bland. “Letters?”
“I’ve been preparing for a lesson.” Paula delighted in talking about her studies. “It’s about historical invasions of the Transylvanian plateau.”
“Go on,” said Cezar.
While my cousin’s attention was on Paula, I poured some of my coffee into the saucer.
“You know the name Transylvania means the land beyond the forest in Latin,” Paula told Cezar, sipping her coffee. She always seemed able to drink it piping hot. “The wildwood has played a major part in saving the folk of this area over the centuries, did you know that? Down in the lower regions, the settlements were overcome and ransacked by one conquering force after another. Up here on the plateau, folk just vanished into the woods when they heard the invaders coming. The marauding armies simply couldn’t find them.”
“Interesting,” said Cezar with an edge in his voice. I tried to warn Paula with my eyes, but she was addressing herself earnestly to our cousin.
“Folk are afraid of the wildwood, of course,” Paula went on. “There are so many strange stories about it. But it seems to me the forest shelters and protects people. Ow! Jena, you kicked me!”
I caught her eye and she fell silent. It was a long time since Costi’s death. All the same, this topic was not a good one to raise with Cezar, nor with his father. For all that, Uncle Nicolae seemed quite unperturbed; he was starting on a second pastry.
37
“This land’s seen cruel times,” said Florica. “My grand-mother had tales that would turn your hair white.”
“Shelters and protects.” Cezar’s hands clenched themselves into fists on the table, and the bright chamber seemed suddenly full of shadows. “Hardly! Ensorcells and destroys, more likely. You can’t have forgotten what happened to Costin, Paula.” His use of his brother’s full name indicated how upset he was. “Jena herself nearly drowned that day. This valley has a hundred other tales that echo our own—a hundred other children lost, a hundred other travelers wandered into the forest around Piscul Dracului, never to be seen again. The very names of creatures that dwell in the wildwood put a shiver down a man’s spine: lycanthropes, goblins, witches, and Night People.”
Gogu had drained the saucer and now crouched by it, trembling. I don’t trust him, Jena. He makes me edgy.
“That’s just the coffee,” I muttered.
“What was that?” Cezar gave me a sharp look.
“Nothing.”
“To call the wildwood a sanctuary is almost . . . sacrile-gious,” Cezar continued. “Everyone knows the forests in these parts are places of extreme peril, full of otherworldly presences. Florica would agree with me, I’m certain.”
“Folk do say it’s unsafe, Master Cezar,” said Florica. “On the other hand, maybe it’s more a matter of how you look at things. Of getting back what you give. It’s always seemed to me that if you offer respect, you get respect in return, even when you’re dealing with those beings you mentioned.”
“There’s a certain wisdom in that,” said Uncle Nicolae.
“And it sounds as if Paula knows her history.”
38
“I must disagree with you, Father.” Cezar’s jaw was set, his eyes cold. It was a look familiar to me, one I did not like at all.
Once he was in this mood, there was no cajoling him out of it.
“Where did your sister learn these theories, Tatiana?”
Tati blinked at him in surprise, a piece of pastry halfway to her lips.
“I can speak for myself,” Paula said, her tone level, although her arms were folded belligerently across her chest. “Father Sandu and I have discussed this at some length. As he is a priest of the Orthodox faith, you can hardly claim his lessons to be contrary to the teachings of the Church. It’s true about people taking refuge in the forest. There are documents—”