Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(37)
I had no response to such a cryptic statement. When I made no move to follow the stranger in the death’s-head mask, he tilted his head in a quizzical expression.
“Fr?ulein? Are you coming?”
“You must forgive me,” I said stiffly. “I don’t know who you are, Master Death.”
“Hmmm? Oh!” He laughed then, lifting his mask to reveal a surprisingly cheerful, apple-cheeked face. “I do beg your pardon.” He swept forward in an elegant bow. “I am Otto von Procházka und zu Snovin, at your service.” He straightened and fitted his death’s-head mask over his face again, becoming anonymous once more. “The host of this infamous soiree, the proprietor of this magnificent house, and if I’m not mistaken”—dark eyes twinkled at me from the depths of the skull—“your most excellent new benefactor.”
SHEEP SKINS
count Procházka was . . . unexpected.
My mysterious benefactor was a rotund little man of indeterminate age. What little hair he had about his crown and side whiskers was a wiry gray, but his cheeks were rosy with the glow of youth and good humor. His waistcoat crinkled around his shiny brass buttons in much the same way his skin crinkled about his eyes when he smiled. Aside from the skull mask, his costume as Death seemed hastily put together, a black silk cloak thrown over what appeared to be ordinary apparel—a pale satin waistcoat, dark woolen jacket, dun-colored breeches, white stockings, black shoes with brass buckles glinting dully in the moonlight. A bloodred poppy was pinned to his lapel.
I hadn’t realized until that moment that I had had a certain impression of my host from the elegant and educated hand on the letter he had sent me, as well as the salacious stories I’d heard from Frau Messner and the ladies of Herr Schneider’s shop. I wasn’t entirely sure what I had been expecting—someone tall, beautiful, and languid, perhaps—but I certainly hadn’t thought my patron—the subject of so many misgivings and incendiary rumors—would be a cheerful little cockatiel of a man twittering about in Bohemian-accented German.
“Terribly sorry if I gave you a fright,” said the Count. “But your brother, your sister, and your friend were worried about your whereabouts, and when my wife told me you had come out to the gardens, I knew I had to come find you. Very few people have solved this labyrinth, you see.”
Indeed, my unexpected host was making his way confidently through the twists and turns of the hedge maze while I tripped and skipped in order to keep up.
“It was my grandmother’s idea,” the Count went on, carrying on his half of the conversation whether I responded or no. “The hedge maze, I mean. She had a mind for mathematics and puzzles, but they say the labyrinth follows no logic anyone can decipher.” He chuckled. “They say you must either be magical or mad in order to solve it.”
Magic. I remembered the path of poppies blooming before me in the dark, a pair of glowing eyes blinking and winking in the night sky. Madness.
“I think it’s pretty clear which one I am,” the nobleman said. He grinned, a manic expression, and I had the suspicion I knew the answer.
“Both, obviously,” the Count continued. “Although my wife would beg to differ.” His smile widened, but it did nothing to lessen my discomfort. “Ah, but listen to me prattle on like a foolish girl just out of the schoolroom. Come, come, let us make haste, for the night is cold and full of horrors that might snatch you up and steal you away.”
My ears pricked. “Steal me away?”
He paused then, turning to stare at me through the holes of his mask. “Haven’t you heard the stories, Fr?ulein?” His voice was soft, sweet. “There are those”—he gestured toward the house, toward the city proper—“who would say that these disappearances are a regrettable consequence of the, ah, pleasures in which I and my associates are known to indulge.”
I stiffened, thinking of what my landlady Frau Messner had told me: of the nameless girl the Procházkas had taken under their wing, the plain country maiden who had vanished under suspicious circumstances. Other bits of rumor and gossip flickered through my thoughts, wavering and dancing in and out like candle flame. Laudanum. Rituals. Secrets.
My host broke the tension with a laugh. “I jest, my dear. You have nothing to fear from me! Ah, I see we’ve found them,” he said, waving to someone in the distance. “Or perhaps we have been found.”
We emerged from the labyrinth. Standing outside, silhouetted by the lights from the house, were two figures: the swan-masked woman in white and a tall, thin youth holding a violin case, dressed as the night.
Josef.
“There you are,” said the woman in white. “I was beginning to worry about you.” Her green eyes were vivid, even in the shadows of her mask. “The night is cold and you have been gone quite some time.”
“Fr?ulein,” the Count said, turning to me. “May I introduce you to my wife, Countess Maria Elena von Procházka und zu Snovin.”
His wife. Suddenly, our earlier encounter made more sense, her overly familiar manner, how she seemed to have known me. The two of them made an odd pair; she all grace and cultured elegance, while he seemed put together by an absentminded puppeteer.
“Charmed,” she said. “But we’ve met before.”
Too late I remembered my manners and dropped into an awkward curtsy. “M-madame.”