Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(48)
“That is the old monastery,” said the Count. “It belonged to the order of St. Benedict before it was destroyed several hundred years ago. It’s been empty ever since.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“It burned down in a fire.”
As we drew closer, I could see scorch marks painted onto the stones, traces of oily black tears streaming from hollow-eyed windows. “What caused the fire?”
He shrugged. “No one knows. There are stories, of course. There are accounts there was a lightning storm of biblical proportions the night it burned down. Still others say that the ghost of a restless wolf-spirit started it. More likely than not”—he shrugged—“some poor hapless monk fell asleep at his desk while transcribing something and knocked his candle over.”
“Wolf-spirit?” Josef asked.
“There have been tales of spectral wolves and hounds in these parts for as long as I can remember,” the Count said. “The villagers still speak of D’ábel, a monstrous beast with two different-colored eyes like the Devil.”
His eyes fell to the ring on my finger, two mismatched gems winking from a wolf’s silver face. Without thinking, I quickly moved to cover it, not thinking how that gesture would betray its importance to my . . . hosts? Benefactors? Captors?
“An interesting piece of jewelry you have there, Fr?ulein,” he remarked. He and his wife exchanged glances. “May I see it?”
“I—I . . .” I did not know what to say, or how to decline without calling more attention to it. I myself didn’t want to think too hard about how it had been returned to me. “It—it does not belong to me,” I finished. “It is not mine to share.”
“Curious,” the Countess said. “Is it so precious that you must guard it with your own life?”
I looked down at the ring, scuffed and tarnished with age. The mismatched gemstones—one blue, one green—were small, hardly enough to be considered worth much. Yet whatever its value, it was worth infinitely more to me. I thought of the dream—vision?—I had of the Goblin King, of the shadows crawling over his skin, the crown of horns growing from his head, and remembered his vow.
“One cannot place a price on a promise,” I said shortly. “And that is all I will speak of the matter.”
I felt Josef’s eyes upon me then, a questioning touch. It was the first hint of interest—of engagement—I had felt from my brother in a long time.
“Strange, what weight we place on such trinkets,” the Countess murmured. “What meaning we imbue our possessions. The ring is but a bit of silver, wrought in an unusual shape. Yet it is more than a piece of jewelry. A symbol? A key?”
I said nothing and turned my head to gaze out the window. I watched darkness fall as the sun set behind the clouds, casting long shadows across the valley and across my heart.
*
By the time we pulled up the long gravel driveway to the manor house itself, night had fallen entirely, and a thin layer of snow had settled along the roads. The dark was oppressive in these parts, the sort of dense black that had depth and weight, familiar to those of us who had grown up in the wild. Our only source of light aside from the lantern hanging on its pole before our driver were twin torches blazing in the distance, held by two silhouetted figures waiting at the door for our arrival.
“Too late for supper, I suppose,” the Count grumbled. “I wanted some of Nina’s cabbage soup before bed.”
“I’m sure the housekeeper will feed you until your waistcoat pops tomorrow, dear,” said his wife.
“But I want it now,” he said petulantly.
“We’ll see if Nina can send us some trays after we turn down for the evening,” the Countess sighed. “I know you get cranky when you’re hungry. Apologies, children,” she said, turning to Josef and me, though it was too dark to see our faces inside the coach. “We shall have a proper dinner and introduction to Snovin tomorrow.”
“And why you’ve brought us here?” I asked.
I felt the touch of her green eyes on mine. “All shall be revealed. Tomorrow.”
The two torch-wielding silhouettes in the distance resolved themselves into the shapes of a man and a woman; one short, stout, and dumpling-faced, the other tall, thin, and craggy-cheeked. They opened the carriage door as the Count introduced them as Nina and Konrad, the housekeeper and seneschal of the estate.
“Nina will show you both to your rooms,” the Count told us. “Konrad will be along with your things.”
“What things?” I said shortly. We had fled Vienna so quickly, neither Josef nor I possessed anything beyond the clothes on our backs, my brother’s violin, and my portfolio of music scores.
He had the grace to look sheepish in the flickering light. “Ah, yes. Well, could you send for the tailor to take their measurements tomorrow, my love?” The Count turned to his wife instead of his housekeeper, and she looked displeased to be asked.
“As you wish,” she said stiffly. “I shall send for my uncle in the morning.”
Uncle? The Countess had rather low relations for such a lofty position as lady of the estate if her uncle was a tailor.
“Capital,” said her husband. “Now, children”—he turned to us—“I bid you both good night. If there’s anything that makes me grouchier than an empty stomach, it’s lack of sleep. We’ve been on the road a long while and I look forward to laying my head upon an actual pillow. I shall see you in the morning. Sweet dreams.”