Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(53)

“Do you take coffee?” he asked.

“I, uh, yes, thank you,” I said, a bit flustered. Coffee was a popular beverage back in Vienna, brought to the city by the Turks, but I had never developed much taste for the bitter brew.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Both, please.”

The Count made me a cup before pouring himself one as well. He drank his without anything to cut the acrid bitterness, smacking his lips with relish. His chipper countenance this morning suddenly made much more sense.

“I trust you and your brother slept well,” he said. “Alas, you must excuse my wife. She is not an early riser, nor is she much for breakfast. It looks as though it will be just you and me this morning.”

The Countess and I had this much in common at least. In Vienna, I had grown accustomed to rising late; without the pressure of chores and other duties to perform around the inn, the luxury of lying abed when I could had been too sweet to resist.

We sat in silence with our coffees for a while, me sipping gingerly, the Count gulping his down. I wasn’t much for breakfast either, but felt I had to eat for courtesy’s sake. I set my cup down and walked to the sideboard to fill a plate with a few small, cookie-sized pastries topped with a sweet poppy seed paste. The room in which we sat was one of the few better-maintained parts of the house, the furniture sturdy if shabby, the rug of high quality if threadbare. Two sets of windowed doors framed the fireplace, opening onto a terrace that overlooked wildly overgrown lands. Like the dining room, a painting or a mirror was hung above the sideboard, and as with the rest of the framed objects in the house, it was covered with a sheet.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, pointing to the framed object, “may I ask what it is you keep covered under there?”

The Count coughed, choking a bit on his coffee. “Now, now,” he said, face reddening. “Mustn’t touch.”

Another voice from another time returned to me, whispering the same words. No, no, mustn’t touch. I thought of the mirror in my chamber Underground, my enchanted window to the world above.

After a few more minutes of coughing and clearing his throat, the Count continued. “It’s not a painting or a portrait, my dear,” he said. “It’s a mirror.”

I was surprised. “A mirror?”

“You may consider it a silly old superstition,” he said sheepishly, “but around these parts, it is ill luck to keep mirrors uncovered in empty rooms and while the house is sleeping.”

“Why?”

He gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, it’s an old wives’ tale, but they say that if the mirrors aren’t covered, a dreamer’s soul may accidentally wander through them to the shadow world and become trapped.” The Count gave the one hanging above the mantel a sidelong glance. “One never knows where one’s soul might end up. The realm behind the reflection may or may not be true, and they say the fey and the spirits of the restless dead travel through the shadow-world paths created by mirrors.”

I shivered, thinking of how I had spied upon my brother and sister through the enchanted mirror in my chamber Underground. Suddenly, I understood the why of it. One never knew just who was staring back as you gazed into your reflection.

“Are you frightening our guests, Otto?” The Countess emerged from the hall, limping into the room on Konrad’s arm. “Don’t believe everything he tells you,” she said. “Otto does love a good story.”

He gave his wife a tender smile. “Especially ones with happy endings.”

The Countess rolled her eyes. “My husband is a sentimental fool, I’m afraid,” she said, but she could not keep the smile from her voice. “I myself prefer the old tales. Wouldn’t you agree, mademoiselle?” Konrad helped the Countess to her seat while her husband rose to his feet and made his wife a cup of coffee.

“I would prefer it if we dispensed with the storytelling and went straight to truth seeking, if you don’t mind,” I said tartly. “What are we doing here? Why? How?”

She sighed and set down her cup after a sip. “I had hoped to get settled in before all that.”

“Get you acquainted with Snovin,” the Count added. “You are our guest, so please make yourself comfortable and at home here.”

I lifted my brows. “And how long will my stay be?”

“Until the danger to you is passed,” the Countess said. “And in order to make sure you’re safe, we need your help, Elisabeth. You are far more precious to us than you know.”

“Precious?” I laughed incredulously. “To you? Why?”

“Because of what you are,” she said seriously. “And what I am.”

“What I am,” I repeated. “The Goblin Queen.”

The Countess nodded. “There is kinship between us.”

“Kinship?” I was surprised. “Who are you?”

She glanced at the Count, who met her gaze briefly, then returned his eyes back to his plate. “I presume you do not mean to ask about the illustrious house of Procházka und zu Snovin, of which my husband is the nineteenth count and I, his wife.”

I crossed my arms. The Countess sighed again.

“We are—I am,” she began, “the last of a line no less old or illustrious than my husband’s, if not quite so noble. The Procházkas have ever kept watch over the in-between places and thresholds of the world, but my family have been the keeper of its secrets. We keep the old laws and we safeguard them, maintaining the balance between our world and the Underground.”