"Around two in the afternoon. He said he was light-headed and overly warm. Madame Svarinskaya told him to lie down, and by three he was plainly ill." Hroger paused. "Even without the influenza, he is exhausted."
"As are most of the staff, especially the three new aides," said Saint-Germain, setting down the large cup. "Is there water in the teapot?"
"A little. Would you like me to add more from the bucket?"
"I can do it. You have enough to do." He went to the bucket and pulled out the ladle, emptying its contents into the teapot.
"You're making willow-bark tea?" Hroger sniffed the air, recognizing the smell.
Saint-Germain added the ladleful of water to the teapot. "For van Hoek; he should also have some orange-peel pastilles; with a little luck, we can forestall any putrefaction in the lungs, and he will then make a good recovery."
"Just for him, or for all of them? The pastilles, I mean, do you intend them for the rest of those with the influenza?" Hroger asked. "Your pardon, my master, but I am--"
"--concentrating on measuring, as is appropriate: pray continue." He set the teapot over the spirit-lamp, then took out another item, a small flask of anodyne fluid distilled from a tincture of hemp-flowers and pansies. "This is for Valery Andreivich, after he has eaten. It will calm him and allow him to sleep with less discomfort."
"Are the pastilles just for van Hoek?" Hroger repeated; he was peering closely at the amount of the opalescent liquid in the next-to-last cup.
"The others already are getting willow-bark, so pastilles for them; if nothing else, it will help van Hoek to feel less ineffective than he does, and will lend strength to those who are on the mend."
Finishing his task, Hroger set down the vial and said, "We are running low on the remedy, my master."
"So I am aware," said Saint-Germain, a slight frown creasing
between his brows. "I may put Saari to work collecting old bread from the various houses in the Foreign Quarter tomorrow for as long as there is light. I could have more made in a matter of days if we could get a sufficient amount of moldy bread." He put the earthenware cup on the trestle-table next to the line of small cups. "Boiling water, just before you take the lot down."
"Of course," said Hroger. "I will attend to them and then go find something to eat."
"Very good," said Saint-Germain.
Hroger paused, not wholly to attend to placing the small cups on the rimmed tray set out for them. "You will be doing lessons with Madame Svarinskaya?"
"Very likely," said Saint-Germain.
Hroger's brow arched, but that was the only change in his demeanor. "It's a good thing that she's such an apt pupil, for both your sakes."
Saint-Germain regarded Hroger with a discerning eye. "Let us keep that between you and me, old friend."
"Whom would I tell, and why? I am glad you have gained her companionship as well as her assistance." He rubbed his faded-blue eyes. "Less than five hours of sunlight a day, and that so wan that it's largely useless."
"We have encountered worse," Saint-Germain reminded him.
"The Year of Yellow Snow?" Hroger asked. "That was not like other years. Here the sun fades every winter."
"And farther north, it disappears altogether, or so they say." Saint-Germain studied the spirit-lamp as if willing it to boil the water in the teapot faster.
"Did you ever want to see the places of the earth where the sun vanishes?"
"We did see such a place when we left Novo-Kholmogory, bound for England. Much of the White Sea is wholly dark in winter." That had been slightly more than a century ago, and the trip had been a hard one.
"Fortunately we weren't there in winter," said Hroger.
"That may have been the one good thing about it," said Saint-Germain
drily. "Night may be kinder to those of my nature than day, but there is also so much night that the living spend many days shut within doors, and do not welcome travelers, who may not be all they seem. It is as if the households all enter their houses as if they were winter burrows, and remain there until spring, in a kind of hibernation; even this Foreign Quarter has not escaped that immurement entirely." He looked over at the spirit-lamp. "The teapot is thrilling."
"And will boil shortly," said Hroger, making his last adjustment to the tray before he reached for the teapot. "I will take this down, and then I'll see to my evening meal. If there are other tasks you want to assign me, I will be pleased to perform them." He poured the water into the large earthenware cup; the sharp smell of willow-bark wafted up from its depths.
"By which you mean you plan to stay away from this part of the care-house for some hours," Saint-Germain observed. "Your discretion is, as always, impeccable."
Hroger blew out the spirit-lamp, picked up the tray, and started toward the door, which Saint-Germain went to open for him. "Most gracious, my master."
"And practical," Saint-Germain said, leaving the door ajar when Hroger had left. Taking stock of the room, Saint-Germain went to inspect the athanor, making sure the seal on the door was even and tight, that the pipe that served as a chimney was still properly anchored at the top of the window, its sleeve of iron bolted into position; he satisfied himself that the intake valve was performing to standard, and then he went to the bunk built onto the wall, and tested it. The linens were clean, the woolen quilt washed, smelling faintly of camphor and garlic, as a repellent for insects. The single pillow, stuffed with goose-down, had been perfumed with tincture of jasmine-and-attar-of-roses. He glanced at his clock at the end of the trestle-table, and saw it was only five-thirty. "An hour and a half," he said aloud. "The gold will not be finished until midnight." He thought for a short while, then picked up his log-book, found the standish and his quills, and sat down to record the events of the day.
"Hercegek?" Ludmilla's tap on the door was quiet, and her voice was low. "It's seven o'clock."
Saint-Germain dusted the page with fine sand, laid it open on the occasional table beside his chair, and went to admit her to the room. "Welcome, Madame, and forgive me; I had lost track of time."
"I hoped you were expecting me," she said, dubiety making this almost a question.
He smiled at her. "Most certainly, Ludmilla Borisevna. I have been looking forward to our time together."
She stepped inside, a bit hesitant, filling the possible silence with, "When the Czar first insisted that we all be governed by clocks, I thought it was another European affectation, for the church-bells provided enough time for anyone. But since I've been working with Heer van Hoek, I believe that a more specific delineation of time by minutes is useful, after all."
"Then I thank you twice-over for your promptness." He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Come in and be comfortable."
She leaned back against the door to close it; her features softened and she reached out with her free hand and touched his face. "If you wish to ... do as you did the other evening, I would be happy to have it so."
He reached behind her to set the latch in its staple. "Thank you, Ludmilla Borisevna. It is my desire that you achieve happiness." He escorted her to the chair and bowed her into it. "But there are some matters we need to discuss before we begin again."
"So you told me," she whispered, continuing hurriedly, and increasingly softly, "I do understand that your first loyalty must be to your wife, of course, though you are not under her roof." Her mouth trembled. "Everyone says her brother ordered you to leave."
Saint-Germain was startled by what she said. "Oh, no; that is not the issue," he said once he had recovered himself. "There is not room enough for all three of us at the Polish house as things are." He gave a single laugh. "Not that Benedykt does not prefer to have me gone."
"Then what is--" She stopped herself. "It isn't my place to ask."
"I have to explain about ... about what has taken place between us, not about the Ksiezna or her brother," he said.
"Adultery is what ... Yes."
Again it took Saint-Germain an instant to compose himself. "Specifically there was no true adultery, as there was no--"
"It was kind of you to spare me that." She put her hands together. "My husband could cast me upon the world with nothing if I were defiled, but I assume you know that. My family wouldn't receive me, either."
He took her hands in his. "You will have nothing to trouble you, Ludmilla." Then he waited until she met his steady gaze. "It is not in my nature to do that which would dishonor you."
"Are you certain of it? It is one thing for a man to pledge that, and another for him to remain committed to his promise." Very carefully she withdrew her hands from his. "Or do you say this so I will be more compliant now? I don't intend to refuse to lie with you, but you don't need to tell me that you will accommodate me if you intend otherwise."
"You have nothing to fear, Ludmilla," he promised her.
There was something in his voice that was utterly convincing, and she gave a little sigh of hopeful expectancy. She could feel an anticipatory quiver deep within her, an echo of what she had experienced with him before; this quiver of sensuality sent tiny ripples through her, summoning more responses until the prospect of recapturing that wonderful delirium weighed against the prudence she was trying to exercise, and all the while her flesh became flushed and sensitive, and her breathing quickened. It gave her a long moment of dismay, knowing how she had come to depend on him for her gratification, but she banished it with the expectation of the euphoria to come. "I don't fear you."
"Good; for you have no reason to." Slowly he took her face in his hands, and softly kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth, the touch of his lips awakening her ardor and her unrecognized need; she leaned into him, as if carried on the supporting current of a warm river. After more than a minute, as she moved back from him, he said,
"You have no cause to think that I might require more of you than you are willing to give, in any way. I will not ask this of you more than four times after tonight. You need not worry that I may come to expect this to continue for many months."
"Four more times?" The specificity startled her. "Only four?"
"Among those of my blood, there is an understanding that more than six ... exchanges and you would be one of us. That would be a burden for you, and one I will not ask you to bear, not here." He spoke indirectly, for he did not want to try to explain his true nature to her, not yet, not while she was still doubtful and ambivalent; he was well-aware of the dread tales of his kind would awaken in her. He kissed her again, lingeringly, inquiringly; her lips softened again, feeling the fervency of her desire increase. "Come, Ludmilla." He stepped back just far enough to be able to guide her to the chair. "I will bring you a cordial to warm you."
She sat down, her face perplexed as she looked around the room. "Don't you worry about being watched? In such a place as this, there are eyes everywhere."
"Everywhere but my rooms; here I have taken precautions," he said calmly as he removed a small glass from the tall cupboard next to the trestle-table, then removed a narrow glass bottle from his red-lacquer chest.
"Are you so sure? Have you made any tests?" Her face was a study in consternation, as if she had realized how exposed they might be.
He poured out the potent herbal cordial, a brilliant, clear yellow-green, into the glass. "Ludmilla Borisevna, I have lived as a foreigner in many places, and I have learned how to guard against prying eyes and ears. You may be assured that you are safe here." He put the bottle back in his chest and carried the glass to Ludmilla, making sure the oil-lamplight shone through the glass before he put it down. "The monks in the Alps make this to revive travelers lost in the snows. They are famous for their elixir throughout all of Europe."
She took the glass and sipped at the cordial. "Not unpleasant," she pronounced. She sipped again. "Why do you delay with me?"
"Because I would rather you not be haunted by uncertainties, and
this gives you time to contemplate the possibilities," he said tranquilly. "I have no wish to impose myself on you."
Ludmilla thought this over. "But you would rather I lie with you--"
"After my fashion," he interjected.
"After your fashion," she agreed. "Wouldn't you?"
"Yes, but only so long as our intimacy gives you pleasure; it is you who must decide that," he told her, and reached out to touch the neat braids wrapped around the crown of her head. "If you would rather that I not embrace you, then we will have our usual lessons and wait until a time that would suit you."
She finished the cordial. "Why?"
He sat on the upholstered arm of the chair. "Because without your consent and fulfillment, the act between us is empty--you would have little joy of it, and I would have none. If you want more time to assess your position, then we can wait until you are certain."
"If I don't want to wait?" She held her breath waiting for his answer. "I came to you tonight for this, not for lessons in Russian and Dutch."
�Then what can I be but delighted," he said as she leaned against his thigh.
"I'll keep in mind all you've said," she murmured, touching the lacing on his long coat. "But for now, all I want is the passion you give me." Reaching up, she pulled him down to her, for a long, intricate kiss that left her breathless and almost giddy. "No matter what comes later, for tonight, I want to feel all the pleasure you can give me."
He moved off the arm of the chair and drew her up against him; she was only a bit shorter than he, so their eyes met levelly. "I have prepared a place for us, at the warm end of the room."
