Blood Spirits (14 page)

I busied myself at the buffet as Beka's niece and nephew led a pack of middle-grade kids in a raid on the edibles, bouncing between fast, idiomatic Dobreni and French, with a smattering of Russian. I tried one each of the marinated mushrooms, the
caponata parve
, and
baba ghanouj
. Delicious. When the kids moved off toward some inner sanctuary with their loaded plates, I found myself alone.

Okay, I'd done what I'd come to do, I'd even made a date with the von Mecklundburg cousins at which I could (at least theoretically) do some sleuthing. Though I longed to talk to Alec, just to see him, eyes meeting eyes—I was not going to give the gossips any more fodder. Time to leave.

I took a step here, ducked there, and a minute later reached the foyer.

I changed back into my boots and was just picking up the bag with my shoes when Beka appeared. “Thank you for coming,” she said politely.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said politely.

“How long are you staying here in Dobrenica?”

Whoa, what to say? “I don't know.”

Okay, this non-conversation could stagger on until the polar cap melted. She seemed to want to know where I was coming from, and I wanted to know where she was coming from. To test her out a little, I said, “There are a whole lot of things I'm not getting. But. One thing will get me on the next train, and that's a conviction that my being here is bad for Alec,” I said, and waited for her to smile, to tell me how my departure would be for the best.

She looked back toward the gathering then gave an impatient sigh. “I don't think—no. I dare not say anything.” She tipped her head as though considering, but an older woman appeared with one of the white-haired council guys behind her—and behind him, Robert von Mecklundburg, drink in hand, his eyes on me.

“Bye!” I said, and hustled through the door into the cold night air, with the lung-expanding enthusiasm of a dungeon-escapee.

TEN

S
EVERAL INKRI DRIVERS had lined up along the street below the driveway, like cabs do at home, hoping for business. I jumped in the first one, and we set off. The cold was a shock. The runners of the sleigh hissed and cracked over the thickening ice as we zigzagged from street to street. From a distance I could see the cathedral lit up, and I sighed. I was exhausted. The thought of sitting through an incomprehensible Latin church service with the Waleskas was as welcome as air so cold it hurt to breathe.

But when I reached the inn, there were two anxious faces side by side in one of the frosty front windows: Wednesday Addams, aka Tania, and her little sister Theresa. When they saw my inkri pull up, Theresa's somber face lifted in a relieved smile.

I paid, bolted up the steps, and promptly skidded on the ice. As I caught myself on the iron handrail and picked my way unsteadily to the doorstep, Theresa flung open the door.

I began, “I'm late ? I'm sorry—”

Theresa shook her head. “We have a quarter of an hour, Mademoiselle. We must take the streetcar, as everyone else has gone ahead.”

“I thought the streetcar stopped at sunset.”

“Not tonight. It will run before and after Christmas Mass.”

Tania stood behind her sister, gaze on the floor. Theresa took charge, gesturing toward the corner table, as if that little distance from the entrance and the front desk afforded extra privacy in an empty house.

We sat down, and Theresa leaned forward. “Tania says you asked about . . . the protections.”

“Protections?”

“The prisms. The charms, we say to visitors.” Theresa went on in that calm, helpful tone of the carefully prepared speech, “It is a very old custom here, in winter, to wear the faceted stones as protections. The wealthy wear diamonds, but faceted crystal is said to be as good to ward off the magical beings who mean us harm.”

I sat back so I could see them both. “I really went there to ask about ghosts.”

Tania looked away. Theresa shot her a fast glance. “Perhaps we should start for the streetcar.”

In silence they turtled up into their winter gear (I was still in mine) and bent into a chill that was doing its best to enter the next Ice Age. In the distance, the cathedral bells tumbled melodic peals into the starry night. The last note sang brassy shivers through the air as we followed the last arrivals into the cathedral, where we were handed a candle by an apple-cheeked, earnest choirboy.

The cathedral, like most medieval buildings, was luminous with architectural beauty meant to draw the eye upward. The hundreds of candles painted the gilding on the vaulted ceilings with rich light, though the long stained glass windows were dark, sending down glints of gentian blue, cadmium, and malachite green—hints of sunlight's full glory.

There was a Byzantine feel to the murals representing the Stations of the Cross. The huge decorated fir was not loaded with tinsel, fake snow, and a zillion ornaments as I was used to. It was hung with tiny crystal stars. There was also an Advent wreath with three purple candles representing the first three weeks of Advent, and the single bright red candle for the fourth.

When the service began, the white candle at the center was lit, and someone passed down the aisle with it to touch flame to the first candle in each pew, after which people held their wicks together, passing the light until the entire space glowed.

While that happened the singing began: children's voices first, then women's clear, beautiful tones, and then the men joined in, some voices so deep, they resonated through the wood of the pew.

I was prepared to be bored. I was not prepared for the power of song, color, scent, the feel of the candle in my fingers, the charged air as the antiphonal responses echoed back and forth like a carillon, the sight of smiling faces, young and old, all made beautiful by the candles' warm glow: the cumulative effect was to break apart the habitual enclosure of the “I” and join it with the community—and with spirit on a different plane.

I don't remember when my gaze was caught by the reflection of my candle flame in the diamond pin securing the hat of the woman in the pew in front of me. I recall gazing at that tiny flicker, likening it to the star in the song currently being sung . . . and then I saw the reflections of hundreds of pinpoints of light, held by up by arms covered in velvets and brocade. . . in woolens . . . in slashed sleeves . . . in uniforms not seen for a century or more.

I'd fallen into vision. I recognized it, and though the periphery of this vision glittered, and my body seemed unmoored, instinct caused me to narrow my focus to 1938 as I stared at that first pew.

And there was a row of three kneeling teens beside several old folks. There were the twin girls, their corn-silk hair gleaming in the ruddy light.

My Gran and her twin had looked exactly alike, but their personalities had been completely different, and I saw the evidence before me as one glanced around, her lips parted with barely suppressed mirth. The other knelt soberly, head bent, eyes closed. The sober one had to be Lily, my grandmother, and the one looking idly around was Rose.

With them was a tall, thin, dark-haired boy in a blue cadet's uniform, only with epaulettes . . . Milo. He, equally sober, had never interested Rose. It was Armandros who had flirted with both sisters, which had deepened their rivalry to a serious breach.

The pangs in my head thundered to my heartbeat, and the vision smeared into flickering colors. I blinked, gasped, and clutched with one hand at the pew as Tania sent me a frightened look, and on my other side, her grandfather blinked at me in sudden concern.

I forced a smile that was probably as convincing as Prometheus on the rock saying, “No, I'm fine. Really.”

I kept my eyes closed, rising when the hiss and rustle of people around me indicated I should, and sitting again when they did. I opened my eyes when they began to snuff the candles, filling the air with the heady scent of honeybee wax smoke.

 

As we streamed out of the cathedral some began to sing Christmas songs with unfamiliar rising and falling melodies. The singers' breath clouded and froze in tiny sparkles. Gradually my headache lessened, leaving a profound exhaustion.

The return trip was not via streetcar. Tania and Theresa fell in on either side of me, each taking an arm to guide me to an enormous sleigh drawn by two heavy horses.

The ride wasn't long. When we reached the inn, there was warmth and light and the delicious smell of the Christmas day meats slowbraising. The Waleska relatives gathered in the dining room, as Josip and Domnu Waleska brought out trays of wine and red-glowing mulling irons.

As soon as I got rid of my winter gear, I slipped between the chattering Waleska relatives and headed for the stairs, pausing when I sensed a quiet step dogging mine. It was Tania, her expression one of mute question.

I waved for her to join me and continued up to my room, which was blissfully warm and cozy. Tania refused to sit down, so I collapsed on the bed, as she said without preamble, “When I was little I talked to ghosts. Many ghosts. I see them all around, though most are silent and like fog. But my family, they thought I lied, to gain attention.”

I sat up again. “You
talked
to them?”

She brought her chin down in a single nod.

“But no one believed you?” I began to pull off my boots.

“No one but my sisters. Theresa because she loves the stories about ghosts. Anna because she knew I never lied.”

“But your mother didn't believe you?”

Tania looked away, a thin shoulder rising. “Mother is very practical. And my aunt, well, she said I made up ghost friends to get attention. It brought shame to the family. So I lied, to make peace. I said that I did not see ghosts, and I was forgiven. This was many years ago, when I was seven or eight, so it is now forgotten, except sometimes in family jokes.”

I grimaced in sympathy. I knew how cruel some jokes could be, even if they were supposedly meant in fun.

“But I learned everything I could about Vrajhus,” Tania continued, “about the magic and the Nasdrafus.”

“Thank you for telling me.” I got up to put my boots away. “My mind is filling with a million questions, but I'll limit myself to two, and if you don't want to answer, that's okay.”

“Ask.”

“First, how do you talk to them, and second, what made you decide to tell me these things?”

“I do not know how I speak to them,” she said, her slender hands open as I reached for the wardrobe door. “It happened more when I was small. Rarely since. No one else could hear them. It was not always about things that made sense to me. As for why I'm telling you this, it is partly because of what you said when you came to the lens maker's, but also because of this man.” She pointed at the wardrobe.

“What?” I jumped back as if I'd been electrocuted, leaving the wardrobe door ajar. “What man?”

She pointed. “He stands there, with a cigarette.”

I whipped around, but all I saw was the wardrobe door, with its mirror on the outside, and inside the wardrobe my clothes hanging exactly as I'd left them.

“I've felt coldness in here,” I said, examining the outside of the wardrobe, then stood on tiptoe to peer upward, as if a ghost crouched like a vulture atop it. “I thought it might be caused by my cousin Ruli.”

“No, this is a man.” Tania's eyes narrowed. “He wishes to speak to you. But I cannot hear him.”

The air now whiffed of refrigerator, but I could see nothing weird. “What do I do so he will let me see him? Or get him to talk?”

“I don't know how to explain,” she said. “The Salfmattas have asked. It is the way I see, and hear. But it was easier when I was young. I am told that the young do not see what they expect to see, they can . . .” She made a gesture of sweeping something aside. “. . . make their minds ready.” She raised a hand to hide the tight jaw of a suppressed yawn, and her eyes watered.

I forced back the questions—I'd asked more than my two. Time to let the poor kid gets some rest. “Thank you, Tania. You've been a huge help.”

She looked doubtful at that but only wished me good night and left. I shut the door, and—it's embarrassing to admit this, but I didn't want to undress. Neither did I want to turn out the light, knowing that the ghost of some guy was hanging around. It was that cigarette. The first thing to mind was that horrible Reithermann, killed by Tony at the Eyrie last summer.

So I hopped into bed still wearing my good dress.

My eyes burned. My body was so tired I felt as if I had been turned to stone. I stared at that wardrobe until my eyelids drifted down, then jerked wide open. It felt like hours had passed, but when I checked my watch, it had been two minutes.

“Oh, to hell with it,” I said, and got out of bed to turn out the light. I saw nothing by the wardrobe—but when I reached to shut the door, which was still ajar, a flicker of movement in the mirror froze me.

There I stood in my good dress, my hair straggling down . . . and behind me, Tony leaned against the bedpost, smiling lazily.

ELEVEN

I
WHIRLED AROUND.

No one was there.

So I whirled back and found him reflected in the mirror, but he wasn't really leaning because I could see the bedpost through him. Also, he wasn't Tony. His eyes were light brown, the blond hair straggling unkempt along his forehead was short and wavy, not long and curly like Tony's. The scruffy tunic looked a lot like pictures I'd seen of the general issue field uniform of the German Army after 1915. The shoulder tabs were outlined in red, which indicated Lancers, and the two pips were the insignia of a captain. The uniform was frayed at the turned-back cuffs and much mended.