Count On Me

by Abigail Graham

  Seat isn’t the right word. It’s a throne, massive, carved from ancient wood, in the shape of leaves and vines.

  The count sits on the steps before it.

  “You,” a soft voice says.

  I whirl around.

  It’s her. Saska.

  I blink a few times. She’s changed. I mean her clothes. She’s wearing a dress. A long green dress, with yellow vines sewn all over. Her long dark hair cascades down her back.

  “Whoa,” I say. “Nice outfit. Looks good on you. Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

  She sighs.

  “Roxanne, I should have warned you. I knew about this place, and this is where I was taking you the entire time. We should never have crossed the stones, but I saw no other way.”

  I look at the her then at the count.

  “How did she get here? Scary antler guy carried her off.”

  The count eyes her.

  “I don’t remember what happened,” Saska says quickly. “I woke up outside the gates and was brought back in.”

  I quirk my eyebrow. “So you live here,” I say.

  “Yes,” she says, glancing at the floor. “I have always lived here. I ran away, but I had to come back. We always have to come back.”

  Uneasily I watch the count and Saska, trying to think of what the hell could be going on here.

  She watches me in turn, her eyes deep and somewhere between longing and hunger. I’ve never seen someone hiding her emotions so hard.

  There’s something else about her, something unnerving, like she’s only half here. I didn’t feel that from her before.

  I blink a few times. Every time I do it’s like I have two sets of eyelids, blinking out of time with one another, and when they almost open at the same time, I catch a hint of something I can’t quite see.

  I shake my head to clear it. I’m probably just tired.

  “So, you’re safe.”

  “Yes,” sighs. “Safe.”

  The word is as bitter as a curse.

  “You may leave us now,” the count says in a tone that brooks no argument.

  Saska curtseys and leaves. I mean she actually curtseys. She grabs the sides of her dress and does a little dip before she turns and strides off, her thick mass of inky hair swaying behind her back as she departs.

  Not long after she leaves, a slender, sharp-faced girl brings in a tray of black bread, a little bowl of salt, and a jug with two clay cups.

  The count tears the bread in half, dips one end in the salt, and hands it to me. I take it and sniff it without thinking. He barely conceals his amusement.

  “It’s a token of welcome.”

  He pours white wine into a clay cup. I wash down a bite of bread with it, my head swimming a little from how boozy it is.

  “Mead,” he says.

  I look at it.

  What the hell is mead?

  “Honey wine,” he clarifies.

  I sip some more.

  “Now you are my guest and may know you are safe in my hall.”

  “What about the rest of the castle?”

  He smirks. I feel my cheeks turning pink. I set the clay cup on the tray and wrap my arms around myself.

  “You must be very tired. How far did you walk?”

  “God, miles and miles. I don’t even know. I’m exhausted.”

  “I would be remiss in my duties as your host if I didn’t see you well cared for. You’ll be bathed and may rest if you wish. I can see to it you are fed as well, but I would prefer the grace of your company at dinner.”

  My jaw drops.

  He just asked me to dinner.

  Is that a date?

  I shake my head then realize he might think I’m saying no.

  “I’d like that. Dinner. Dinner with you. That would be great.”

  My head spins at the very idea.

  I’m staring at him. He seems amused.

  “Good. Marta.”

  “What’s a Marta?”

  I didn’t even notice the woman who appeared behind me while we were talking. Old enough to be my mother, she’s a wide, round woman with a motherly air. Her voice, though, is like a whip.

  “This way.”

  I follow her out, glancing at the count as he watches me leave. There is something mournful in his gaze, but he cracks a thin smile as he looks lower.

  Was he looking at my butt?

  These people don’t do jeans. We pass other women in the halls, but no one else is wearing pants. It’s all dresses here. I feel oddly naked.

  The corridor turns and dives into the earth, spiraling down under the hall. I can feel the weight of it over my head. Strangely, it’s warmer down here than above, almost sweltering. The first beads of sweat prick my skin between my shoulder blades.

  The hall slopes down. Marta pulls open a heavy door, and a wave of heat and humidity washes over me, sweat beading on my forehead.

  Now I see why. There must be hot springs under the castle. There’s a stone tub. Water flows in to the top, steam rising in light wisps from the surface.

  “Strip,” Marta orders.

  She puts her meaty hands on her broad hips and anchors herself to the floor. Apparently I won’t be getting any privacy.

  I shrug, shivering despite the heat as I disrobe. I fold my clothes and lay them neatly on a stone bench, but Marta takes them.

  “The count will not let you dress in these rags,” she says.

  “My hoodie is not rags,” I say.

  She gives me a strange look when the word hoodie pops into my sentence, but says nothing.

  “That too,” she says of the oversized ring dangling against my chest.

  “This is mine. Please be careful with it.”

  “I will,” she says, slipping it into an apron pocket.

  She rolls up her sleeves as I step into the water. It’s hot, almost too hot, so I have to ease into it. As the heat rises up my legs, then my back, all the way to my neck, I realize how utterly exhausted and fatigued I am.

  Marta tucks a small pillow under my head.

  “Soak a while,” she says.

  I do, while she leaves the room. I close my eyes.

  I must have dozed off again. When I open them she’s there, holding an irregular blob of soap and a brush.

  “I will scrub you now.”

  “Eep,” I say.

  I sit up, and she scours my back with soap and brush. It feels like she’s taking off skin, but when she’s done I feel like a pound of grime has been scraped off my back. I grab the soap and wash up the rest myself.

  When I step out of the tub I take a few steps and then she abruptly dumps a bucket full of ice-cold water over my head.

  “What the fuck?” I scream through chattering teeth.

  “Good for the pores,” she says. “Now dress.”

  She brought me new clothes, and a pair of leather slippers. My ring waits on the bench. I put that on first then puzzle out what I’m supposed to do with all of this.

  There’s a floofy under-dress thing I have to put on, then a green wool dress over top of that. When I start fumbling with laces, Marta grabs them, pulls them too tight, and ties them off.

  “Sit,” she says.

  She brushes out my hair.

  “Why so short?” she says, holding one shoulder-length strand.

  I shrug.

  “You have pretty hair. You should wear it long. Chestnut. The count will like it longer.”

  “Uh,” I say. “That’s not really his business.”

  She doesn’t answer me; she just keeps brushing.

  I don’t put on any makeup. None is offered. I don’t ask for a mirror, either. I know what I look like. Too skinny from too much running, shoulders too broad, cheekbones too sharp. Boyish good looks, they call it, except I somehow missed out on the good looks part. I guess my hair is okay, and I was told I had nice eyes a lot when I was a kid. My eyes are a rare coppery color, like my mom’s. Almost gold.

  “The count,” I stumble over tha
t now that I say it out loud; it sounds almost silly, “said something about joining him for dinner.”

  “He said and I heard. This way.”

  She leads me up, out of the hot lower levels. The air in the castle is cool, and I start to shiver from my still-damp hair as I follow Marta. The leather slippers are too tight on my feet and even walking in a dress is awkward. I haven’t worn one since prom.

  I went stag, thank you for asking. My dad pinned my corsage to my chest. I remember his fingers brushing my skin like beetles crawling on my flesh.

  “You’re troubled,” Marta says.

  “It’s nothing.”

  She leads me outside and toward the second wall. There is a heavy gate at the base of the tall, central tower. The doors aren’t wood, they’re solid iron, with heavy inch-long spikes, razor sharp, poking out from the metal. They stand open, thankfully.

  Inside it’s gloomy, and much colder than outside. I shiver even though my hair is only a little damp now. Marta leads me through the wider, taller halls. There are no tapestries here, only bare stone walls.

  A dark staircase leads up. Marta gestures but doesn’t move to lead me.

  “Follow it as high as it goes. There you will find him.”

  I nod to her and start up. The staircase weaves around the curve of the tower itself, always up. My feet ache by the time I’m maybe halfway up, and there’s still more. I’m going to get calloused feet if I stay here too long.

  The farther I go, the more I feel like an intruder.

  Why aren’t there any windows? Lamps burn oil along the walls but there’s no view to the outside. I’m not even that sure how high I’ve climbed.

  Then I curve around and reach the top. There’s finally a window. I stop at the window and look out over the great courtyard and the mountain slopes below. Vertigo spins my head.

  When I reach the door, the count swings it open and motions me inside.

  I step into a fairly small, intimate chamber. There’s a dinner table for six. I deflate a little again when I’m not alone. There’s a younger man, with dark hair and pale skin, and Saska. Still seated are an older man and a younger adult, who could be the count’s brother. Hell, he probably is. The woman seated behind him stands. Pale as a ghost, she has dark hair and striking blue eyes.

  “You look lovely,” the count says.

  I grin like an idiot before I still my expression. He’s just being polite.

  “Quite,” the old man says. “A pretty flower. Come sit with us. So few visitors now.”

  The youngest man, roughly of an age with Saska, approaches and bows toward me. I shift awkwardly on my feet. I probably don’t bow back. Do I curtsey? How do you curtsey?

  Count Conrad introduces him.

  “This is Adrian, my son and my eldest.”

  He takes my hand and gives me a less a kiss to my knuckles than a breath from his mouth before he stands up and nods.

  “My pleasure,” he says before retiring to his seat.

  “This is my brother,” Conrad says, a reproachful hint in his voice, “and his wife, Lady Katerina.”

  She nods, and Conrad’s brother stands up.

  “Where did you find a boy that likes to wear dresses?” the brother says.

  “Manfred,” Conrad says sharply.

  “Oh, my apologies,” he says, in a singsong voice. “Honored guest, do join us at our table.”

  His wife is clearly mortified. I sit down and Conrad slips my chair in under me while she gives me an apologetic look.

  Saska grabs Adrian’s hand.

  I wonder what’s going on there?

  Dinner has already been set.

  “Adrian, if you grant the honor of serving us.”

  Manfred, the brother, snickers.

  Conrad takes the seat at the far end of the table, watching me. I look down.

  There’s no fork, just a spoon and a knife that’s more dagger than butter knife or steak knife. No one else has one either.

  God, this is worse than that time I went to the sushi place and tried chopsticks. That date ended poorly. More so than usual.

  The rough hewn table is dark with age. The plates are solid silver, though, as are all the serving dishes and their lids. Adrian lifts one and carves meat from the breast of a roast bird. I think it’s a goose. Too big to be a turkey or chicken, that’s for sure.

  He serves me first, laying a thick slice of meat on my plate. There’s mashed…something, not potatoes, and roast vegetables. Adrian serves the count and then himself last, and sits down.

  Nervously I fidget until Conrad starts eating. When the count digs in, everyone else joins him. There’s no conversation during the meal. Everyone eats with their hands while I awkwardly hold down my slice of meat with my spoon and saw at it with my…dagger.

  Finally I give in and use my fingers to shovel meat in my mouth and my spoon where I can. I keep scrubbing my hands on a thick cloth napkin after dipping my fingers in a little bowl of water. More mead is served in clay cups.

  I go slow on that, trying not to get too tipsy. It feels like every sip goes straight to my head. It’s weird how it doesn’t have the burn of alcohol but seems much stronger than any wine I’ve ever had.

  Unsure of what the etiquette is here, I clean my plate and then wait. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. The meat was juicy and the mashed…somethings were tasty. I had to force myself to eat the veggies, as I always have. After cleaning my hands, I fold them in my lap and look down at the table.

  “She’s well behaved,” Manfred notes, studying me. “Shame she isn’t much to look at.”

  His wife, seated next to me, is stone still, but her lips twist into a frown every time her husband speaks.

  I glance around nervously.

  Manfred laughs.

  “Brother, if you insult my guest again, I’ll have to teach you a sharp lesson. Leave,” Conrad says.

  Everyone starts to stand. I’m the first on my feet.

  “Not you,” he says, looking me in the eye.

  I sink back into my chair as the others sweep around me. Manfred, his brother, looks right down my dress. I flinch and go still, like a rabbit under the gaze of a hungry fox.

  When they’ve all left, the air itself changes. Conrad stands and I shuffle awkwardly in my chair, wondering if I’m supposed to stand whenever he stands. He passes down the length of the table, as graceful as a dancer, towering over me as he stands beside my chair.

  “My family,” he says.

  “They’re very nice,” I say, unsure. “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “Walk with me,” he says.

  I stand slowly, and smooth my skirts. I don’t know why I do that; it just seems proper. Easy, Roxanne. It’s almost hard to breathe around him, like something is tightened around my chest. The count looms closer and I breathe in his scent, leathery and flowery at once, and my head swims just a bit.

  He’s staring at me. Intensely. Instead of shrinking under his gaze, I feel like the world is slowly turning around me. The more I look at him, the more I feel some strange sense of familiarity. It’s like seeing an old friend and not being sure if I recognize him or not.

  He turns and leads me not the way I came, but out of the front room of his quarters and into a second, slightly larger room. Bigger though it may be, it feels smaller from all the stuff inside. It’s packed tight with books and papers, and a deep, cozy red couch. A fire crackles in a big hearth, the mantel almost up to my chest.

  There’s a closed door to the side and another set of doors, open to the air. They lead to a parapet or a balcony. Conrad motions me outside, and I step out into the evening chill.

  “Shit,” I chirp out, backing away from the chest-high stone railing.

  We’re high up in the air. The courtyard below is a good fifty or sixty feet straight down, and just looking over gives me a deep sense of dread.

  Conrad rests his hands on the stone and looks out.

  No, in. We’re facing the innermost part of the c
astle that I’ve had no glimpse of yet. The inner courtyard is surrounded by the high wall and five tall towers.

  The back wall is made up of the sheer rock face of the mountain. As the sun dips behind the peaks above, shadows swallow it all. It’s bigger than the first, outer courtyard, and mostly paved with stone. Standing obelisks form a ring around the center, where a dead tree grows.

  Not dead, petrified. It’s turned to stone from age, razor-sharp branches devoid of leaves gripping the sky in piercing claws. Beyond it, set in the rock face itself, there is a pair of doors of black iron, darker than the stone around them. There’s some kind of relief sculpted into their surface, but I can’t make out any details from up here.

  My eyes fall to the roots of the tree. Something about them draws my eye. Then I see it. A flash of red.

  I swallow, trying to wet my dry throat. It’s like gulping down a handful of sand.

  “So,” I say. “I was going to ask you about maybe some help getting back to Auschaffenberg.”

  “You will remain my guest,” he says, his voice heavy.

  “A guest who can’t leave is a prisoner.”

  He shakes his head, a sad little motion.

  “I cannot permit you to leave.”

  I wring my hands together. “Why?”

  He sighs, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

  “You crossed the border on a night with no moon and remained until sunrise.”

  “What does that matter?”

  “The way out is closed to you now.”

  He turns to look at me and offers his hand.

  “There is something I must show you.”

  4

  The Sword

  Roxanne

  I set my palm on Conrad’s. He closes his strong fingers around mine and leads me back through his rooms and down the winding stair to the base of the tower. From there we circle around to the inner gate, the big one leading to the second courtyard.

  As we walk I drift closer to him, until my arm brushes his. I fight a losing battle not to stare at him, constantly turning my gaze away. My free hand won’t stay out of my hair.