Spell of the Dark Castle (Chronicles of Zofia Trickenbod Book 2)

by Lorelei Bell

“Yes,” he said, eyes focused to the magnificent view. She thought perhaps that all he wanted to do was look outside from a distance.

  Diamonds on the buckles of his shoes threw back a dazzling refraction of light as the next step he took crossed over directly into the sunlight.

  Reaching out, Zofia tried to grab his arm to pull him back, but her fingers couldn't take purchase of his velvet coat, and he plunged ahead, into the sunlight.

  Chapter 17

  Breath caught in her throat, Zofia watched Saint Germain break the plane from shadow to sunlight. Paralyzed with terror that something imminent was about to happen, Zofia could neither look away nor move.

  Stopping at the window, Saint Germain squinted into the sunlight. No flames erupted. Not even a hint of smoke came from his clothes, or skin, nor did the man cry out in pain.

  Realizing that she was holding her breath, she now let it hiss through parted lips. She had remained several feet behind, watching like some hapless witness about to see a terrible accident, unable to do anything about it. Watching a body go up in in flames was not easy to watch, especially if you knew them. Now thrown into the after-shock, adrenaline surging through her, she felt guilty for expecting it. No vampire could do what he had just done and live.

  Sweet Immortals, she though with a rush of relief flooding her, he's not a vampire! But how then did he cheat death? How is it he has been living so long on Euphoria and still looked no more than in his forties?

  “Beautiful, isn't it?” he said in that deep, calm voice, pulling her out of her thoughts.

  Realizing that she was not beside him, he turned to peer back. He held out his hand in invitation. “Pray come join me, my dear.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course,” she said, finding her voice again, and moved forward. Sidling up beside him, she breathed in his scent. That captivating spice clung to him. He was pointing out the window.

  “Do you see the large birds?” he asked, pointing to the ones in flight, high up.

  “Yes,” she said. “Are they vultures?”

  “No,” he said, grinning. “They are Eagle Men.”

  “Eagle Men?” She'd never heard of it.

  Glancing at her he said, “I believe you call them Phaethontrodites?”

  “Oh. You mean Bird People. It's a lot easier to say,” she said, shrugging. “They're so far from their home.”

  “No. This is their home,” he said firmly. “They have been here, I am told, for a very long time.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  Still smiling, he returned his attention out the window, and allowed a few heartbeats to go by before answering. “A long while.” Well, that was pretty evasive. But she didn't mind a challenge. Obviously, Saint Germain was not going to open up to her on the very first day. She had to be patient.

  “They dive for fish in the river below,” he said continuing with their conversation about the Bird People. “They nest in the cliff sides of the valley. They are very staunch defenders of their homes. That is why no roads lead into the cliff, or river valley. A human could easily be attacked.”

  “Oh, my,” she said. This time her shutter was real.

  He moved away from the window, taking the steps down from the window room, toward the room where she had been working on his books. Stone steps went down three and then up four leading through a little space before the room. He waited for her at the entry, and allowed her to pass through before him.

  A sound came from him as though flummoxed by something. She watched as he stepped toward the grand piano and stared at it. His inquisitive glance flitting over and around it. “Ah,” he said and then bent down and did something there behind it. Suddenly the thing came to life and a melody began to play, each of the keys were depressed as though by a Ghogal.

  Rising, he smiled back at her, as though he'd done something quite wonderful. “There. It is so dreadfully quiet in here.”

  She eyed him, and then the piano. “It's playing.”

  “Yes.”

  “By itself?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?” She could see that he was quite bemused by her bewildered look. He was just full of secrets, wasn't he?

  “This is called a music machine,” he said, and offered no more.

  “Where do they come from? I've never seen anything like them.” Which was true, but then she'd seen the marvels of the electronic age on First World.

  “Nor will you,” he said. “Not outside of Dark Castle, anyway.” He stepped back toward her. “I purchased several and brought them all with me when I moved here. I am an avid collector.” If he didn't get them on Euphoria, there was only one other place he could have found them. First World.

  He stopped near where she stood next to the nook of bookshelves that rose up and up. “Now.” He rubbed his hands together as though they were cold while he took in the disarray of books on the library table where she had been working. “It looks as though you have been busy.” He sounded impressed.

  “Yes,” she said, watching him pick up a book she had mended, and examine it. “You certainly have a lot of books.”

  “This is only a fraction of my collection of books.”

  A fraction? She went to bite down on her lower lip, and stopped herself, as it was painful. If this was only a fraction, she realized she might be here for a lot longer than she'd at first thought, pretending to be his hired librarian. But then, maybe his other books were located in more interesting places of his castle. Places which might give her access to his more “secret” places. Like his machine that allowed him to transport himself—and all these “music machines”—through the Portal to this place. How this was achieved was beyond her. She'd never known of a Portal so powerful it could transport a person from one galaxy to another with such pin-point accuracy, let alone musical instruments. Last night had been her very first taste of being swept away by a powerful Portal, and then all of her belongings going along with her—and being deposited in her bedroom, as though some invisible hand had been at work. Luggage and people were one thing, but a grand piano? Plus he alluded to the fact there were more of these. Like the little harp in her room. That was obviously another music machine.

  “You do very good work,” he praised, interrupting her deep thoughts. Nodding, he placed the book down and picked up another, then placed that one down as well. He smiled up at her. If he saw her relief, it was not from his approval of her work. It was the knowledge that he was not a vampire. She would not have to worry about having to fend him off like she had Myron last night. Her only worry remained that he might make a pass at her. Or would he remain the aloof count? Did he even find her attractive? He must surely realize she was not as young as he had probably thought she was from her letter of inquiry. He may have thought she were only in her mid-twenties, because no age was given (neither age nor the question of when one was born is ever asked when applying for a job here in Euphoria, unlike on First World).

  Hands behind his back, he said, “There is parchment and envelopes in the desk drawer, if you wish to write a letter to loved ones to tell them you have arrived safely.”

  “Thank you. That's very nice of you.”

  “Not at all. I think I could spare you a falcon to send it off. Where would it be going?”

  “Restormell Castle. That was where I last lived—um—worked, and anyone who cares about me would be there.”

  His startled gaze caught hers. “That sounds so sad.”

  “What?”

  “The way you put it, as though no one else in this world cares about you but a few at the last place you lived.”

  She bowed her head. It had sounded a little pitiful, but it was actually true. Thanks for pointing that out.

  “You have family members, there at Restormell Castle?”

  “Yes, my aunt lives there, and both my children are in school, of course.” She felt her face flush at the lie. She strove to maintain a neutral face. She hoped he would read her embarrassment more as over what she had admi
tted beforehand. Mentally she slapped herself. If she couldn't lie to him successfully, without becoming red-faced, she should just go home—wherever that was now.

  “I see,” he said, looking on expectantly. “You have no husband?”

  “No,” she said. “I'm divorced.” Dorian had denounced her in public. It was the first time she'd thought about it since leaving Castle Restormell. Tears biting at the rims of her eyes, she turned away.

  “I see.”

  The moment drew out into an awkward pause until Percival strode in, carrying one of the domed lid platters of food.

  “Ah,” Saint Germain said, as Percival steamed through the room and headed for the glass-topped table. “Your mid-day meal. You must be hungry?”

  “I'm just famished!” she gasped, and then returned him a discomfited look.

  “My dear, do go and partake,” Saint Germain invited.

  “Thank you.” Relief flooding her, she remembered to curtsy before leaving to follow the aroma of rosemary and fresh-baked bread. Percival lifted the lid from the plate as Saint Germain sauntered over, glancing at the fare.

  “I do hope that Percival's meager attempts at cooking have been adequate,” Saint Germain said.

  “I had no hand in it, sir,” Percival admitted at once.

  “Oh?”

  “No,” he said. “The bread is from the bakery in the village—I went there this morning. As for the cheese and fruit, it was all that I could drum up.”

  “I see,” Saint Germain said, giving him a sour look. Then he blinked and slid his gaze to Zofia. “Tonight, I shall treat you to a better meal at the inn,” he promised. “I regret that I have no need for a cook, thus I do not retain one.”

  “Oh, but this is fine,” she told him. Fruit, cheese and bread for mid-day was more or less the fare one might have on a regular basis, morning, mid-day, and evening meals. Unless they had a hen for the pot, or a bone and vegetables from the garden, of course. Since it was still early spring here, vegetables were what was on hand from over-wintering, such as onions, potatoes, carrots, and whatever could be kept in a cool root cellar. And, from what she understood in this part of the country, the winters were longer and harsher. The bread was dark, and looked, and smelled hearty. It had herbs in it—the rosemary simply overtook everything else. There was a slab of winter butter, a small ceramic jar of honey, and she was astonished that Percival had been able to attain a tankard of milk for her as well. She had not had the milk she remembered from her world in so long, she had to taste it first. Heaven. The fat still in it, it was rich and wonderful tasting, and she knew it was goat milk. “Actually,” she amended, “this is more than fine. It's wonderful. Thank you.”

  “If that will be all?” Percival said, cocking his head in a way that reminded her of an old hound dog as the deep lines around his eyes sagged as did the jowls.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Yes, Percival,” Saint Germain added, as though knowing he would not leave unless he told him to.

  Percival bowed and left the room.

  “My dear Zofia, I do not wish to seem presumptuous,” Saint Germain said as he stepped in a little further. “However when I hired you I had no idea that you were not just barely out of school.”

  “I understand,” she said, buttering the hunk of bread she'd just torn off. She dipped it into the honey pot and it was like ambrosia on the palate when it entered her mouth; sweet and wonderful.

  “What I mean to say is,” he went on, almost looking a little embarrassed, “I do not mean to be presumptuous when asking you to dine out with me.”

  She blinked up at him while slipping a honey-and-butter slathered finger into her mouth. Either she had been on First World way too long, and was used to men approaching her to ask her out at the drop of a wand, or maybe she was a just overly astonished by the count's extreme genteel ways when he addressed her.

  Smiling tightly, Zofia had to jolt her mind back to where she was and answer him in a way that didn't sound rude. She had to be respectful of his austere position, and the fact that she was his employee, which was still difficult for her to remember. “Sir, I do not take offense, nor do I assume that the meal will lead to anything else.” There. The air was cleared as she took up a hunk of cheese and dipped it into the honey and continued to enjoy her meager meal.

  Mollified, he smiled, the worry left his face. Great dragon buggers, did he actually think she thought he was asking her out to get into her bloomers? Well, he was covering his butt, no matter. Perhaps Saint Germain was not really interested in her romantically. This relieved her somewhat, but at the same time this would not help her glean information from him using her womanly charms. Double dragon buggers. Could it be that they've sent the wrong Knight for the job? She found herself stifling a huge smile at this. Of course, she didn't know for sure if Saint Germain was just being a gentleman, or perhaps he had a lady suitor. Nevertheless, his asking her out was nothing more than a kind gesture because for some reason, he didn't have a cook available. Which begged the question what did Saint Germain eat?

  He made his little bow. “Very well, madam, I shall come 'round to fetch you at the Nest after sunset.” He glanced back at her pile of work. “Work only until the sun is midway to the horizon,” he suggested. “Unfortunately I have no time pieces of this world. I've only one that I have brought with me, and—” his mouth twisted in thought, “—and tinkered with to work half-speed to accommodate your time here. But I fear that it loses time, rather than keeps it.”

  Saint Germain was one big question mark, for sure. But at least she cleared up the assumption he was a vampire. The next question was where was he from that he would bring music machines and a time piece that didn't keep normal time? Then she recalled her conversation with Stephen about the Portal on First World, which they attributed to him. Could Saint Germain be from First World originally? It would explain his being able to purchase light bulbs. But if he was, he was not from modern first world, because he certainly didn't affect the speech of a modern Ugwump. If anything he might be from the eighteenth century, at least. Where else would he have gotten all the strange antique music machines, and the other things which cluttered his very strange castle. It was like one huge museum.

  “After sunset, then?” he said taking a few steps back. “I fear my work will put me late as usual.”

  She nodded. Work? What would his work be? Making Portals, tinkering with time pieces, and maybe exhuming diamonds from his private vein somewhere in the mountains, nearby? He had paid in diamonds for this castle, after all. One as large as a fist—uncut. Where would a man get such gems, unless he grew them himself? Only sorcerers could grow diamonds—and only the very best sorcerers knew how, and they were very few, and did not give out their secrets. Saint Germain, as far as she could tell, was mortal—a very well preserved one at that. To what he owed his longevity, she didn't know.

  Saint Germain made a quick exit, saying nothing more to her as she ate her mid-day meal while pondering these and other things. She felt perplexed, but at the same time excited over her dilemma. The mystery surrounding her “employer” gave her renewed resolve to digging deeper, and finding out more about him for the Witenagemont. She felt chills go up her arms as her excitement grew over her job here.

  She would have to come up with some questions to ask him at dinner. She had to tread carefully, however. She would have to find out why he didn't need a cook. Didn't he and Percival need to eat? And who was his dueling partner, the Arpiesian he called Jacques? A friend, or a servant who knew how to duel? Of course, he didn't realize that she had just come back from First World, herself, and knew what century they currently were in, otherwise he wouldn't have alluded to the fact that she would never see these music machines on this world, except in his castle. If she could just get him to admit he was from First World, she could go from there.

  Minutes later, after finishing her meal, (and becoming stuffed, yet satisfied), Zofia stepped over to the library table where she had
been working earlier. Eyes taking it all in, she sighed and wearily sank into the chair. She picked up the next book in a pile. The Practitioner's Library of Medicine and Surgery. Yawn. Dry as toast in the Oswine Desert. But the next one, Divine Goddess Down Through the Ages sounded like a much more interesting read. She wondered if Saint Germain had actually read every one of these volumes.

  Now that she had several books repaired, she wanted to slip them back where she'd gotten them. Then, she decided she might as well pull a few of the next ones off. She climbed the ladder to reach them, as these were up above her head. Sliding out a few at a time, she held them in her arms, and turned to come back down. The very narrow stairway was rather steep and it made her feel slightly off-balance. She was almost down when the book on top of her pile slid off the stack. Gasping, she watched it float to the table.

  Child-like tittering followed.

  “Biddle!” she admonished in a librarian's whisper. Looking around the room to make sure no one was there, she said, “What are you doing? If they see me—or you—levitating books, they'll ask questions, and my cover will be blown.”

  “No one is around. The old servant is way off in another part of the castle. If you wish to move these books one by one to the table, it will take you a century to enter them into the ledger as well as mend them,” Biddle said, while Zofia stiffened with fear. “Why aren't you using your Powers to magic them down?” he asked as he took the rest of the pile from her arms.

  “Because! I'm playing the Ugwump librarian. Remember?”

  “I know that,” he said in a withering tone. “But no one is around. Why not use your magic to make things easier?”

  “Well,” she said, glancing toward the doorway. “Just keep a look out for me, will you?”

  “No problema,” he said, reverting to his First World elocution. From a distance she heard him say, “All is clear.”

  Zofia Transvected down to the floor and then swept her hand and magicked a whole section of books back up to where she had taken them, and then magicked another section down, settling them into a neat tower, next to her table. And just then Percival's slim form slipped into view and angled through to the next room. Well, thanks a lot, Biddle.