“You may rely on me,” Aunt Kate said, after a long pause.
“Then bring me your niece,” Prince Mihai said, as if it were the most reasonable request in the world. “I would rather Dacia, but the other one, the Smoke, would also serve.”
“The Smoke?” Lady Ioana’s voice was sharp. “She is not the queen for you.”
Lou would have shaken her fist at the old woman if she’d had a fist. Of course Lady Ioana didn’t want the Smoke, the natural leader of the Florescus, as queen!
“Very well, if it must be Dacia, get her for me!” Mihai smoothed his hair, and Lou saw that his hands were shaking and his eyes looked strange. Had he been drinking?
“No,” Aunt Kate said, and now there was no hesitation. “As you say, Lady Ioana: we are not animals. We do not need Dacia to take command of the Claw. I have been trained to lead them, but Dacia has no experience. She bested me by sheer dumb luck.”
“I don’t care if she is the Virgin Mother of your little pack,” Prince Mihai snarled. “Bring her to me!”
“I am not the madam of a brothel; I will not procure girls for you—particularly when that girl is my niece!” Aunt Kate snapped back.
Impressed, Lou did a happy swirl inside the flue. Prince Mihai should really know better than to snarl at someone who could turn into a wolf at will. Her happiness also stemmed from the grand news that Aunt Kate, like Radu, was having second thoughts about following Prince Mihai. And unlike Radu, Aunt Kate was strong-willed enough to do something about it.
“Let me make this much easier for you,” Prince Mihai said. “Bring me Dacia or I will kill my uncle and make you watch.”
Stunned, Lou lost control and slipped down into the fireplace. She saw Lady Ioana’s head twist around, and the old woman pointed a gnarled finger at her.
“The Smoke,” she hissed.
Roused from her shock, Lou shot back up the chimney and away.
THE DIARY OF MISS DACIA VREEHOLT
17 June 1897
What a nightmare this has become! Lou is trapped in her Smoke form, perhaps permanently, and we are waiting for Mihai and my own grandmother to begin a war! Should I doubt my own sanity? Surely such things cannot be true! Have I run mad, and these are my hallucinations?
No. It is all too real, and most horribly so!
I have retired to one of the guest chambers, but none of us will sleep this night. Poor Johnny tried to get the king and queen to leave—Bran is nearby, and that castle, for all its coziness, is easier to defend—but they refused. They will stand and face Mihai. It is noble (and romantic) of them, but also very foolish.
I insisted that I be given a pistol, and Johnny showed me how to fire it. He implied that I had other defenses at my command, but I gave him one of Aunt Kate’s Looks. I will fight with pistol and with bare fists, if necessary, but never THAT.
Humph. Not at all in the mood to rest, but quite hungry. Is it selfish of me to ring for something while danger looms? It’s not as though they’ll arm the kitchen staff! I will ring for something filling. Must keep up my strength for tonight’s exertions.
PELES CASTELUL
Dacia ate a ham sandwich and drank a glass of milk, then had a cup of tea. She took her diary out of her reticule again, but could think of nothing else to say except to add that she had eaten, but didn’t think it mattered.
She lay down on the bed, got up again, and smoothed her hair in the mirror over the washstand. The guest rooms at Peles were rather odd: plain and narrow, and all decorated the same except for the color. Dacia thought they looked like dormitory rooms at a boarding school, though she had no practical knowledge to support this.
She was in the Lilac Room, which was at the end of the row after the identical Blue and Green guest rooms. The rug, blankets, sheets, and towels were all lilac colored. She picked up one of the towels and held it to her cheek, drawing in a deep breath. She thought about her first shopping excursion in Bucharest, weeks ago, when Radu had followed her to the ribbon shop. She remembered him startling her and then buying her lemonade while they talked.
And Mihai had appeared.
Dacia hung the towel on the bar, feeling sick. Had it been an accident that he had encountered her that very first day, or had he been watching her? In a more vindictive mood, she might have accused Radu of leading Mihai to her at the prince’s request, but Radu’s uneasiness around the prince was too real.
It didn’t matter anyway. It was done now. Mihai wanted her, he wanted power, and he was going to destroy everything and everyone that stood in his way. She decided to burn those lilac ribbons when she got back to Bucharest. They reminded her too much of Mihai.
She opened her reticule and stuck her hand all the way to the bottom, under her diary and pen, her comb and packet of hairpins. Her fingers fumbled out the bracelet that lay at the very bottom. Heavy gold, in the shape of a dragon. A gift from Mihai. Dacia thought about throwing it out the window, or down the commode. Then she changed her mind and put it back. Much better to return it—in person, she thought.
Glancing around the room at the lilac blankets and the framed watercolor of lilac bushes, Dacia found that she could not stay in the room another second. She crossed to the door and went out, closing it firmly behind her. But then she didn’t know what to do. Dr. Ionescu was still trying to figure out what was in the powder that Lou had drunk, the queen was resting, and Johnny and the king were closeted with the captain of the palace guard.
Which left her entirely at loose ends.
She smoothed her skirts, her bodice, her hair. There was a mirror across the corridor from where she stood, and she walked over to it. It was far larger than the one in the Lilac Room, and much more brightly lit. She frowned at her hair, with its strange mixture of ash and gold strands. Was there more ash in it now? Was she going gray so young? Not that it mattered, her hair was such an odd color, in this light it almost reminded her of—
A wolf.
Dacia put her fingers to the reflection of her hair in the mirror. Her hair was a mixture of colors, subtle colors that would blend into rocks and trees and earth in a forest. Like a wolf’s pelt. Aunt Kate’s was much the same, only there was more gold in her hair. Dacia thought of her aunt as a wolf . . . yes, Kate had been more of a gold color than most of the others, while Radu had definitely been reddish.
And then she thought of her mother’s hair. Her mother’s light brown hair, threaded with gold, but with hairs here and there of a darker hue. Dacia could picture her mother as a wolf. Lean, but not as lean as her sister Kate, with a warm brown pelt, lightly dusted with gold.
But of course, the very idea of the elegant Ileana Florescu Vreeholt shedding her clothes and bending her body into a wolf’s shape was ludicrous. The thought of her mother doing anything so . . . so fraught with emotion . . . as turning into a wolf was even more ludicrous, Dacia thought with a flash of anger. You had to feel to transform. You had to care.
Dacia turned away from the mirror, and smashed into a tinkling mass of something. She leaped back and stepped on the hem of her gown. She managed to stay on her feet by grabbing a small marble-topped table. She’d had been standing so close to the mirror to study her reflection that when she turned, she had crashed into one of the elaborate Venetian glass lamps.
Embarrassed, she checked the lamp for damage. It was quite beautiful, with clusters of different-colored flowers surrounding the electric candles. With relief she saw that she hadn’t broken any of the tiny glass petals, and started to move away. Which was when she saw the writing that had appeared on the mirror.
She let out a choice oath—a favorite of their head groom at home—and stepped on the hem of her gown again. This time she heard something tear, but she was beyond caring; shaky writing was streaking the mirror, adding another line even as she watched.
Dacia grabbed the carved wooden bowl decorating the little table. She raised it high to smash the mirror, and then saw the name Mihai. She stopped, and let the bowl fall back on the table with a
clunk.
“Lou!”
It had to be Lou who was doing the writing! In point of fact, it looked like her handwriting, but much wobblier, like she was writing with her finger . . . or a curl of Smoke. Dacia hurried to read the message, which was already fading.
Mihai Lady Ioana Hotel Sinaia.
Family Sinaia monastery.
Kate bring you to Mihai or Mattias killed.
“Oh, my goodness!” Dacia caught herself wringing her hands like some useless girl in a novel, and forced herself to stop.
Tell.
“Oh, yes, yes! Of course, yes,” Dacia said, and hurried down the hall to the king’s study.
She knocked but didn’t wait for the king to invite her in, opening the latch and slipping inside before the sound of her knock had even faded. King Carol was bent over some building plans with Lord Johnny. Mr. Arkady was frozen in the act of writing in a small leather-bound notebook.
“Is Miss Neulander all right?” Mr. Arkady’s pen slipped from his fingers and he rose to his feet. “She hasn’t . . . I mean . . . is she well?”
He had returned to the palace a little while before, deeply depressed. There were no Gypsies to be found anywhere in town, and none of the apothecaries had sold the man the powder. Lord Johnny speculated that someone in Bucharest had drugged Lou to cause her headache, so that the cure could be offered.
Dacia was putting her money on Nadia.
“She has found a way to send messages by writing on the mirror,” Dacia said.
“Astonishing!” Mr. Arkady looked frankly admiring of Lou’s new skill.
“What was the message?” The king looked weary, and his question was far more to the point than Mr. Arkady’s shining eyes and hushed utterances, at least in Dacia’s opinion.
“Prince Mihai and Lady Ioana are at the Hotel Sinaia, the rest of our family are at the monastery,” Dacia reported. She lifted her chin. “And Aunt Kate is to bring me to Mihai, or he will kill his uncle Mattias.”
Having made her grand announcement, Dacia went to the sofa and sat without being invited. That last message had made her knees a bit shaky, but she would never have admitted it.
“He wants you very badly, Miss Vreeholt,” the king said gravely.
“Well, he can’t have me,” Dacia said in as light a tone as she could manage.
She realized that she was extremely thirsty, and asked the king if they could ring for tea. Dacia had been taught to never eat more than a few dainty bites in front of mixed company, but since becoming the Claw she found herself possessed of an enormous, unladylike appetite. It was time to stop pretending any of the gentlemen present would think of her as a marriage prospect and start taking care of herself. She would need her strength for the night to come: it was hardly the time to worry about fitting into some ridiculous ball gown and start worrying about what to do if they were besieged by her own family.
“I’m not sure that I can take tea at a time like this,” King Carol grumbled.
“Nor I,” said Mr. Arkady, though he gave Dacia a faint, apologetic smile.
“Well, I can,” Dacia said frankly. “I think it’s best to keep one’s strength up.”
“I agree with Dacia . . . Miss Vreeholt . . . Dacia,” Lord Johnny said, not meeting her eyes. He cleared his throat. “May I, Your Majesty?” He gestured at the bellpull, which was actually an electric switch affixed to the wall.
“Very well,” the king said, and waved a hand for Lord Johnny to ring.
The maid brought more than just tea, and Dacia, Lord Johnny, and even Mr. Arkady feasted on roast beef sandwiches and a salad made of carrots and tomatoes. Dacia tucked in as though she hadn’t eaten half an hour ago in her room. The king sat at his desk and frowned. Not at them, specifically, but at the wall, as he thought over what was to come.
At least, Dacia supposed that was what he was thinking about. She couldn’t really say, and the king did not speak again for hours. She curled up on one of the sofas and dozed for a while, comforted by Lou, who had slipped into the room and now hovered near the fireplace. Lord Johnny slept as well, though Mr. Arkady paced the room, occasionally shooting them both exasperated looks.
Dacia just frowned at him, even half-asleep. There was nothing else they could do, nothing but wait for the attack to come.
PELES CASTELUL
Lou found it harder and harder to concentrate. She tried to go back to the hotel, to spy on Lady Ioana and Prince Mihai again, but felt as though she were swimming through molasses.
Exhausted, she let herself thin out. Mixing with the whole air of the castle, she hovered in every room, a faint haze near the ceiling if you looked up. But no one was looking up. They were looking down, and out of the corners of their eyes as well: jumping at every sound, inspecting each other for signs of betrayal. Several of the maids were huddled in the butler’s pantry, weeping, while the butler had drunk most of the sherry and crawled into a closet.
Lou knew all this.
She knew that the queen had written three letters and hidden them inside her Bible. Now the venerable lady was kneeling beside her bed, praying.
She knew that the king was sitting in his study, fists clenched on a plan of the palace and grounds, staring into space with his jaw jutting forward.
She knew that Dacia was dozing with her head on Lord Johnny’s shoulder.
And she knew that Theo was sitting on the opposite sofa, staring up and talking softly in a language she thought was Turkish.
She strained to hear him, trying to understand, but instead she heard Mihai.
He was coming in through one of the long windows in the music room. She didn’t know how he had gotten past the guards and into the garden, but there was no one in the music room to stop him. With a massive effort Lou pulled inward, thinking to write on the window behind the king’s desk, but found instead that she could only scatter wider and thinner. She was losing herself at last.
“He’s coming!”
Screaming the words as loudly as she could, though she had no lungs, no tongue, no mouth, Lou tried to tell them before she was gone completely. As nothingness overwhelmed her, she saw Theo leap to his feet and shout.
“It’s Lou! They must be here!”
Gratified, Lou faded away.
FROM THE DESK OF MISS DACIA VREEHOLT
17 June 1897
To Mrs. Ileana Vreeholt,
I will most likely not be alive to send this letter in the morning, and even if I am, I doubt very much that I would have the courage. And so let me say here and now that I hate you. I hate you and blame you for everything that has befallen me, and I wish somehow for you to know that I reject you and the legacy you have given me: the dissatisfaction with life, the sense of superiority to everyone I meet, but most especially, the Claw. I reject you. I reject everything you have ever taught me. I reject this grotesque inheritance.
Nevermore your daughter,
Dacia
PELES CASTELUL
Quite suddenly, the palace was swarming with Mihai’s army.
There were shouting men and stamping feet, and howling that filled Dacia with a strange longing. She was on her feet, leaning toward the door of the king’s study, before she came fully awake.
Something kept her from lunging forward, however. Someone was gripping her hand, pulling her back. She looked down, her gaze vague, and all at once the world came into sharper focus. Lord Johnny was holding her hand with both of his. She could feel the calluses on his hands, and see a small scar on the back of one, a little white parenthesis on the tanned skin. It was not the hand of a pampered society buck like Will Carver, she thought.
It made her wonder, abruptly, what had become of Will Carver. Was he still in Romania? Or had he fled, afraid of bloodsucking monsters stalking him in the night? A month ago she had hardly passed an hour without thinking of him; now she could hardly summon the interest to question whether he was safe.
“Dacia?”
She realized that she had lost focus again, and
looked down at Johnny. His face was white and tense, his blue eyes fixed on her.
“I’m all right,” she said.
“You looked like you might . . . like you might go to them . . .” Lord Johnny jerked his head toward the door, and the sound of the howling.
“No,” Dacia said, her voice low. “No, I won’t. I swear to you.”
“John,” said Mr. Arkady. “Here.”
He was holding a freshly loaded pistol, and another was tucked into his belt. Johnny took the proffered gun and checked it before putting it into his own belt. He took up a rifle that one of the guards had brought and loaded it while Mr. Arkady loaded his own. Feeling useless, Dacia looked around and saw that the king was sitting at his desk still, only he had a brace of pistols on the blotter, and a rifle leaned against the bookcase just beside him. After making such a fuss about having a gun of her own, Dacia had left it in her room.
There was a knock at the door, and a guard announced himself.
“Enter,” King Carol barked, and a young guard with a sheen of sweat on his forehead slipped into the room.
“Your Majesty, we’re going to take you to the cellars. The queen is there already.”
“We’re to cower down there like rats? Ha!”
“It’s for your own safety, Your Majesty,” the guard said with a hint of pleading. There had been a great deal of discussion over this matter earlier in the day. “Since you won’t leave altogether, you must go to the cellars!” He drew in a shaky breath, seemingly on the verge of babbling. “They came right in. The guards ran away. They ran away because . . . some of the intruders are . . .” His eyes darted to Dacia.
“Wolves?” She supplied the word with polite interest, even though what she really wanted to do was cry.
No. Not cry. Howl. What she really wanted to do was howl.
She could hear them coming closer and closer, the wolves. Her wolves. She was their leader, they needed her . . .