Page 6 of The Shadow of the Count
“No, no. Please.”
It had been a long while since he’d dined last with Yvgeny, so he sipped the wine, then tucked into the soft cheese, which seemed to be from goat or sheep’s milk. The wine was lovely—which surprised him—but it was luscious, like velvet on the tongue.
The count watched him closely, which was unnerving, but he wasn’t impolite at all. Simply…intense.
“I’m eager to look at your library and begin cataloging. This is an exciting opportunity.” Peter was terrible at small talk, and he was afraid that he had a rather harder task with a foreign nobleman, especially one as enigmatic as the count.
“Mmm. Yes. I want this as well, as there are some pieces I wish to take…when I travel.” The count made a squinty face that he thought was meant to be a smile.
“Oh? Are you going soon?” He wouldn’t find it amiss to being left with only the servants for the bulk of his work. In fact, it would be a blessing not to feel this man’s eyes on him all the time.
“I am. But never fear, you will have all you require to do your work. I also wonder if I might impose on you to write some letters for me. My French and English are…yours will be better.”
“Of course. I am at your disposal.” He was more than happy to help where he was needed. He’d written more than one missive for professors and employers over the last few years.
“Excellent. Well, come, I will show you to your room. It grows late.” The count rose, and Peter blinked at his empty wineglass.
Peter pushed himself up, catching his palm on an exposed nail on the chair. “Ouch!”
“Oh.” The count looked at him, seeming to vibrate for a moment, then turning away from him. Maybe the man was squeamish at the sight of blood, which welled up in the wake of the nail.
“I’m sorry.” Peter grabbed his handkerchief and balled it up to press it to his palm.
“No. Do not apologize. I suggest you stay in your room tonight and start at the library tomorrow. It can be…dangerous here at night.” Now the count turned to look at him again, the long nose seeming to quiver.
“Really?” Peter looked around instinctively, trying to see what dangers the castle might pose.
“Yes. The house is old and has many ghosts and loose floorboards.” The count smiled at him. “Follow me.”
“Of course.” He hoped his trunk was upstairs. He needed to wash up and change into a nightshirt. And a robe. This place was drafty.
Hopefully the lodgings he was being given were… Please, just let the bedding be fresh. Peter didn’t know if he could bear bedbugs and stinky straw.
“Here you are.” The count opened a chamber door, and while it looked like a monk’s cell, it was clean, and he could do well enough here. His trunk sat at the foot of the bed.
“Thank you, sir, I—” He turned to say more, only to see the count disappearing, the door closing behind him.
The lock turned with a click, and Peter stared at it, aghast. Was he to be a prisoner then?
“Wait. Wait, please!”
He had no intention of being locked in like a wayward child. So he knocked loudly.
A soft laugh was his only answer. Then an echoing silence.
Thank the blazes that there were facilities. He was tired, filthy, and honestly, more than a bit worried.
He sat on the bed, staring at his hands for who knew how long. Then Peter shook out of his funk and used the chamber pot, after which he washed up and changed into his nightclothes. Might as well be comfortable.
A tremendous howl echoed outside, as if a pack of wolves were right at the door, and Peter shivered, glad he wasn’t on the first story. Perhaps it was just as well he was locked in. That way nothing got to him any more than he got out to snoop.
He found his stationery and started a letter to his lover. He wished Don was here with him, and he wanted to record everything for him to hear.
In fact…he hopped back up, going to his trunk to find the framed photograph of Donald he’d brought with him, one from Egypt after their adventure. Donald had been a bit…worse for wear, but so dashing.
He placed the photograph on the little writing desk, the moonlight making his beloved one shine.
Then he set pen to paper again, scratching out a long missive. He would send it tomorrow when he wrote the letters for the count.
