Page 9 of The Shadow of the Count
“Do you?”
“Mmm. Two letters now if you will. I will dictate. Please hurry. I must be away before the sun rises.” The count kept the strangest hours.
“Yes.” He would finish shaving later. At least he’d stopped bleeding. “The library?”
“No. Here. I have not time.”
“I—I see.” He pulled out his lap desk, his latest letter to Don half-finished. He put it aside, then pulled out his pen and a fresh sheet of paper.
The count dictated two letters. One to an associate in Vienna sending his apologies for canceling his trip there. One to a solicitor in London asking him to find the count accommodations just outside the city for several weeks.
“Here you are, sir. Just as you requested.”
“Thank you.” The count carefully took the still wet letters. He never looked at Peter, only at Donnie’s photo. “What is his name? Your…dear friend?”
“Don. Donald Fitzhugh.”
“Ah. Well, I hope you see him again soon.” Somehow that sounded…ominous. “Good day, Peter Hilliard.”
The count clutched the letters, turning on his heel and striding out. He closed the door behind him. Then locked it.
“Wait! Wait, I have to work!” He ran to and banged on the door, seeking to make as much noise as humanly possible. He heard a soft laughter that put the hair up on the back of his neck, but nothing else.
What was the man thinking?
There was no food, no water—only the barest facilities. This was not at all what he had signed on for. Not in the least. How could the man lock him in during the day, when he usually found his food and did the job the man paid him for?
“Let me out!” He screamed and pounded for a while longer, then went to look out the small window his room had, which looked out over the drawbridge. Well, there was no way he was going out that way.
How he knew, he had no idea, but Peter felt the count would not return to let him out. There was something ominous in the way he’d said “good day.” So he would have to break the lock. That was the only option. Perhaps the count had left the key in the hole.
Peter cast about for something to push it with, because really, the lock was as old as the castle itself. The librarian in his brain told him no, the castle was old enough to have a leather-and-wood latch, and that the lock was only a few hundred years old, but that was neither here nor there.
He settled on his pencil, sliding a piece of paper halfway beneath the door to catch the key if it fell. He didn’t remember where he’d read that, but it was in his brain to do it.
Voila. The key clanged to the floor, and he pulled, knowing it would fit through the gap. Heaven knew it was drafty enough. Thank heavens it didn’t catch on anything, and slid right under the planks of the heavy portal.
He unlocked the door, pushing it open and pocketing the key. He wasn’t sure whether to pack his bags and run or to simply return to work and refuse to relinquish the key until he had been paid for his services.
He would find the count. Surely the man couldn’t just up and leave for other climes without packing and having his entourage ready to go. Peter marched out of his room, determined to have his say and get his pay.
As he moved through the castle, he discovered that his monk’s quarters were quite well-kept compared to the rest of the place, which seemed to be falling in upon itself.
He headed up one flight of stairs, discovered a wall had fallen in, closing the way. How could anyone live here?
The whole place was a giant maze of danger. Down on the main level he discovered a kitchen that looked utterly disused, and he wondered where his meals came from. This was more a medieval torture chamber than a modern cookery. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
He swore he heard a distant giggle, like a whisper.
Peter turned in a full circle. Where? He moved to the stairs that went down into what had to be the basements. Why would anyone be there?
“Hello?” he whispered, and he heard an echo of his own voice, but distorted.
His feet told him to turn around and go back up to the light abovestairs.Nothing good could lurk down there in the dark. Nothing.
“Come down and play…”
He gasped, horrified at the sibilant whisper, and he shook his head. Upstairs. Go upstairs. There was no help down there. No, that was something that wanted to tear at him and hurt him. He flew back up to his room, locking himself in. He needed to make a plan.
