But the further we moved into the village, the more signs of neglect I detected. The bright paint was weathered and in need of refreshment, and the road was dirty and rough. Even the little school was shuttered tight, the lock upon the gate rusted into place.

“The village children do not attend school then?” I asked carefully. I did not wish to seem critical, but it chafed that the children should not be educated. There were few things more precious to a Scot than a thorough education.

Cosmina kept her eyes fixed upon the road. “It was closed when Count Bogdan inherited. Perhaps it will be opened again. It is for the count to say.”

To the rest of my queries-about the state of the road, the church that also proved locked and abandoned, the dry and abandoned well, the river meadow that flooded but might make excellent pasturage when drained-to all of these Cosmina made the same reply. “It is for the count to say.” I began to understand the power that he wielded then. He was a feudal lord in a modern world, the villagers reliant upon him as children for the proper management of their crops and livestock, the education of their children, the health of their bodies and souls. It was a weighty responsibility, but also a necessary one, and I began to wonder at the character of a man who could treat his dependents in so cavalier a fashion. Cosmina held great hope that the new count would effect change, and the villagers seemed to hold that hope as well. In any other locality such neglect would have engendered resentment and despondency, perhaps even rebellion. But here was only resignation to what had been and anticipation of what might yet be. The native temperament of the Roumanian was a complex one, I decided, and therefore interesting.

At last we walked the length of the little village and emerged into a narrow track that led into a wood. Closer and closer the trees pressed in upon us until we could scarcely walk abreast. It was shadowed and greenly gloomy in the little glade, and I was not sorry when upon reaching a little turning in the path we came to a clearing. Set within was a pretty house, old-fashioned and solid, with a steeply pitched roof dotted with gables. Ivy climbed the walls and smoke rose from the stone chimney. A little stone path led the way to the door, and I noticed it was bordered not in flowers but herbs, and each plant was marked with a sign neatly lettered in Latin.

“This is the house of Dr. Frankopan, the countess’s doctor, a Hungarian,” Cosmina informed me. She led the way down the path, but before she could raise her hand to knock at the door, it was thrown wide.

“Cosmina!” bellowed the bewhiskered little gentleman who stood upon the threshold. He wore a red coat fitted with bright brass buttons that gleamed almost as brightly as his eyes. “How good it is to see you, my dear. And is this your friend from Scotland? Of course it must be, for we have no strangers here. Except you, Miss Lestrange. The stranger, Miss Lestrange!” he added with a waggish smile, enjoying his little joke.

I returned his greeting, and he hurried us inside, taking our wraps and hanging them upon pegs, all the while keeping up a ceaseless patter.

“Ah, you have found my Aconitum anthora, very good, very good. This will be enough to see me through the winter, I think, so long as I am careful. You must go in, my dears, the fire is laid and Frau Graben was kind enough to send down a cake from the castle. You must share it with me. I hope the path was not too muddy-no, no, you mustn’t worry about your shoes. The carpet is an old one and wants sweeping anyway. Go on through now and take chairs by the fire. I will come along in a moment with cake.”

Cosmina and I took chairs as instructed and the doctor’s absence gave me a little time to look about the room. It was comfortable, lined with books and smelling of tobacco and woodsmoke. There were cosy armchairs and a pretty bird in a cage by the window, and everywhere were draped little bits of colourful needlework, doubtless payment from the villagers for his services. I glanced at Cosmina and she smiled.

“I do hope that you like Dr. Frankopan,” she murmured. “He is a very great friend to the countess, and has been so kind to me. We have worked together in the village, or rather, he has been kind enough to allow me to assist him from time to time. I would have described him to you, but there did not seem to be words,” she finished, and I was forced to agree. She might have said he was elderly and bald as a baby, with bright pink cheeks and an enormous set of white whiskers, but she could never have conveyed the perfect amiability of his manner, the waggish charm. When she had spoken of the countess’s physician, I had expected someone dry and serious, but Dr. Frankopan was like something out of a storybook, with his twinkling eyes and bright red frock coat.

Before I could reply, he hurried in, carrying a tray set with a plump teapot and a cake rich with spices and dried fruits. Cosmina attended to the tea things while the doctor poked up the fire until it blazed merrily upon the hearth.

“There, there, now we have every comfort!” he said, taking his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now, Miss Lestrange, I do not detect the famous Scottish brogue in your speech. Tell me why that should be so.”

“My grandfather was a scholar, sir, and born in England. He had the raising of me, as well as that of my sister, and while he maintained there was no finer city than Edinburgh to achieve an education, he was careful of his vowels to the end.”

“Just so, just so,” he replied, nodding. “And do you consider yourself a Scotswoman or an Englishwoman?” The question was an intimate one, and yet I could not feel the intrusion of it, so genial and open was his manner.

“Both and neither,” I answered truthfully. “I remember no home but Edinburgh, and yet I am a person without a country at present.”

“As I am!” he exclaimed, sitting up excitedly. “I have come to live here in Transylvania, but I was reared between Buda-Pesth and Vienna, one foot in Hungary, the other in Austria, and my heart in the Carpathians,” he finished, sweeping his hand dramatically to his chest. “So, this we have in common. You must tell me more.”

He commenced to ask a series of questions about Scotland and my travels and my perceptions of Transylvania, and so thorough was his inquisition that I was hardly able to manage a sip of my tea or a crumb of the delicious cake. But I enjoyed the conversation immensely, and in turn I learned that the doctor was the son of a noble Hungarian family, the house their hunting lodge. His elder brother was a baron and happy to leave the lodge in the doctor’s hands while he lived in Vienna.

“And Vienna no longer entices you?” I asked before taking a hasty, stolen bite of my cake.

For a moment, his eyes seemed shuttered and his animation faltered, and I wondered if Vienna held a sad memory for him. But as soon as the melancholia touched him, he recovered himself. “Not at all,” he said heartily. “I believe country air is necessary for good health. Country air and brisk walks, wholesome food and good friends. These are the key to excellent health, my dear Miss Lestrange. Besides, Transylvania has other attractions.” He fell silent then, and although the topic of conversation wandered, he never seemed to entirely recover the high spirits of his welcome.

At length we finished our tea and cake and as we rose to leave, he pressed a bottle upon Cosmina. “That is for the countess. Three drops in a glass of wine before retiring. I will call upon her tomorrow. Three drops, no more, no less,” he said firmly to Cosmina.

“I shall remember,” she told him.

He gave her hand an avuncular squeeze. “I know you will. You are a good girl.”

His expression grew pensive again and we made our goodbyes.

“What a charming man,” I said as we gained the little path through the trees.