“And the other form?” I asked.

“Strigoi vii, living men who have given up their immortal soul, either by choice or happenstance. One might be the seventh child of a seventh child, or perhaps have suffered the bite of a strigoi mort. These living vampires draw sustenance not from blood, but from the life force of those around them. A strigoi viu is doomed to become a strigoi mort after his death.”

It seemed an impossible thing to accept. The stories I had read about these creatures had been unreal to me, no different than any other bit of dark folklore. Somehow even as I had lectured Charles on the subject, I had failed to grasp that these creatures were very real to the folk who believed in them.

“But vampires, Dr. Frankopan,” I told him. “Surely they do not exist.” And even as I said the words I heard the shiver of doubt.

To my astonishment, the doctor leaned forward and covered my hands with his own. “My dear, you are a friend to the Dragulescus, and for this reason, you are dear to me as well. I must care for you as they would in their absence, and you must be warned.”

“Warned against what?” I demanded. I felt a little impatient with him now, and I struggled against it. It was not his fault that he had been brought up with such superstitions; indeed most folk had. Even in Edinburgh, a city that prided itself upon learning and sound common sense, I had heard of the ways of the peculiarities of the country folk and their odd beliefs about unseen things. How much more easily could they thrive here, in this fertile land of myth and magic?

He did not loose his hold upon my hands. “You cannot guard yourself against what you will not believe. There have been troubles here, long ago, but the memory of them is fresh. Should trouble come again, whilst you are here, you must be prepared. The strigoi mort is a creature of revenge, created out of the evil misdeeds of a once-living man. He will repay the slights suffered in life at the hands of his family by attacking them after his death. It is said the strigoi mort first works his evil in small ways, bringing bad dreams and rendering men incapable with their women. Then he begins to feed, first upon cattle, then upon children and youths, draining them of their blood. There is no mistaking the work of the strigoi, either living or dead.”

In spite of myself, I felt chilled at his words.

“But surely there are rational explanations for such things,” I reminded him gently.

“The explanation is evil!” he replied, dropping my hands abruptly. I noticed then that he had gone quite pale and sweat had begun to bead upon his brow. He wore his usual red coat with the brass buttons, and I wondered if he ought to remove it.

“Dr. Frankopan, you are unwell. Let me call for Madame Popa,” I began.

He waved me away and drew a green silk handkerchief from his pocket. “No, no. It is only that I become too excited sometimes. Because I am afraid,” he finished in a whisper.

I caught my breath on a sudden inspiration. “You believe it has already begun,” I said.

He flinched. “Absolutely not, absolutely not. Do not even suggest such a thing.”

“But it has happened before,” I prodded.

He nodded, still wiping at his brow. “Yes, yes, it has. It was a dark time for us. It happened when the old count, Mircea, died.”

“The present count’s grandfather? When Count Bogdan became the reigning count?”

“Yes. I see you are well-versed in our history,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “There was trouble then. Dark deeds were done, but in time all was made right again. The people began to forget. But I am afraid, now that Count Bogdan is dead…” He trailed off, too distressed to continue.

But I was too engrossed in the conversation to leave off. “What do you fear?” I asked softly.

He pressed the handkerchief to his lips for a long moment, then burst out, as if a dam had broken. “The strigoi mort is a creature of evil, of misdeeds in life brought to horrible fruition after death. No good man has ever become a strigoi. It requires a special sort of viciousness to cheat death,” he said bitterly. “And Bogdan was the most vicious man I ever knew.”

“You are afraid he will become a strigoi mort,” I concluded. “Oh, I see.”

Dr. Frankopan replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. “I know you must think me a silly old man, a silly old man indeed. But I have seen much in my long life, and some of these things I do not wish to see again.”

I pressed his hand. “I understand.”

“I fear most for the family,” he said earnestly. “If Bogdan walks, he will destroy them. Just the possibility could send them into madness. The Dragulescus are, in the end, people of the mountain. They pretend to be worldly and educated, they want to be sophisticated, but the truth is they are no different from the woodcutter in his cottage. They will work themselves into a frenzy over this. Madness is no stranger to this family. It is a weakness that runs in the blood. If they must sit, waiting for this dreadful thing to walk among them, they will make themselves mad.”

“So it is for Count Andrei and the countess you fear most?”

“I fear for all of them. Hysteria is a contagious thing, my dear. It can settle into a house like a disease and it will poison the atmosphere until none are left who can resist it. But you can.”

He grasped my hands again, this time in supplication. His palms were cool and smooth, like new paper.

“You are not of this place. You are from the cold grey north, where common sense and order prevail.”

“I am not so sensible as all that,” I protested.

“You are a great deal more sensible than any of the Dragulescus,” he said with a rueful smile. “I love them dearly. They are family to me as much as my own kin. But I cannot be there at all times to keep watch over them. You are the only one who can do that now.”

I made to pull my hands away but he held them fast. “I am not asking for extraordinary heroics, child. All you need do is keep your wits about you, and if something seems not quite right, send for me. I have my duties in the village, and sometimes I am called far from home for my patients. I cannot keep as close as I would like.”

I did not like the notion of spying upon my hosts for this man, no matter how kindly his manner. He must have sensed my hesitation, for he released my hands, and gentled his tone.

“I do not ask you to break any confidence or to meddle. I only ask that you be watchful, and that if you see something peculiar, you will tell me. Is that so much to ask of you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “The Dragulescus are very lucky to have someone who cares so deeply for their happiness.”

His plump face was wreathed in smiles. “How happy you have made me! Come, we will have another cup of tea and talk of pleasanter things.”

I left the good doctor some time later, wrapping myself warmly against the late-afternoon chill. The sun had sunk low and I realised I must hurry if I meant to make the castle before dusk. I told myself I hastened because the dangers in the mountains were manifestly greater after dark-rockfalls, a treacherous staircase to ascend, the threat of wolf or lynx or bear. But the truth was that I had taken Dr. Frankopan’s conversation very much to heart. Speaking of such things before a cosy fire in a snug cottage was spine-shivering enough. To dwell upon them on a dark forest path was quite another.

I hurried along, noting the scudding clouds lowering above the castle towers. A storm was gathering and I hastened still faster, chiding myself for tarrying so long at Dr. Frankopan’s comfortable hearth. And with each step I noted the rising wind speaking in the trees. The villagers had fled for the safety of their houses, and though I could see the warm glow of candlelight in their windows and smell the sharp comforts of woodsmoke from their chimneys, I knew I had a cold and lonely climb ahead of me.