I gave her a rueful smile. “Rather like the Scots then, ruled from London by people who do not understand us at all.”

“Precisely. And like the Scots, our troubles are of long standing, born in the mists of time. Long ago this land was settled by Romans, the warrior legions who wrested these mountains from the hill tribes and civilised them. In the middle ages, Transylvania was independent, ruled by ruthless princes who did what they must to keep the Germans and the Turks and their empires at bay. Always there were wars and bloodshed in these valleys. This castle was built by the first Count Dragulescu to hold the valley against either empire. He lost his life upon the highest battlement, defending his homeland.”

“Dreadful,” I murmured, thinking of the legend the driver had told me of the Devil’s Staircase.

Her lips twisted again. “Dreadful was the fate of his wife, the first countess, a beautiful Wallachian princess, she whose daughter was sacrificed to build this castle. When the count, her husband, fell in battle, she knew she would not survive the siege of the Dragulescu fortress, that once the enemy breached the walls, she would be taken and used cruelly, as no woman ought ever to be used. But she would cheat them, she decided. She wished to die with her honour held high for all to see. She flung herself from the tower to the river below, where the silver water ran red with her blood.”

I blinked. “The tower? The tower where I am lodged?”

“The very room.”

I drew in a slow, shuddering breath.

The countess went on. “Can you imagine how desperate, how frightened, she must have been? To destroy herself, and with it, all chance at immortality in the comfort of God’s presence?

“Of course,” the countess continued, “she may well have thought of those Roman generals who were the first Roumanians, the sons of Jupiter, come to settle this land before the Huns. They knew how to die with honour.”

“And how did the Dragulescus keep their home if the count was killed in battle?”

“The count had a younger brother who rallied his soldiers, and at the last moment, the castle was saved. Many centuries later, when the Hungarians came to power, the Orthodox Dragulescus converted to Roman Catholicism and swore an oath of fealty to their Magyar masters.”

I nodded towards the gallery of dismal icons. “But you are Orthodox.”

“Devoutly. It is well for the Dragulescu men to maintain they are Catholic, and my son does, as did his grandfather and my husband. But the women are free to embrace the true faith, for all that they are of the Dragulescu blood. I am not a Dragulescu only by marriage, you understand. I was born of the blood, a second cousin to my husband, and the blood of dragons flows in my veins.”

She pronounced the last words with relish, her eyes alight with some inner fire.

“Dragons?”

“Yes,” she told me proudly. “The name Dragulescu comes from the Roumanian word for dragon. It is said that long ago a dragon lived in the belly of this mountain and we subdued him to make his mountain our own. Folk said we harnessed the dragon and rode him over the sky, raining fire upon our enemies. Even now, it is said he slumbers for a thousand years beneath the castle, waiting to be awakened should we have need of him.”

“It must be lovely to belong to such a place with such history,” I mused.

She nodded thoughtfully. “But with that belonging comes responsibilities that must never be shirked. One owes everything to the land and the people, everything,” she finished fiercely.

Having seen for myself the hardship that such dereliction could cause, I could well understand the violence of her feelings. Such a feudal system could only possibly function if the lord and master oversaw his demesne carefully, involving himself in every part of his dependents’ lives. They must be able to rely upon him, as fully as children rely upon a father, to decide upon which crops to plant, when to harvest, which animals to breed and which to cull. Their very livelihoods depended upon his choices, the very lives of their children. I thought of the shuttered school and the boarded church, the flooded fields and the pitted street. I thought of all that had been left to fall to ruin in Count Bogdan’s time and how much labour and effort it would cost his son to put it right. One only hoped he was up to the challenge.

“And that is why my son must have the proper helpmeet,” she added, with such delicacy that I might have missed the meaningful glance she darted me. A tiny furrow had appeared between her brows, and I realised then the difficult position in which she found herself. She was my hostess and must be hospitable; still more she was grateful to me for the role I had played in persuading the count to fulfill his duty. But I must not be permitted to entertain hopes, I reflected bitterly, and the countess’s remarks were by way of warning me not to nock my arrow at that particular target. I was merely the granddaughter of an esteemed but impoverished scholar, and I earned my keep by means of my pen. I was unworthy of his attentions, particularly attentions of the matrimonial variety.

“Of course,” I said faintly, wishing the interview over, but understanding I had no power to stop it.

“I had hopes he would marry Cosmina,” she went on carefully. “The match would have finished what my union with my husband began, the bringing together of both branches of our family.” She reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her mouth, and I believed it was so she would not have to meet my eyes. “Andrei has proven difficult, and of course, his happiness is so important to me. It would grieve my mother’s heart to think of him unhappily settled. But there is more to consider than his own inclinations. The name and the blood of the Dragulescus must not be degraded by his choice.” The clock upon the table gave a little chime. “Oh, dear. It is time for my medicine,” she said, waving the hand that held the great pigeon’s-blood ruby. “Will you be so kind as to fetch Frau Amsel?”

I rose, and as I did so, I realised it was merely a clever stratagem on her part to change the subject. She had impressed upon me that I was an unsuitable match for her son and had done so in a way that had been calculated to bring embarrassment to neither of us, and the timing was calculated as well, I suspected, with the need for her medicine a suitable expedient to make certain the conversation would not be continued. It was cleverly done, and I could judge from the satisfied expression upon her face that she was pleased with the results. I had offered her neither argument nor resentment, and both of us knew I lacked the courage to reintroduce the topic once it had been so definitively retired.

I hurried to find Frau Amsel bustling in the door. Doubtless she had been hovering outside, perhaps even listening to our conversation. She brushed past me to attend the countess, and I closed the door softly after.

My rapid departure and the countess’s remarks left me feeling a little unsettled. A hasty glance out the window revealed that the sun had finally appeared, banishing the storm clouds, and I hurried to my room for my stoutest shoes and a warm plaid shawl. A brisk scramble down to the village might well prove muddy, but escaping the close atmosphere of the castle was worth any untidiness, I decided.

Just as I passed through the court and out into the paved area beyond, Florian called my name. His eyes were deeply shadowed, and I smiled at him in sympathy. Broken slumbers seemed to be endemic at the castle.

“Do you mean to be going to the village?” he asked.

“Yes. I wanted some fresh air.”

To my surprise, he gave me a rueful, knowing smile. “I am seeing to the pigs, so I am bound that way also. We go together?”

His face betrayed nothing arcane, no hidden motive, and yet I could not help but feel a frisson of emotion, as if he were silently appealing to me.