To my surprise, I slept deeply and dreamlessly that night-whether from the brandy or my physical exertions, I could not say-and I rose the next morning feeling much clearer in the mind. I had gone to the count’s room deliberately, and although he was the experienced seducer, it was I who had gone to him. My courage had failed me once or twice, yet when the moment came, I had seized it. I was fully a woman now, and I felt the difference of it. So many things that had been veiled from me were now revealed, and although my experience must remain secret, I knew I should never be the same. I had gone boldly to claim that which I wanted, and in doing so, I had thrown down the barriers of my diffidence. It seemed astonishing to me that I had ever considered making a home with my sister or a life with Charles Beecroft. I was another person then, a child; I had existed only as a possibility. But now I truly lived; I was creating the life I intended to have for myself and I was filled with the power of it all.

Perhaps I should have left the castle that morning. I wonder how much of what followed would have come to pass had I not remained. But I felt the pull of the place and of the man himself, even if our parting had not been a romantic one. It was my own fault, I decided. No man likes to have his weaknesses prodded, and I had been ruthless in my examination of his. I believed what I told him, but I also realised that he might never rise equal to the task of reclamation. So much at the castle had been left to fall to ruin, so much beauty wasted and decayed. Little wonder the master of the place should prove the same, I reflected. But how I longed to try. I had seen the satisfaction to be had in restoring the village; how much greater the satisfaction in restoring a soul! I romanticised him, but it was to be expected. I was young and foolish, and he was my first lover. I could no more have left him then than I could have cut out my own heart.

Besides, as I reminded myself stoutly, I had promised Cosmina to stay. Guilt pawed at my stomach over the question of Cosmina. I knew she did not want the count for her own; she harboured no secret passions, nursed no girlish dreams. She was repulsed by marriage, and I strongly suspected would have been horrified by the act I had embraced so fully. There was something cool and untouched about Cosmina, and it occurred to me that even if she were to marry and bear a dozen sons, she would always remind me of the Madonna, remote and beautiful and above the squalid and the mundane. I was grieved to find that the little necklace of blue beads that Cosmina had presented to me was gone, lost somewhere in the workroom, and I determined to find it as quickly as possible.

I meant to visit the workroom during the day, but my book intruded. I wrote for hours in the library, Tycho resting at my feet as I scribbled, and when I emerged, it was to find I was very nearly late for the evening meal. I hurried through my ablutions and joined the company in the great hall, surprised to find the countess holding court.

“Good evening, my dear,” she said, inclining her head slowly.

“Good evening, madame. How nice to see you,” I returned, rather breathlessly.

Frau Amsel stood at the countess’s shoulder, hovering protectively and refusing to look directly at me, as if I were a basilisk. I did not mind; if she were as vile as the count suggested, then I should prefer to keep my distance. Florian looked exhausted from his efforts in the village. His hair was newly slicked with water and he rocked a little on his heels from fatigue. Cosmina was still a trifle paler than I would have liked, but she greeted me with a warm smile. I did not dare look directly at the count, but I fancied he was regarding me thoughtfully, and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks at the memory of what we had done together.

The meal was rather more formal in view of the countess’s presence, and when it was concluded we repaired to the library for an evening of piquet and music. It was a pleasant enough time, or would have been, were it not for the things that went unspoken. There was much we might have said to each other, and much that we concealed.

But the evening passed and when the clock struck eleven, we rose to retire. Just as we reached the great hall, a tremendous thud echoed throughout the room. Cosmina gave a little gasp, and the countess’s hand flew to her heart.

“Someone is at the door,” said the count.

After a long moment of breathless silence, the sound came again, harder this time. At the count’s side, Tycho stood, watchful and bristling slightly. The count nodded almost imperceptibly, and Florian moved forward and threw open the door. Lit from behind by the pale starlight, a man stood silhouetted in the doorway, his shadow looming long against the floor, almost touching our feet. He stood there for the space of several heartbeats, then moved out of the shadows and into the room.

He was just above average height and solidly built. He was dressed for travelling with a long coat of chamois over country tweeds. He carried a small leather bag in one hand, and a wide-brimmed hat shaded his face. The candlelight was deceiving; for the space of a heartbeat I thought there was something familiar about him, something in the way he held himself, but how could that be? I was a stranger in this place, and with the exception of a handful of villagers, I had no acquaintance.

He turned his head, surveying the company from under the brim of his hat, saying nothing. Then, with an exclamation of satisfaction, he tore the hat from his head.

“Theodora!” cried Charles Beecroft.

I stared at him, wondering what sort of mad dream I had conjured that I should see Charles in Transylvania, in the Castle Dragulescu of all places.

But he was real. I could smell him, horse and sweat and leather mixed with something sweet like honey.

“Charles,” I said, moving forward. Behind me I could feel the count stiffen like a pointer. “Charles, what are you doing here?”

Charles puffed a little. “What am I doing here? Isn’t it perfectly apparent that I have come to see you?”

I turned swiftly to the countess. “Madame, may I present Mr. Charles Beecroft of Edinburgh, my publisher. Charles, this is the Countess Dragulescu, my hostess. And her son, the Count Dragulescu, master of the castle.”

Charles bowed, a trifle awkwardly to the countess, but she inclined her head graciously.

“You have come a very long way, Mr. Beecroft.”

“Aye, I have. And I apologise for disturbing the household at this hour. It took a bit longer than I expected to ascend the mountain.” He smiled at her, his gentle, winsome smile, and I could see that she was charmed.

Charles turned to the count. “Sir, my apologies to you as well.”

The count regarded him coolly, canting his head as he assessed him.

Charles looked abashed and turned to me. “Does the fellow have no English? What language does he speak? My French is fairly abysmal, but I could try.”

“He speaks English,” I said, sotto voce. “His excellency was at Cambridge.”

“Indeed?” Charles raised his brows, and I knew he was not pleased to hear it. He had been schooled before his family had risen to prominence in publishing, and his own education had been spotty. It was one of his few shortcomings and one that Charles felt keenly. He fixed the count with a smile I did not quite believe. “I must again extend my apologies for the intrusion.”

The count smiled coolly. “Accepted. If you will excuse me, I wish to retire.” He gave me a significant look, then turned on his heel and left us, the dog trotting after him.

Florian and Cosmina hovered near and I took the count’s departure as a chance to introduce them. The countess was still watching Charles carefully.