To his credit, Charles never renewed his addresses. “Having met the count, I would not dare,” he told me once, with a sort of pointed jollity. I understood his meaning. The count was larger than life; no mere mortal man could ever hope to challenge him on any ground, much less carry the field.

But Charles was a comfortable companion during those long months, and the following year when my book was published, it was Charles who arranged for readings in the most popular salons and stood beside me to fend off an enthusiastic public. The book had been brought out to surprising acclaim-surprising to me, although Charles claimed that he expected nothing less from a thrilling tale of vampires and werewolves and abducted heiresses. I was much in demand, and once or twice found myself addressing rather more exalted company than that to which I was accustomed. The most important of these was a reading Charles had engaged before the Society of Literary Fellowes, a collection of titled gentlemen-founded by a viscount-who dabbled in letters and thought themselves terribly daring for consorting with authors. The society met in the townhouse of the viscount, in a fashionable square in Belgravia, and I dressed myself carefully for the occasion, in new finery of blood-red velvet, befitting an authoress of sensational tales, I thought. I was much sought after that evening, and presented to so many titled heads I could not help but think I was the lone commoner in the room. The elevated company made me rather nervous, and I paused to collect my nerve as I began to read, slowly at first, but then gaining speed and confidence with the excited gasps and sighs of my audience. I finished to warm applause, and for an hour after I was importuned with still more people clamouring for introductions and pressing me with questions about my researches.

“How did you find Transylvania, Miss Lestrange?” asked the viscount himself. “I am told it is a wild and friendless place, full of bandits and bloodthirsty creatures.”

I strove for an answer that would be both truthful and just. “I found it unlike anyplace else in the world,” I told him at last. “It is a land of myth and legend, and yet the peasants are kindly and generous. It is a curious alchemy of medieval and modern. Manners are free, for a man and woman may walk together without either chaperone or censure, but one must always be alert, for to stir out of doors is to make oneself vulnerable to wolves and other creatures.”

As I expected, the ladies shivered in delight, while the gentlemen regarded my answer soberly. “I shall have to organise a holiday,” the viscount said. “I should quite enjoy hearing these local legends from the horse’s mouth as it were.”

“I shouldn’t dare,” his wife said with a shudder. She was a pretty little thing, with blond curls and half her husband’s years, swathed in forget-me-not blue to match her eyes. She turned to me. “I am so pleased the book ended happily. I was desperately afraid the baron would not come for dear Rowena.”

I smiled at her. “You have penetrated my secret, my lady. I am a coward. I have not the courage to deny my readers a happy ending.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, you must not say you are a coward, for I am quite devoted to your book and will not hear a word against you, not even from your own lips.”

Her seriousness was touching, and I inclined my head. “Very well. Then I will say I am more generous to my characters than I am to myself. I give them the happy ending I have not yet fashioned.”

I would have turned then, but she stayed me with a hand to my arm. “One thing more, Miss Lestrange. I was particularly moved that your heroine was able to give the whole of her heart to her beloved guardian, even though she suspected him of being a werewolf. Do you not find it extraordinary that a woman should be so accepting of such a thing?”

I thought of the count then, and the impenetrable mysteries he had constructed for me, the questions he had seeded so carefully in my mind, leaving me to puzzle over, until I had come to understand that some things were never meant to be known.

“I believe in the human heart, and the power of it to love, even when such love is unwise or even unwanted. It is an enduring thing, love is. It will weather the fiercest storm and stand, bowed but unbroken. And when life is gone, love itself may still live on. That is what I find extraordinary, my lady.”

I excused myself then, and turned to find Charles at my elbow.

“There is another gentleman who begs an audience,” he said, his colour high and his manner a little stiff.

I followed, and there he was. Charles tactfully melted away and the crowd seemed to have dispersed a little, for we were alone in the corner of the great salon. It was a long moment before I could find my voice, and when I did, it was so low he had to bend to hear me.

“You look well,” I told him, for he did. The great slashing scar had faded to a thin, white line that-as I had suspected it would-merely emphasised the elegance of his bones and took nothing from his looks. There was a touch of silver at one temple, and I noticed the black armband of mourning crepe pinned to his sleeve.

“I am well,” he said, and the melting honeyed tones were just as I remembered them. He brandished a book, and I saw that it was mine. “I have just concluded it.”

I swallowed against the quick dryness of my mouth. “What did you think of it?”

“A compelling tale. It was good to see my country described by one who clearly loves the place.”

“I did love it. I love it still,” I said, wondering if he noticed that my hands trembled to have him near to me.

He must have, for he took them in his.

“Will you return then? I told you once I had nothing to offer you but a broken and imperfect man in a broken and imperfect place. But I am a better man now than ever I was, and if you will have me, I am yours.”

I considered it carefully. “I am not the sort of a woman you would marry, you told me once. And even if that were untrue, I cannot be content breeding sons and ordering servants and sewing your shirts. I know my place in the taxonomy,” I added with a small smile. “I cannot be the wife you expect.”

“But you are the wife I want,” he said firmly. “I was a fool to ever think otherwise. I want a wife to stand with me, to believe in me, to love me for the man that I am and the man I can yet become. I want you.” He reached out his hand to my shoulder, the heavy silver ring gleaming in the light, and I saw that it had been set with a great pigeon’s blood ruby. “I have put aside my tricks, my stratagems and sophistries, and I am nothing, have nothing, but my heart. And poor and wretched as it is, it is knit to yours and cannot be unbound.”

And those simple and honest words mended all that had been broken before. I put my hand in his, feeling his fingers close over mine, warm and strong and possessive, and I gave myself up to my own happy ending.

In the end, the life we fashioned for ourselves was a compromise. I learned to shake hands with domesticity, and he learned to love freely. He found a calm and centered peace in our life in his homeland, and I found infinite inspiration. Curious, I often thought, how two such different people could be happy in the same place, but we found contentment there. There were shadows from time to time, as there must be in such a land, for we walked with ghosts there, and the dead do not always lie quietly in Transylvania. The Popa men continued to take to the mountains when the moon rose full and low over the Carpathians, and in spite of my best efforts, folk in the village still crossed themselves when my husband passed. But they accepted him with a sort of fierce and peculiar loyalty, and whether they believed him a strigoi or not, they became devoted to him and called him master with genuine affection.