“You said yourself ”—Tati was fixing me with her eyes—
“that Sorrow should ask Dr˘agu¸ta for help. She’s supposed to be the real power of the wildwood. Couldn’t she change things, if we explained how important it is?”
“You make it sound easy. I don’t even know where she is. I don’t think anyone does. Anyway, if she really is so powerful, why has she let the Night People keep Sorrow and his sister prisoner so long? Even if they can never come back to their old lives, at least in Ileana’s world they wouldn’t be . . . well, slaves, or whatever they are.”
Tati’s voice was a whisper. “Are you saying you don’t believe in Dr˘agu¸ta? Are you saying you don’t believe there’s a power in the wildwood that’s strong enough to defeat evil, Jena?”
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I felt as if I were suddenly teetering on a precipice.
Of course we believe. Every morning , when I wake up on your pillow, I see that certainty in your eyes, Jena.
“Of course there is, Tati. We have to believe it.” I thought of the little crown that I had decided, for a reason I did not understand, to leave behind in the forest. “And if it’s safe for us to go across at next Full Moon—the one after the party—I suppose we can ask Ileana what to do.”
The day of the party came, and Piscul Dracului began to fill with guests. Every chamber that was even slightly suitable had been dusted and mopped, bed linen had been borrowed and quilts aired. Space had been cleared in our stables for many horses. Our activities had provided work for almost everyone in the settlement, and I imagined it was costing Cezar a pretty penny. Folk came early—wanting to be safely within our walls before dusk fell—then retired to their chambers to rest before the party began.
I felt sick with nerves. I wished I had never had such a mad idea. How could I make polite conversation with suitable young men and their mothers when I was all churned up with worry about the Night People and Sorrow and what Cezar might do if he found out the truth? He’d been questioning Florica and Petru further, I knew it: I could see the signs of strain on their faces as they went steadily about their work.
At the appointed time, I ran upstairs from the kitchen, where I had been helping with some last-minute baking. I found Tati sitting on our bed, still in her working dress, and 229
Iulia with her shawl on over the gray creation and a forbidding look on her face. Paula had a pair of heavy irons heating on our little stove. She was pressing Stela’s frock with each in turn.
“You’d better start getting ready,” I told Tati. “Aunt Bogdana wants us to help her formally greet the guests as they come down.” I got into the crimson gown, wishing Aunt had not told the seamstress to make it quite so tight in the bodice or so low in the neck. In this dress, I certainly didn’t look flat-chested.
“Iulia, would you mind doing my hair?”
When the time came, I went downstairs alone. Tati muttered that she would come later. I thought she would put in an appearance, if only for the sake of avoiding Cezar’s attention, but it was clear that she intended to play as small a part in the festivities as she could get away with. Since Iulia was refusing to come down early in the gray gown and Paula was occupied with helping Stela get dressed, it fell to me to stand beside Cezar and my aunt to greet the first arrivals. In the crimson gown I felt as though everyone was staring at me. Iulia had pinned my hair up high, exposing my neck and upper chest, and Cezar’s eyes had gone straight to me the moment I appeared in the party chamber. I would have felt very much alone in the crowd if I had not had Gogu nestled safely in my pocket. After Dark of the Moon, I hadn’t dared suggest he stay upstairs.
The weather was bitterly cold. Outside, men from Vârful cu Negur˘a were leading horses away to the shelter of the stables and setting chocks under the wheels of carts. The kitchen was full of women from the neighborhood, putting finishing touches to pastries and sweetmeats under Florica’s supervision.
In the grand room with the pillars, where a fire on the broad 230
hearth was smoking more than was quite desirable, the air was chilly. The village band sat in the little gallery, blowing on their fingers.
“It will warm up when everyone’s down,” Aunt Bogdana whispered in my ear. “Now, be especially sweet to that lady in the purple, Jena—her son stands to inherit a very grand estate near Sibiu, and the uncle’s a voivode. Ah, Elsvieta, how delight-ful to see you! Paul, how are you? And this is your son? Vlad, is it? Allow me to introduce my niece. . . .”
One by one, my sisters came downstairs to join the increasing crowd. Paula—uncomfortable in her pink—had a forced smile on her face as she greeted Aunt Bogdana’s friends. Stela, who did in fact look charming in her lacy dress, glanced desperately around for anyone her own age. No Ildephonsus here; no friends for dances and daisy chains. If these folk had younger sons and daughters, they had left them behind, in the care of servants. At least Stela could plead weariness and go to bed early.
Next down was Iulia. There was a ripple of disapproval as she came along the line, and I heard a whistle, sotto voce, from one of the young men. Now the shawl was gone, I saw that the neckline of the gray gown had been drastically altered and a generous expanse of winter-pale flesh was on view. The kind of bodice our aunt had deemed acceptable on me was decidedly immodest on Iulia, with her far more womanly figure. For a thirteen-year-old, the gown was shockingly inappropriate. As if to have the last laugh on Aunt Bogdana, Iulia had sewn a tiny frill of fine lawn across the plunging décolletage, a wisp of transparent fabric that only served to emphasize what was on 231
show. Her shoulders were back; she held her head high. Cezar was staring, and so was every other young man present. Aunt Bogdana’s cheeks went scarlet.
“Good evening, Aunt,” said my sister. “Good evening, Cezar.” Her smile was sweet, her eyes sparkling. I saw that she felt like a woman—she felt beautiful.
Cezar’s eyes raked over her. He did not smile. “Go back upstairs and fetch a shawl,” he said. “Cover yourself up before your guests.”
Iulia went white. It was as if he had hit her. She turned without a word and fled. Perhaps Cezar thought this had been a prank; I recognized it as simply a misguided attempt to be more grown-up. Paula excused herself and made for the stairs.
“Jenica,” said Aunt Bogdana loudly, pretending that nothing had happened, “this is Raffaello, son of my acquaintance Maria Cataneo and her husband, Andrei.”
Raffaello was tall and pimply. He bowed over my hand and introduced his friend Anghel, who was short and had a weak chin. Gogu stuck his head out of the pocket for a better look, and I squashed him back in. The music began—something not too lively, out of respect for the family’s recent loss. I wished Uncle Nicolae were here tonight, with his twinkling eyes and bluff humor.
“They say your elder sister is a rare beauty,” said Raffaello.
Evidently this was his idea of starting a conversation.
“Yes, they do,” I said. “She’ll be down soon, I expect.”
There was a little silence. Anghel cleared his throat.
“You enjoy hunting?” Raffaello asked, his eyes scanning the crowd.
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“Not much,” I said. “And since my uncle’s recent death, even less.”
“Mmm-hm,” he responded, proving that he was not listening.
A fool. An idiot. Strike him off the list.
“I’m so sorry,” said weasel-faced Anghel, who was paying marginally more attention. “A terrible tragedy—”
Before I could say a thing, Cezar was beside me. “Mother seems to think that dancing is in order,” he said. The look in his eyes made the two young men step backward. “Jena, will you honor me with the first?”
“I suppose that would be appropriate, Cezar.” This was going to be the longest night of my life. “You upset Iulia.”
“Your sister requires discipline. Lacking your father’s presence, and in view of the evident inability of Tatiana and yourself to provide strong guidance, the job falls to me. Iulia must learn not to make a spectacle of herself.”
I thought of poor Iulia’s stricken face and the fact that even in the unseemly gown, she had looked remarkably pretty. “Discipline,” I echoed, with my heart full of resentment—not least because, in part, he was right. “Maybe so. But discipline should be administered kindly, don’t you think? Girls of Iulia’s age are so easily hurt.”
“I’ve no interest in talking about your sisters tonight, Jena,”
Cezar said, drawing me closer as the dance began. “Let us enjoy the evening. Mother tells me you’re all novices at dancing. Do you know any of the steps to this one?”
I looked into his eyes and shook my head.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’m expert at leading.”
Do we have to put up with this?
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“You haven’t brought that wretched frog, I hope?”
“I always bring him, Cezar. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in my pocket, out of sight.”
But not out of earshot. Why are you dancing with him ?
Grimly I danced, trying to ignore Gogu. As Cezar and I moved about the room—and as I discovered how hard it is to dance badly when the skill of doing it well comes naturally—
my sisters returned to the party: Iulia, red-eyed, with an embroidered silk shawl artfully draped across her cleavage, and Paula by her side. And Tati. I faltered, stepping hard on Cezar’s foot. Tati, not in the blue and silver of Aunt Bogdana’s choice, but ethereal in the pale butterfly gown, the gown that had been made to wear for Sorrow. It revealed a startling change in her appearance: she had lost more weight than I had realized.
Her back was all bones, her arms fragile, her waist tiny. The pallor of her garb drew the eye to the strange pendant around her slender neck, a crimson drop of blood on the white skin. Her hair was newly washed—it hung, dark and lustrous, across her shoulders. There was not a trace of color in her face, save for the vivid violet-blue of her eyes.
“Tati’s looking very unwell,” observed Cezar, leading me through a complicated maneuver that turned me away from her.
“Mmm,” I murmured, thinking I had better do as Aunt Bogdana had suggested and consult the herbalist. Under the bright lights of the party chamber, Tati looked not so much ethereal as wasted. It frightened me.
“A brighter color would have been more appropriate,” he went on. “She looks quite washed-out. And it’s important that she present herself at her best.”
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“Oh?” I would not help him through this particular conversation.
“Well,” Cezar said, putting his hand on my waist as we made our way down the line, “isn’t that what tonight is all about? Beginning the search for possible partners?”
“More or less,” I said. “It’s not something I particularly relish, Cezar. But I’m happy that your mother has enjoyed helping. And I suppose I should thank you for paying for everything.
I don’t imagine you actually wanted to.”
He grunted some kind of response, and his hold on me tightened, brushing me up against him. In the formal line of the dance, I could not wriggle away. “You hope that Tatiana will attract the interest of these young men? You think any of them eligible?” He ran his eyes over those closest at hand; his expression was one of disdain.
“Aunt Bogdana chose them. They’re all eligible. If Tati doesn’t snare one, maybe I can.” I attempted an insouciant laugh, without a great deal of success.
“You far outshine your sister tonight, Jena.”
I stared at him, full of suspicion. His expression alarmed me. It was deadly serious.
“Besides,” said Cezar, “for you, there is no need to go through this exercise—this fishing for suitable husbands.”
“Really?” I remembered a conversation with Aunt Bogdana.
“Because I’m the one destined to stay at home and tend to Father in his old age, you mean?”
“Don’t tease, Jena,” Cezar said. “You know what I mean.”
I hate him. The frog was trembling with fury.
A horrible possibility suddenly occurred to me. I recalled 235
that awkward conversation with my cousin in the workroom, the one in which he had seemed on the point of some declaration. I thought of certain other things he had said recently, certain other gestures he had made. Surely I must be wrong. I was the sensible sister, not the beautiful one. Besides, even Cezar must see it was ludicrous. The two of us did nothing but argue.
The music came to an end. Across the room, I spotted Tati sitting quietly beside Aunt Bogdana and a group of older women. She looked like a grieving young widow. Shockingly, she looked as if she belonged there.
“You must dance with each of my sisters,” I told Cezar.
With Gogu in my pocket vibrating with ill will and my cousin’s conversation troubling me more than I wanted to admit, I decided I would avoid Cezar for the rest of the evening. “And make sure you’re nice to Iulia,” I added. “Remember, she’s only thirteen.”
Cezar smiled at me. Then the pimply Raffaello asked me for the next dance, and my cousin let me go. I could feel the imprint of his hand on my waist, like a brand of ownership. Perhaps that had been what he meant: he and I. The look in his eyes had frightened me. It had been a look of utter certainty.
I danced with Raffaello, whom Gogu had already dismissed as an idiot. I danced with Anghel.
I can’t see from in here. Put me on your shoulder.
Anghel glanced down: the wriggling form of the frog was clearly visible under the close-fitting skirt of the red gown.
“My pet frog,” I muttered. “He would insist on coming.”
Pet. The tone was accusatory.
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“A frog?” Anghel struggled for words. “Or did you say a dog?”
“Er, no—although it’s not unlike one of those little dogs, the kind ladies carry about . . . ,” I babbled, hating myself.
“Yes, my mother has one,” Anghel said, holding me at arm’s length lest he come in contact with Gogu, even through a layer of fabric. “Hideous little thing. It sheds everywhere. One can’t wear black.”
“What a trial for you,” I murmured, calculating how soon I could politely excuse myself.
Looks like a stoat. Gogu’s head was out of the pocket. Sounds even sillier than the first one. You can do better.
I danced with Vlad, whose uncle was a voivode. Vlad was better-looking than the others—tall and broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair. His manners were exemplary. We chatted about the weather and the music. We talked about his home near Bra¸sov and his horse and his hunting dogs. He complimented me on my hair and on the party, which Aunt Bogdana had told him I organized all by myself, and on the red gown. He asked me for a second dance and I accepted. He fetched a little platter of pastries, which we sat down to share. Gogu had retreated to the depths of the pocket. Quite against logic, the sense I was getting from him now was: No. No. No.
