Hawthorn (26 page)

By the time we wound our way down the steep, twisting road I was dizzy. Looking up at the blackened castle rising vertiginously from the river only made me feel dizzier. The Castle of Bouillon stood on a high dark rock in a sharp bend of the river, cut off from the land as if by a moat. Wreathed in river fog, it looked like a floating island, remote and unassailable. Only an arched bridge attached the castle to the town, but it looked as if it might crumble at a heavy footstep. The town itself, cowering in the shadow of the hulking castle, looked dreary and deserted. No one sat in the one cafe. The only person we passed was a girl in a peasant dress and white lace cap leading a bleating sheep, and she gave the Rolls one look and hurriedly turned into an alley and vanished. The only sound in the town was the monotonous rushing of water.

Perhaps the villagers had heard the Germans were on their way and gone into hiding—or perhaps living so long in the shadow of the great hulking castle had made them naturally timorous.

There was no one in the lobby of the village's one inn. Van Drood struck the bell on the counter so hard it rang out like a gunshot. A large woman in a rusty black dress with an elaborate white collar appeared from the dim interior of the back office and approached the counter.

“Your best suite for my fiancée and her companion,” van Drood said in French. “And something facing the street for me. I want to see the soldiers when they come marching through the town.”

The manager turned pale and quickly bent over a large dusty register, studying it as if the hotel were full to the brim, and finally produced two enormous old keys, each chained to a heavy brass fob and a tattered red tassel.

“Do the mademoiselles require more than one key?” she asked in heavily accented French.

“
Non
,” van Drood replied. “They are so devoted to each other that they go everywhere together. Besides, my fiancée is not feeling very well. She will need to rest.” He looked around the dismal lobby, which contained one worn settee, two straight-backed chairs, and an empty birdcage, as if it were the lobby of a grand resort where invalids came to take the waters and rest cure. “And it looks like we have come to the right place for that.”

I helped Helen up to our “suite,” a dim shadowy room papered in faded toile and furnished with two lumpy twin beds, a towering mahogany armoire that listed to the left, a round table covered with a dingy lace doily, a chipped enamel washstand, and two chamber pots. I expected Helen to make a withering
remark, but she only lay down on the bed farthest from the window and closed her eyes. I sat down beside her, the bedsprings moaning at my weight, and moved the veil from her face. The veins at her temple stood out blue against her dead-white skin.

“Helen,” I whispered. “Can you tell me what van Drood meant? Are you able to get inside his head?”

She shook her head and screwed her eyes more tightly shut. Her face was rigid with pain. I filled the basin with cool water and bathed her face, loosened her clothes, and covered her with the mildewed counterpane. When her face finally relaxed and her breathing evened I got up quietly and went to the window to let in some fresh air.

There was an iron grate over the windows—a decorative pattern of acanthus leaves and scrolling vines, but prison bars nonetheless. I shook it in the hopes that like everything else in the old hotel it would be frail and broken, but although it left rust marks on my hands it was solid and unyielding. I checked the door and found that it was locked from the outside. We were van Drood's prisoners in body and, I was beginning to suspect, in mind.

WHILE HELEN DOZED
fitfully, moaning in her sleep, I sat at the window and watched the sun set over the castle. As the sky turned rose, then lilac, then deep purple, the towers of Castle Bouillon grew blacker and seemingly larger, as if they were drawing up the darkness from the river and swelling with it. I felt as if they might overflow at any moment and pour darkness down over the town—and they did. When the sun dropped below the curtain wall, a cloud of smoke poured out of the highest tower and streamed over the battlement walls and down the steep rock slope. I let out a startled gasp and rose from the window, fumbling for the shutters to shut out the onslaught.

“It's the bats, mademoiselle. They live in the castle tower and come out when the sun sets.”

I turned to find a young girl dressed in a peasant's homespun dress, starched white apron, and white cotton cap, standing in the doorway holding a heavy tray.

“My
grand-mère
says they are the souls of the dead. It is a cursed, dark place.” She took a tentative step into the room, angling the tray sideways to move past me.

“Let me help you with that,” I said, stepping toward her.
I could push past her
, I thought
, and run
. But what would happen
to Helen? I took the heavy tray from the girl and laid it on the rickety table, which rocked under its weight.

“You speak English?” I asked her.

“
Oui
, mademoiselle. A little. The nuns taught me. Madame Berthelot told me you were two English sisters and one of you is sick.” She looked at Helen. “She does not look so well.”

“She's not my sister, she's my best friend. I'm Ava. What's your name?”

She looked surprised to be asked. “Manon, mademoiselle.” She curtseyed. “I am sorry your friend is sick. Madame Berthelot sent up broth and bread. She says you will be staying in your room and that I should lock the door when I leave, but I told her I didn't like to do that. What if there is a fire? I say to her. But she say there has never been a fire at the Hotel de Bouillon and that the gentleman you are traveling with insisted that the ladies were in danger from a jealous suitor and must be protected. Is that true, miss? Do you have a jealous suitor pursuing you?”

“No, Manon, the only ones pursuing us are our friends. It is the man traveling with us who is our abductor.”

Manon's eyes grew wide. “
Mon dieu!
I knew that man was no good.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I thought he might be a German spy sent to plan an attack on our village. Do you think the Germans will come here, mademoiselle? My brother Albert left to join the reserves and half the village has gone to visit relatives in France. I was glad to see him go!”

“You were glad to see your brother go?” I asked, confused.

“No, no, mademoiselle, I meant the gentleman who looks like a German spy, begging your pardon. Perhaps he is your uncle?”

“No, he's no relation. He's gone?”

“
Oui
, he and that oily brigand left a few hours ago. I heard him tell Madame Berthelot that he was driving to Liège. So you see, if you have a beloved now is the time for him to come rescue you just like Valancourt comes to rescue Miss Emily in Mrs. Radcliffe's book. Do you have a Valancourt, miss?”

I smiled at the chambermaid, pleased to find she was an admirer of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels. “Yes, Manon, my . . . er, Valancourt is coming for me. Perhaps you have seen him—or our friends—in the castle?”

“
Mon dieu!
Let us hope your Valancourt has not gone to the castle. The Castle of Bouillon is haunted!”

“Haunted?” I asked, thinking that Raven would be unlikely to be frightened away by the spirits of the dead. After all, it was the job of a Darkling to carry the spirits of the dead to the afterworld.

“
Oui!
Have you not heard the story of the fairy queen of Bouillon?”

“The fairy queen?” I asked, trying hard to follow Manon's serpentine stories. “No, I thought this story was about a haunting . . .”

“
Oui
, it is the fairy queen who haunts the castle. You see, a long, long time ago . . .” Manon began, sitting down at the table and settling in for what promised to be a long story, “in the time of the crusades, the knight Godfrey was wandering through these woods and he came across a beautiful woman bathing in the river with her seven handmaids. He instantly fell in love with her—”

“I always find this part rather preposterous,” I interrupted. “People don't fall in love instantaneously like that.”

“It was not like that with your Valancourt?” Manon asked.

I remembered the first time I saw Raven at the Triangle factory, the little charge I'd felt when he touched my hand. And then I thought about how it felt when he touched me last night in the garret . . . and blushed. Manon grinned. “Ah, you see it is true. You know when it is the right one,
n'est pas
? And that is how it was for Godfrey when he saw the fairy queen at her bath. He went down on his knees and begged her to marry him. She agreed, but on one condition . . .”

“There's always a condition in these stories.”

Manon shrugged and tapped her forehead. “
Mais oui,
one may love with the eyes and heart, but one should marry with the brain. The fairy queen said she would marry Godfrey if he agreed to let her keep her seven handmaids and never disturb her at her bath on the Sabbath. Of course he agreed, and they were married on that very day. When they awoke in the morning, a great castle had risen in the curve of the river where they had met—and that is the castle you see now, the Castle of Bouillon, made by fairy magic. Godfrey was overjoyed and loved his queen, who made him the richest knight in the land.

“They were very happy . . . until their first child was born with the scales of a fish. This was surprising, but since the child was otherwise healthy, Godfrey determined to love it and his lady queen all the same. All was well again until the second child was born with a tail. Such a thing was not unheard of—my cousin Gilbert was born with one, my
grand-mère
tells
me—and Godfrey determined to overlook his son's tail. But now the people began to whisper that there was something strange about the queen, and Godfrey began to wonder why he must never see her in her Sunday bath. Finally, when their third child was born with wings . . .”

“Wings?” I couldn't help but ask.

“Small ones, like a bat . . . then did Godfrey decide to risk his wife's wrath and spy on her in her bath. And there he saw that on Sundays she changed back to her original form, a woman above the waist, a serpent below, with great wings like a bat. Of course, Godfrey was horrified—”

“Why? She gave him a castle! He had to realize she wasn't an ordinary human. If he really loved her he shouldn't have minded the wings . . . or the serpent's tail.”

Manon stared at me. “Perhaps not, mademoiselle, but men are fickle. Godfrey ordered her out of his castle. She flew into a rage and reminded him that it was
her
castle and ordered
him
to leave. He did, but he raised an army and came back to lay siege to the castle. The queen and her handmaids were left with only a few knights and squires loyal to them. They withstood the siege as long as they could, but when at last Godfrey's army charged the outer walls and gained the courtyard, the queen and her handmaids fled to the tallest tower and there the seven handmaids threw themselves to their deaths rather than be taken by Godfrey's men. As for the queen, she flew off into the night swearing vengeance on the house of Godfrey and all human men.

“Since then anyone who has lived at the castle has met a terrible fate. It is said that the souls of the dead handmaids
guard the drawbridges. My
grand-mère
calls them the
Witte Wieven
, the white women. They lurk in narrow places—ravines, bridges, fords—and try to dance with anyone who passes by. If you refuse to dance with them, they will throw you from the parapets, but if you do dance with them, they will dance you to your death. Listen—” Manon cocked her head toward the open window. “You can hear the fairy queen wailing now!”

I listened and indeed heard a low, keening moan that raised the hair at the back of my neck. “That's just the wind,” I said. “And what you've told me is just a story. My friends are coming to meet me at the castle. Have you seen any strangers recently?”

“Only an American schoolteacher dressed in tweed knickers and carrying a rucksack.”

“Was his name Rupert Bellows?” I asked excitedly.

“Is that your Valancourt, miss? He looked . . . I beg your pardon . . . a bit old for you.”

“No he's not my Valancourt, Manon. He's my teacher. Do you know where he went?”

She shrugged. “He said he was on a walking tour. I warned him to stay away from the castle, but he only laughed. Let us hope your Valancourt did not make the same mistake.”

“I'm afraid they both will have gone to the castle,” I said. “And I must go meet them.”

“But I am to lock the door after I go. If I do not Madame Berthelot will beat me!”

“But if I don't my friend and I will be lost—just like Emily St. Auburn in
The Mysteries of Udolpho
.”

Manon looked from Helen's wan face to mine. I felt guilty exploiting her love of Gothic novels and exposing her to
Madame Berthelot's wrath, but I had to get out and find Mr. Bellows and Raven and Marlin.

“I must lock the door, mademoiselle,” she said gravely. My heart sank. But then Manon dug into her apron pocket and produced a large iron key. “But Madame Berthelot did not say I could not give you the extra key. Go find your Valancourt, mademoiselle, but be wary of the Witte Wieven in the castle and the serpent queen, Aesinor.”

After Manon left I tried to wake Helen up to eat some broth but she moaned and turned away from the light. I covered her up and turned the lights off in the room. Then I waited until the inn was completely quiet. I didn't want to get Manon in trouble. She had given me the information I needed. Aesinor must be the name of the third guardian. Somehow the story of the serpent queen had grown up around her, perhaps to keep people away from the castle where the third vessel was hidden. I wasn't afraid of her—or the Witte Wieven, another foolish legend. But then, I wondered, why hadn't Raven and Marlin come for me if they'd followed me from Paris? And where was Rupert Bellows if he arrived here weeks ago? I had to go look for them in the castle. A half hour before midnight I used Manon's key to let myself out.

Manon had begrudgingly told me how to get to the castle. I had to follow the river past a shrine to Saint Eleanor, patron saint of chambermaids, abandoned wives, and lost travelers, and climb the stairs to the first drawbridge. As I approached the drawbridge I heard a low moaning that once again made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
It's just the wind
, I told
myself. But when I reached the shrine of Saint Eleanor I was glad to see a candle burning there. I stopped to look into the niche and found myself staring into enormous almond-shaped eyes, all that remained of a medieval painting of the saint's face. They seemed to look right into my soul.

My mother had not raised me in any religion, but sometimes she took me into one of the city's beautiful churches to rest, and she often lit a candle to a saint. She would tell me that the saints had once been gods and goddesses. This saint looked like a goddess. Looking into her eyes I felt like she understood everything that had happened to me—from losing my mother to my fear that I was going to lose Helen now. I felt like I could tell her anything. I wasn't alone in feeling that way. The niche was full of offerings: candle stubs and worn coins, a baby's knit booty, a photograph of a young man in a uniform, flowers dried to powder and flowers picked this morning. This was where the women of the village came to pray for their children, their husbands, their brothers, and themselves.

“I suppose I'm a lost traveler,” I said hoarsely. “Help me find my way.” I lit a candle from the one already burning, wondering who else was out on this lonely night. “Help Nathan find his way, too, and help me get Helen back,” I added. As I moved my hand away from the candle I noticed something lying amongst the offerings: a monogrammed handkerchief with the initials HvB. Helen van Beek. Marlin must have left it here. So it wasn't only women who came to pray at the shrine of Saint Eleanor.

I turned up the stairs and climbed to the drawbridge. As I passed over the river I thought I heard whispering.
It's only the
river
, I told myself. But then why was the river whispering
Intruder! Trespasser! Betrayer!
? In the Blythe Wood I had felt the presence of spirits and fairies, but I had never felt this sense of animosity. There were spirits here who did not want me to pass, and if they didn't want me, what would they have done with Mr. Bellows, Marlin, and Raven?