The Keep

To Magda's surprise, she found that the closer she got to the i

Lack of food, she told herself. Should have had something to eat this morning.

There was no one there. The ladderback chair Gle

Magda picked up the chair and carried it around to the front, telling herself it wasn't disappointment she felt, only hunger.

She remembered Gle

She stepped in and saw Iuliu sitting in the dining alcove to her right. He had sliced a large wedge from a wheel of cheese and was sipping some goat's milk. He seemed to eat at least six times a day.

He was alone.

"Domnisoara Cuza!" he called. "Would you like some cheese?"

Magda nodded and sat down. She now wasn't as hungry as she had thought, but she did need some food to keep going. Besides, there were a few questions she wanted to ask Iuliu.

"Your new guest," she said casually, taking a slice of white cheese off the flat of the knife blade, "he must have taken breakfast to his room."

Iuliu's brow furrowed. "Breakfast? He didn't have any breakfast here. But many travelers bring their own food with them."

Magda frowned. Why had he said he was going to see Lidia about breakfast? An excuse to get away?

"Tell me, Iuliu—you seemed to have calmed down since last night. What upset you so about this Gle

"It was nothing."

"Iuliu, you were trembling! I'd like to know why—especially since my room is across the hall from his. I deserve to know if you think he's dangerous."

The i

"No, I won't."

"Very well." He put the knife down and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "When I was a boy my father ran the i

"But what does this have to do—"

"You must understand," Iuliu said, leaning forward and lowering his voice even further, "that my father was an honest man and that the turn of the century was a terrible time for this region. He only kept a little of the gold as a means of being certain that we would eat during the coming winter. He would have paid it back when times were better. It was the only dishonest thing he had done in an otherwise good and upright—"

"Iuliu!" Magda said, finally halting the flow of words. "What has this to do with the man upstairs?"

"They look the same, Domnisoara. I was only ten years old at the time, but I saw the man who beat my father. I will never forget him. He had red hair and looked so very much like this man. But," he laughed softly, "the man who beat my father was perhaps in his early thirties, just like this man, and that was forty years ago. They couldn't be the same. But in the candlelight last night, I—I thought he had come to beat me, too."

Magda raised her eyebrows questioningly, and he hurried to explain.

"Not that there's any gold missing now, of course. It's just that the workers have not been allowed to enter the keep to do their work and I've been paying them anyway. Never let it be said that I kept any of the gold for myself. Never!"

"Of course not, Iuliu." She rose, taking another slice of cheese with her. "I think I'll go upstairs and rest awhile."

He smiled and nodded. "Supper will be at six."

Magda climbed the stairs quickly, but found herself slowing as she passed Gle

Her room was stuffy, so she left the door open to allow the breeze from the window to pass through. The porcelain water pitcher on her dresser had been filled. She poured some of the cool water into the bowl beside it and splashed her face. She was exhausted but knew sleep was impossible ... too many thoughts swirling in her head to allow her to rest just yet.

A high pitched chorus of cheeps drew her to the window. Amid the budding branches of the tree that grew next to the north wall of the i

Tense, restless, she wandered about the tiny room. She checked the flashlight she had brought with her. It still worked. Good. She would need it tonight. On her way back from the keep, she had reached a decision.

Her eyes fell on the mandolin propped in the corner by the window. She picked it up, seated herself on the bed and began to play. Tentatively at first, adjusting the tuning as she plucked out a simple melody, then with greater ease and fluidity as she relaxed into the instrument, segueing from one folk tune to another. As with many a proficient amateur, she achieved a form of transport with her instrument, fixing her eyes on a point in space, her hands playing by touch, humming inwardly as she jumped from song to song. Tensions eased away, replaced by an i

A hint of movement at her open door jarred her back to reality. It was Gle

"You're very good," he said from the doorway.

She was glad it was he, glad he was smiling at her, and glad he had found pleasure in her playing.

She smiled shyly. "Not so good. I've gotten careless."

"Maybe. But the range of your repertoire is wonderful. I know of only one other person who can play so many songs with such accuracy."

"Who?"

"Me."

There it was again: smugness. Or was he just teasing her? Magda decided to call his bluff. She held out the mandolin.

"Prove it."

Gri

She studied him. She liked the way his blue shirt stretched across the width of his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled back to the elbows, and she watched the play of the muscles and tendons under the skin of his forearms as he worked the mandolin. There were scars on those arms, crisscrossing the wrists and trailing up to the point where the shirt hid the rest of him. She wanted to ask him about those scars but decided it was too personal a question.